VII.

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.