 | Madeline |  |
262
LII. ON REMORSE.
Unholy ghost, in thee remorse
Acts leisurely its part;
By steady unremitting force
It makes thee what thou art.
The coil of life shall it unwind,
The days it has to last;
Let loose the torments of the mind,
And bind them to the past.
The hour of death, the hour of doom,
These from thy presence flit;
No morrow's thought can break the gloom
Where sharp remorse has bit.
Acts leisurely its part;
By steady unremitting force
It makes thee what thou art.
The coil of life shall it unwind,
The days it has to last;
Let loose the torments of the mind,
And bind them to the past.
The hour of death, the hour of doom,
These from thy presence flit;
No morrow's thought can break the gloom
Where sharp remorse has bit.
Shallow the crime thy heart decreed,
And easy to embark;
But to thy eyes, that saw the deed,
Inscrutable and dark.
Thy hand, which set the blood to flow,
Did not a moment wince:
Thy hand which aimed the cruel blow
Has struck it ever since.
Thy soul no novel pang can brand;
No other threads thy sight:
Scarce hell itself is seen at hand
A passage to invite.
And easy to embark;
But to thy eyes, that saw the deed,
Inscrutable and dark.
263
Did not a moment wince:
Thy hand which aimed the cruel blow
Has struck it ever since.
Thy soul no novel pang can brand;
No other threads thy sight:
Scarce hell itself is seen at hand
A passage to invite.
| Madeline | |