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.