Their bondage certain, but their bounds have change. 
   One was a female, who had grievous ill
Wrought in revenge, and she enjoy’d it still: 
With death before her, and her fate in view,
Unsated vengeance in her bosom grew: 
Sullen she was and threat’ning; in her eye
Glared the stern triumph that she dared to die: 
But first a being in the world must leave —
’Twas once reproach; ’twas now a short reprieve. 
   She was a pauper bound, who early gave
Her mind to vice and doubly was a slave: 
Upbraided, beaten, held by rough control,
Revenge sustain’d, inspired, and fill’d her soul: 
She fired a full-stored barn, confess’d the fact,
And laugh’d at law and justified the act: 
Our gentle Vicar tried his powers in vain,
She answer’d not, or answer’d with disdain;
Th’ approaching fate she heard without a sigh,
And neither cared to live nor fear’d to die. 
   Not so he felt, who with her was to pay
The forfeit, life—­with dread he view’d the day,
And that short space which yet for him remain’d,
Till with his limbs his faculties were chain’d: 
He paced his narrow bounds some ease to find,
But found it not,—­no comfort reach’d his mind: 
Each sense was palsied; when he tasted food,
He sigh’d and said, “Enough—­’tis very good.” 
Since his dread sentence, nothing seem’d to be
As once it was—­he seeing could not see,
Nor hearing, hear aright;—­when first I came
Within his view, I fancied there was shame,
I judged resentment; I mistook the air, —
These fainter passions live not with despair;
Or but exist and die:  —­Hope, fear, and love,
Joy, doubt, and hate, may other spirits move,
But touch not his, who every waking hour
Has one fix’d dread, and always feels its power. 
   “But will not mercy?”—­No! she cannot plead
For such an outrage;—­’twas a cruel deed: 
He stopp’d a timid traveller;—­to his breast,
With oaths and curses, was the danger press’d:  —
No! he must suffer:  pity we may find
For one man’s pangs, but must not wrong mankind. 
   Still I behold him, every thought employ’d
On one dire view!—­all others are destroy’d;
This makes his features ghastly, gives the tone
Of his few words resemblance to a groan;
He takes his tasteless food, and when ’tis done,
Counts up his meals, now lessen’d by that one;
For expectation is on time intent,
Whether he brings us joy or punishment. 
   Yes! e’en in sleep the impressions all remain,
He hears the sentence and he feels the chain;
He sees the judge and jury, when he shakes,
And loudly cries, “Not guilty,” and awakes: 
Then chilling tremblings o’er his body creep,
Till worn-out nature is compell’d to sleep. 
Now comes the dream again:  it shows each scene,
With each small circumstance that comes between —
The call to suffering and the very deed —
There crowds go with him, follow, and precede;