There are full many sins confess’d, my Lord,
  In pain of body and in pain of soul;
Some from the heart unearth’d by fire and sword,
  And stealing forth amid the spirit’s dole,
With fiery pain-sweat seething every word;

But none, my Lord, that riseth to the sky,
  Bears guilt of mine upon its blister’d tongue;
Though torture’s fire is quick to forge a lie,
  None from these woman’s lips could ere be wrung;
No! none, though on the rack-bed bound to die.

Poor youth!  This poison from his writhing throat,
  Those hellish instruments have haply drawn,
And pain hath conn’d the aspish lies by rote;
  But to my heart no poison’d tooth hath gnawn,
For in its pulses lies Truth’s antidote.

These limbs, my Lord, can do their task no more;
  The rack hath crush’d them in its wild embrace,
So that Truth’s firm-set attitude is o’er,
  Else had I met my judges face to face,
And challenged justice, as in days of yore.

Yet is the spirit strong within me still,
  And bears me up though manhood’s strength succumb,
Unbent by any blighting blast of ill,
  Through fiery trials, to all false witness dumb;
They cannot stain me, though perchance they kill!

I am a woman—­weak to combat wrong,
  But innocent, my Lord, I live or die;
And silent, though my God doth tarry long,
  He sees me throughly with His holy eye,
And in my sore, sore need, doth make me strong.

This hapless youth!  I do forgive him all;
  E’en now remorse must rankle in his breast,
And no cool comfort cometh at his call,
  To set the tumult of his soul at rest: 
God’s pity on his human weakness fall!

3.

Nay, falter not, good friend; thy news is sweet;
  Thanks, thanks!  Ay, sweet as is the welcome wind
That wafts the calm-lock’d seaman, smooth and fleet,
  O’er tropic seas unto his sigh’d-for Ind;
Ay!  Death will bring rest to my weary feet!

’Tis strange—­but now the word falls on mine ear
  Soft as the singing of a little child,
Heaven’s music on light pinions floateth near,
  Through all the strife of Earth, so harsh and wild;
Time’s stream is rippling on its marges clear.

The end is nigh—­the end of grief and pain,
  And Life’s broad gates are opening to my soul;
O’er my weak heart no more shall sorrow reign,
  Enfranchised soon ’twill spurn the harsh control,
And never feel its empiry again.

No more, Filippo, shall my hapless life
  Stand betwixt thee and pleasure,—­Duty’s knot
Shall soon be sever’d by the headsman’s knife;
  And upon memory one crimson blot
Shall be the record of a spotless wife.

’Tis well!  I would not wander through a haunted mind,
  Ghost-like and fearful in the evening hours;
Would God that I could leave my peace behind,
  To bless thee when the night of sorrow lours,
And thou art rifted by Affliction’s wind!