Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   But all unconscious of the coming doom,
   The feast, the song, the revel here abounds;
   Strange modes of merriment the hours consume,
   Nor bleed these patriots with their country’s wounds;
   Nor here War’s clarion, but Love’s rebeck sounds;
   Here Folly still his votaries enthralls,
   And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds: 
   Girt with the silent crimes of capitals,
Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tottering walls.