And conscience her tortures appease,

'Mid tumult and uproar this man must repose;

In the comfortless vault of disease.

When his fetters at night have so press'd on his limbs,

That the weight can no longer be borne,

If, while a half-slumber his memory bedims,

The wretch on his pallet should turn,

While the jail-mastiff howls at the dull clanking chain,

From the roots of his hair there shall start

A thousand sharp punctures of cold-sweating pain,

And terror shall leap at his heart.

But now he half-raises his deep-sunken eye,

And the motion unsettles a tear,

The silence of sorrow it seems to supply,

And asks of me why I am here.