Many are strong and rich, and would be just,
But live among their suffering fellow-men
As if none felt; they know not what they do.
Thy words are like a cloud of wingèd snakes;
And yet I pity those they torture not.
Thou pitiest them? I speak no more!
Ah woe! Alas! pain, pain ever, forever!
I close my tearless eyes, but see more clear
Thy works within my woe-illumèd mind,
Thou subtle tyrant! Peace is in the grave.
The grave hides all things beautiful and good.
I am a God and cannot find it there,
Nor would I seek it; for, though dread revenge,
This is defeat, fierce king, not victory.
The sights with which thou torturest gird my soul
With new endurance, till the hour arrives
When they shall be no types of things which are.
Alas! what sawest thou?
There are two woes--
To speak and to behold; thou spare me one.
Names are there, Nature's sacred watchwords, they
Were borne aloft in bright emblazonry;