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the den of death, an obſcene aliment?—Inſenſible to the blooming beauties of Pomona, unallured by the fragrant fume that exhales from her groves of golden fruits, undetained by the nectar of nature, by the ambroſia of innocence undetained, ſhall the voracious vultures of our impure appetite ſpeed acroſs the lovely ſcenes of rural Pan, and alight in the loathſome link of putrefaction to devour the funeral of other creatures, to load, with cadaverous rottenneſs, a wretched ſtomach?
And
