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THE TRIUMPHS


No mutual confidence, no friendly care,
Relieves the panic they are doom'd to bear;
For as they shrink absorb'd in wild affright,
When each to each inclines his wounded sight,
They feel, for social comfort, four disgust,
And all the sullen anguish of distrust.
Around these wretches in the drear abode,
The ghastly grinning fiend Derision rode,
Who to their wayward minds on earth supplied
Perverted ridicule's malignant tide.
His steed of Pegasus the semblance bore;
But with false wings, that knew not how to soar:
Where'er he pass'd, with mischief in his look,
A sounding whip of knotted snakes he shook:
And laugh'd in lashing each pretended sage,
Whose malice wore the mask of moral rage.
An uncouth bugle his left hand display'd,
From a grey monkey's skull by Cunning made,
And form'd to pour, in harmony's despite,
Sounds that each jarring sense of pain excite: