 | The Solitary, and other poems |  |
Meanwhile, how fare the wicked twain
Who have not done their work in vain,
And deem gold got, blood spilt, is gain?
Though what is got, and spilt, hath strook
Their names sheer out of Heaven's book;
Their souls, the fiend's unquestion'd claim,
Doom'd to that somewhere, fill'd with flame,
Which scalding tears shall ne'er abate,
And breathing sighs shall aggravate;
Which, never early, never late,
Knows night nor day, pause nor endeavour,
But a blind brightness burns for ever.
Who have not done their work in vain,
And deem gold got, blood spilt, is gain?
Though what is got, and spilt, hath strook
Their names sheer out of Heaven's book;
Their souls, the fiend's unquestion'd claim,
Doom'd to that somewhere, fill'd with flame,
Which scalding tears shall ne'er abate,
And breathing sighs shall aggravate;
Which, never early, never late,
Knows night nor day, pause nor endeavour,
But a blind brightness burns for ever.
| The Solitary, and other poems | |