Shut up in dreary gloom, like convicts are,
In company of murd'rers! Oh! wretched fate!
If pity e'er extended through the frame,
Or sympathy's sweet cordial touch'd the heart,
Pity the wretched maniac, who knows no blame,
Absorbed in sorrow, where darkness, poverty, and every curse impart.
Methinks that still I see a brighter ray,
That bids me live, to see a happier day,
And when my sorrows, and my grief-worn spirit flies,
My Maker tells me—fear not, Lloyd,—it never dies.