Various cares mankind employ;
    But to gaze on human woe
  Seems the universal joy,
    For which they all their cares forego.

  Each from his pursuit departs,
    Suffering, dying Man to see;
  Surely there are human hearts
    That joy in human misery.

  Where fictitious tragic woe
    Entertains the gaudy ring,
  Each the horror can forego,
    And instant mental comfort bring.

  When the spirits take alarm,
    Prompt to anger, grief, or spleen,
  Reason can dissolve the charm,
    And say, ’tis a fictitious scene.

  But to scenes of real woe,
    Where a wretch is truely dying,
  Wherefore do such numbers go,
    What can be the joy of sighing?

  Men of thought, who soar serene,
    And loftily philosophize,
  Will say they seek the solemn scene,
    To contemplate and sympathize.

  And all the throng will tell you so:  ... 
    ’Tis sympathy that brings them there;
  They love to weep for others’ woe,
    And come but to enjoy a tear.

  If to enjoy the tear that starts,
    They run the sorrow’d scene to see—­
  Alas! for pity ... human hearts
    Delight in human misery.

  Still my wretched thought thus strays,
    ’Midst gloomy scenes and prospects drear;
  My weary mind, in various ways
    Seeking Hope, still finds Despair.

  This thought a weight of woe imparts,
    At once to sink a wretch like me;
  What can I hope, if human hearts
    Delight in human misery?

  Tortur’d by severe suspense,
    I the Jurors’ Verdict wait,
  Ere I may depart from hence,
    Their decision seals my fate.

  Now withdrawn, their close debate
    Admits no curious, list’ening ear,
  But the result’s so big with fate,
    The Culprit must in thought be there.

  And now, led on by sad despair,
    Does a frightful form obtrude;
  Vindictive Spleen assumes the air
    Of noble, manly Fortitude.

  And thus I hear the Demon say,
    ’Let us not abuse our trust;
  ’We must not be led away
    ‘For mercy’s sake, to be unjust.’

  Yet he’ll profess no wrath to feel
    ’Gainst such a hapless wretch as I;
  No! ... but for the public weal,
    ’Tis expedient that I die.

  And this his judgment once made known,
    Self-love and self-conceit’s so strong,
  He’ll rather let me die than own
    That his opinion could be wrong.

  Ye who the lore of distant climes
    Canvass, latent truth to find;
  Who hail our philosophic times,
    And Man’s emancipated mind: 

  Oh! ye who boast the enlighten’d age,
    Who boast your right of thinking free ... 
  If e’er ye learn the lessons sage,
    Taught in affliction’s school like me,

  Should you e’er a Culprit stand,
    You’ll wish mankind all Christians then;
  If e’er you raise the Culprit’s hand,
    You’ll wish the Jurors Christian Men.