Sonnet XCIV

All is not right with him, who ill sustains

Retirement's silent hours.—Himself he flies,

Perchance from that insipid equipoise,

Which always with the hapless mind remains

That feels no native bias; never gains

One energy of will, that does not rise

From some external cause, to which he hies

From his own blank inanity.—When reigns,

With a strong, cultur'd mind, this wretched hate

To commune with himself, from thought that tells

Of some lost joy, or dreaded stroke of Fate

He struggles to escape;—or sense that dwells

On secret guilt towards God, or Man, with weight

Thrice dire, the self-exiling flight impels.