THE DUNGEON.
And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us--
Most i, perhaps--and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God?
Each pore and natural outlet shrivelld up
By ignorand parg poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till ged to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;
Then we call in our pamperd mountebanks--
And this is their best cure! unforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the king hour,
Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,
By the lamps dismal twilight! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
By sights of ever more deformity!
With other ministrations thou, O nature!
Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft in?uences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and o more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,
Amid this general dand minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized
By the benignant touch of love ay.