University of Virginia Library

XVIII.

“The wretch that clothes himself with spoils,
A robber meets for all his toils!
That takes away and sells the whole,
To Death, his body—Hell, his soul!
The heart that wounds another's breast
The very one he could have blest,—
In wounding, seeks his own unrest!
The blind that cannot misery see,
Are not alone from misery free!
The hand that robs existence, fain
Would guard defenceless virtue best—
Nay! murderer! thou art still the pain
Of those whom hell would not molest!
And every shock that chilled my clay
Shall damn thee in thy last decay!
The melancholy heavens above
Have registered thy faithless love!
But murmur not—thy pangs are sure—
For thou shalt find no earthly cure!
But seething fires shall melt in vain
Thy soul enchained in hell again!
For thou shalt there remain immured,
To tell thee what my soul endured!
Thou hast my generous hope denied,
And hell shall all thy pangs deride!
The dullest thing that crawls this earth,
Is happier now than thou shalt be!
For thou wert round my bosom girth,
And thus shall hell encompass thee!
The heart that robs another's weal,
And feeds upon exultant joy,
Shall smite itself with poisoned steel,
And never more itself destroy!
Nor e'en through time's forbearance heal,
But twice ten thousand torments feel!
And every thing it values most,
Shall nothing seem—till ever lost!
The eyes betray, when lips are hushed,
More real love than words express;
And hearts divulge, when cheeks are flushed,
More perfect love than saints possess.
One single, soft, compressive shake,
Will make more tender heart-strings ache,
And one fond look from virtue, teach,
In stronger eloquence than speech,
Though gently suasive, sweetly taught,—
More social bliss than human thought,
At loftiest height, can ever reach.
But heed thee not another's voice,
For thou shalt never more rejoice!
Though Lena's soft, salubrious breath
Is hushed amid the waves of death!
For those auspicious hopes, so vain,
Shall never touch her heart again!
But, like her own, thy fate shall be
To die almost as desolate!
And that which thou shalt long to see,
Shall pleasure bring—but come too late!
And earth shall win thee many woes!
For wretched men are doomed to blows,
Sometimes from friends as well as foes!
And thou shalt recollect, alas!
The bitter things that come to pass!”