why hast thou warred with nature, turning all her higher and more perfect gifts to the ruin of me, their possessor? what is the voice of song, when the world lacks the ear of taste? how can i rejoice in my strength and delicacy of feeling, when they have but made great sorrows out of little ones? have i dreaded scorn like death, and yearned for fame as others pant for vital air, only to find myself in a middle state between obscurity and infamy? but i have my revenge! i could have given existence to a thousand bright creations. i crush them into my heart, and there let them putrefy! i shake off the dust of my feet against my countrymen! but posterity, tracing my footsteps up this weary hill, will cry shame upon the unworthy age that drove one of the fathers of american song to end his days in a shaker village!"