RIDDLES. 69

Discover’d our retreat at last,

And now all hope of peace is past;
He hacks, he hews, he breaks our bones,
As if they were so many stones:
And then, in sombre garments dight,
He brings us to the open light—
But only to insult our pain,

And throws us into caves again.
There, in vile durance closely pent,
The remnant of our life is spent;
And, like a second Polypheme,

Our tyrant hits upon this scheme—
To choose his victims day by day,
And on his blazing altars lay:

And by such means this cruel sinner
Procures the comforts of a dinner.

RIDDLE CXLY.

III beginning of eternity,
The end of time and space;
The beginning of every end,
And the end of every place.