Devices these by poor weak nature taught,
Which thus a change of suffering would obtain;
And flying from intolerable thought
And piercing recollections, would full fain
Distract itself by sense of fleshly pain
From anguish that the soul must else endure.
Easier all outward torments to sustain.
Than those heart-wounds which only time can cure,
And He in whom alone the hopes of man are sure.
None sorrow'd here; the sense of woe was sear'd,
When every one endured his own sore ill.
The prostrate sufferers neither hoped nor fear'd;
The body labour'd, but the heart was still:—
So let the conquering malady fulfil
Its fatal course, rest cometh at the end!
Passive they lay with neither wish nor will
For aught but this; nor did they long attend
That welcome boon from death, the never-failing friend.