The Solitary
Dar'st thou amid the varied multitudeTo live alone, an isolated thing?To see the busy beings round thee spring,And care for none; in thy calm solitude,A flower that scarce breathes in the desert rudeTo Zephyr's passing wing?
Not the swart Pariah in some Indian grove,Lone, lean, and hunted by his brother's hate,Hath drunk so deep the cup of bitter fateAs that poor wretch who cannot, cannot love:He bears a load which nothing can remove,A killing, withering weight.
He smiles--'tis sorrow's deadliest mockery;He speaks--the cold words flow not from his soul;He acts like others, drains the genial bowl,--Yet, yet he longs--although he fears--to die;He pants to reach what yet he seems to fly,Dull life's extremest goal.
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