For I, like thee, am but a Fugitive
An alien from delight, in this dark scene!
And, now I mark thy features, I behold
The cause of thy complaining. Thou art here
A persecuted Exile! one, whose soul
Unbow’d by guilt, demands no patronage
From blunted feeling, or the frozen hand
Of gilded Ostentation. Thou, poor Priest!
Art here, a Stranger, from thy kindred torn—
Thy kindred massacred! thy quiet home,