“No more with sorrow meekly cope; In phrensy then their fate accuse; In madness do those fearful deeds That seem to add but guilt to woe?
Alas! the breast that inly bleeds
Hath nought to dread from outward blow; Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss.
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now To thee, old man, my deeds appear: I read abhorrence on thy brow, And this too was I born to bear!
'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey, With havock have I marked my way:”