 | My Sonnets |  |
37
[Hate none, but do thou rather pity those]
Hate none, but do thou rather pity thoseWhom men call guilty. Peer in to yon cell,—
There lies the murderer: that dreary bell
Tolls the swift death of his few moments. Close
The grate, and hear me. Men and he were foes
Even from his very birth; that man could tell
Of none of those sweet, childish, joys, so well
Our memory loves to prattle of. No,—blows,
From hands that should but have caressed him, crushed
Into his infant heart the love again,
That would then freely, ceaselessly, have gushed
To mingle with affection. Were it vain
To tell how mental darkness was his lot?
Hunger, despair, and crime?—O hate him not!
November 19th, 1842.
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