To commune with myself:—yet, wherefore, think?
Why court consuming sorrow to my bosom,
Which, like the nurs'ling pelican, drinks the blood
Of its fond cherisher?
Why rather should not turbulence of action
Shake off the tax of tyrannous remembrance?
'Tis not the mere, and actual suffering,
That bends the noble spirit to the earth,
And cracks the proud heart's chord:—The prisoner,
Whose feverish limbs, for many a long, long year,