O Loss Of Sight, Of Thee I

Now Conscience Wakes Despair That Slumber'd,-wakes The Bitter Memory Of What He Was, What Is, And What Must Be Worse.

And Pomp, And Feast, And Revelry, With Mask, And Antique Pageantry, Such Sights As Youthful Poets Dream On Summer Eves By Haunted Stream.

Which Way I Fly Is Hell; Myself Am Hell.

For Liberty Hath A Sharp And Double Edge, Fit Only To Be Handled By Just And Virtuous Men; To Bad And Dissolute, It Becomes A Mischief Unwieldy In Their Own Hands.

The Mountain Nymph, Sweet Liberty.