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POEMS OF EMILY BRONTË
That wrath will never spare,
Will never pity know;
Will mock its victims maddened prayer,
Will triumph in his woe.
Shut from his Maker's smile
The accursed man shall be;
For mercy reigns a little while,
But hate eternally.[1]
- ↑ An alternative in the author's manuscript runs:—
'Compassion smiles a little while,
Revenge eternally.'