O wretch without a tear, without
a thought,
Save joy above the ruin thou hast
wrought!
The time shall come, nor long remote,
when thou
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest
now,—
Feel for thy vile self-loving self
in vain,
And turn thee howling in unpitied
pain.
May the strong curse of crushed
affections light
Back on thy bosom with reflected
blight,
And make thee, in thy leprosy of
mind,
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind,
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle
into hate
Black as thy will for others would
create:
Till thy hard heart be calcined
into dust,
And thy soul welter in its hideous
crust!
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as
the bed,
The widowed couch of fire, that
thou hast spread!
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary
Heaven with prayer,
Look on thine earthly victims, and
despair!
Down to the dust! and, as thou rott’st
away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous
clay.
But for the love I bore, and still
must bear,
To her thy malice from all ties
would tear,
Thy name, thy human name, to every
eye
The climax of all scorn, should
hang on high,
Exalted o’er thy less abhorred
compeers,
And festering in the infamy of years.
LINES ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.
And thou wert sad, yet I was not
with thee!
And thou wert
sick, and yet I was not near!
Methought that joy and health alone
could be
Where I was not, and pain and sorrow
here.
And is it thus? It is as I
foretold,
And shall be more so; for the mind
recoils
Upon itself, and the wrecked heart
lies cold,
While heaviness collects the shattered
spoils.
It is not in the storm nor in the
strife
We feel benumbed, and wish to be
no more,
But in the after-silence on the
shore,
When all is lost except a little
life.
I am too well avenged! But
’twas my right:
Whate’er my sins might be,
thou wert not sent
To be the Nemesis who should requite;
Nor did Heaven choose so near an
instrument.
Mercy is for the merciful!—if
thou
Hast been of such, ’twill
be accorded now.
Thy nights are banished from the
realms of sleep!
Yes! they may flatter thee; but
thou shalt feel
A hollow agony which will not heal;
For thou art pillowed on a curse
too deep:
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and
must reap
The bitter harvest in a woe as real!
I have had many foes, but none like
thee;
For ’gainst the rest myself
I could defend,
And be avenged, or turn them into
friend;
But thou in safe implacability
Hadst nought to dread, in thy own
weakness shielded;
And in my love, which hath but too
much yielded,
And spared, for thy sake, some I
should not spare.