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82
THE TRIUMPHS


Hence, sweet Serena, while thy spirit stray'd
Round the deep realms of subterranean shade,
This keenest agent of th' infernal powers
On earth was busied, in those tranquil hours,
To blast thy peace, and poison'd darts to aim
Against the honour of thy spotless name:
For Scandal, restless fiend, who never knows
The balmy blessing of an hour's repose,
Worn, yet unsated with her daily toil,
In her base work consumes the midnight oil.
O'er fiercer fiends when heavy slumbers creep,
When wearied avarice and ambition sleep,
Scandal is vigilant, and keen to spread
The plagues that spring from her prolific head.
On truth's fair basis she her falsehood builds,
With tinsel sentiment its surface gilds;
To nightly labour from their dark abodes
The demons of the groaning press she goads,
And smiles to see their rapid art supply
Ten thousand wings to every infant lie.