Page:Poems - Southey (1799) volume 2.djvu/57

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"Till by their suffering they have equall'd allThe miseries they inflicted, all the massOf wretchedness caused by the wars they waged,The towns they burnt, for they who bribe to warAre guilty of the blood, the widows leftIn want, the slave or led to suicide,Or murdered by the foul infected airOf his close dungeon, or more sad than all,His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved,And driven by woe to wickedness."These next,Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room,So sullen, and with such an eye of hateEach on the other scowling, these have beenFalse friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughtsHere they dwell: in the hollow of their heartsThere is a worm that feeds, and tho' thou seestThat skilful leech who willingly would healThe ill they suffer, judging of all elseBy their own evil standard, they suspect
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