If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn,
Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show,
Slight was the mask, and all beneath it—woe.
Yet, was this all? Amidst the dungeon-gloom,
The void, the stillness of the captive’s doom,
Were there no deeper thoughts? And that dark power
To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour,
The mighty debt through years of crime delay’d,
But, as the grave’s, inevitably paid;
Came he not thither, in his burning force,