In solitude the sufferer smiles, defiant of his doom,
And Madness sits aloof and waits, and gibbers in the gloom.
’Tis dazzling work to weave a web from Fancy’s brightest dyes,
And speed the task ungrudging all we have, and hope, and prize.
But it must make the devils laugh, to mark how, day by day,
The plague-spot widens out, and spreads, and eats it all away.
In vain the unwilling rebel writhes, so loth defeat to own,
And strives to pray, and turns away, and lays him down alone.
Oh! better far to moan aloud, on earth and heaven to cry,
Than like the panther in its lair, to grind his teeth and die.