I loved all Solitude—but little thought

To spend I know not what of life, remote

From all communion with existence, save

The maniac and his tyrant;—had I been

Their fellow, many years ere this had seen

My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave.[bh]

But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave?180

Perchance in such a cell we suffer more

Than the wrecked sailor on his desert shore;

The world is all before him—mine is here,

Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier.

What though he perish, he may lift his eye,

And with a dying glance upbraid the sky;

I will not raise my own in such reproof,

Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof.