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.