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His only sight was the drear lamp That faintly show'd the dungeon's damp, When by his side the jailor stood, And brought his loathed and scanty food.

What is the toil, or care, or pain, The human heart cannot sustain? Enough if struggling can create A change or colour in our fate; But where's the spirit that can cope With listless suffering, when hope, The last of misery's allies, Sickens of its sweet self, and dies.

He thought on :—tell not me Of happiness in memory!