See nought but food for factions and harangues;
Who yearly kneel before their masters’ doors,
And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores:
Still let your[[51]] * * * * *
Still hope and suffer, all who can!—but I,
Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly.
But whither?—everywhere the scourge pursues—
Turn where he will, the wretched wanderer views,
In the bright, broken hopes of all his race,