The book of the dead | ||
166
[LXXXI. If this sole solace of my grief]
If this sole solace of my grief,
This power to shape a dreary lay,
Were silenced, and the blest relief
Of thought in music reft away;
This power to shape a dreary lay,
Were silenced, and the blest relief
Of thought in music reft away;
I would have burst in rhetoric bold,
Such as shook Macedonia's king,
Or poured the words, from lips of gold,
At which false Catiline took wing;
Such as shook Macedonia's king,
Or poured the words, from lips of gold,
At which false Catiline took wing;
Or traced again, with fiery pen,
The scorn that made Salmasius rave
Before the mockery of men,
And jeered him to his wretched grave.
The scorn that made Salmasius rave
Before the mockery of men,
And jeered him to his wretched grave.
For, lacking utterance to my woe,
I must have writhed as one possessed,
And tossed my wild arms to and fro,
And rent my hair, and beat my breast.
I must have writhed as one possessed,
And tossed my wild arms to and fro,
And rent my hair, and beat my breast.
167
Therefore thank God that in mild song
He still permits my pain to shroud;
And when I thunder o'er the throng,
'Tis only from a golden cloud!
He still permits my pain to shroud;
And when I thunder o'er the throng,
'Tis only from a golden cloud!
The book of the dead | ||