The indignant Bard composed this furious ode, As tired he dragg'd his way thro' Plimtree road! Crusted with filth and stuck in mire Dull sounds the Bard's bemudded lyre; Nathless Revenge and Ire the Poet goad To pour his imprecations on the road. Curst road! Whose execrable way Was darkly shadow'd out in Milton's lay, When the sad fiends thro' Hell's sulphureous roads Took the first survey of their new abodes; Or when the fall'n Archangel fierce Dar'd through the realms of Night to pierce, What time the Bloodhound lur'd by Human scent Thro' all Confusion's quagmires floundering went. Nor cheering pipe, nor Bird's shrill note Around thy dreary paths shall float; Their boding songs shall scritch-owl pour To fright the guilty shepherds sore, Led by the wandering fires astray Thro' the dank horrors of thy way! While they their mud-lost sandals hunt May all the curses, which they grunt In raging moan like goaded hog, Alight upon thee, damn’d Bog!
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