"Is it a fiend that to a stake
Of fire his desperate self is tethering?
Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell
In solitary ward or cell,
Ten thousand miles from all his brethren."
"Is it a party in a parlour?
Cramm'd just as they on earth revere cramm'd—
Some sipping punch, some sipping tea,
But, as you by their faces see,
All silent and all damn'd!