Qaenchless this source is found
Which thou hast first unsealed.
It issues from a wound
That never may be healed.
But in the bitter wave
I shall be clean restored,
And from my soul shall lave
Thy memory abhorred !
MUSE.
Poet, enough ! Though but one single day
Lasted thy dream of her who faithless proved,
That day insult not ; whatsoe'er thou say,
Respect thy love, if thou would be beloved.
If human weakness find the task too great
Of pardoning the wrongs by others done.
At least the torture spare thyself of hate,
In place of pardon seek oblivion.
The dead lie peaceful in the earth asleep.
So our extinguished passions too, should rest.
Dust are those relics also ; let us keep
Our hands from violence to their ashes blest.
Why, in this story of keen pain, my friend,
Wilt thou refuse naught but a dream to see ?
Does Nature causeless act, to no wise end ?
Think' st thou a heedless Grod aMcted thee ?
Mayhap the blow thou weepest was to save.
Child, it has oped thy heart to seek relief ;
Sorrow is lord to man, and man a slave,
None knows himself till he has walked with grief, —
