’What Power delights to torture us?  I know 320
That to myself I do not wholly owe
What now I suffer, though in part I may. 
Alas! none strewed sweet flowers upon the way
Where wandering heedlessly, I met pale Pain
My shadow, which will leave me not again—­ 325
If I have erred, there was no joy in error,
But pain and insult and unrest and terror;
I have not as some do, bought penitence
With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet offence,
For then,—­if love and tenderness and truth 330
Had overlived hope’s momentary youth,
My creed should have redeemed me from repenting;
But loathed scorn and outrage unrelenting
Met love excited by far other seeming
Until the end was gained...as one from dreaming 335
Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my state
Such as it is.—­
’O Thou, my spirit’s mate
Who, for thou art compassionate and wise,
Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes
If this sad writing thou shouldst ever see—­ 340
My secret groans must be unheard by thee,
Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as blood to know
Thy lost friend’s incommunicable woe.

’Ye few by whom my nature has been weighed
In friendship, let me not that name degrade 345
By placing on your hearts the secret load
Which crushes mine to dust.  There is one road
To peace and that is truth, which follow ye! 
Love sometimes leads astray to misery. 
Yet think not though subdued—­and I may well 350
Say that I am subdued—­that the full Hell
Within me would infect the untainted breast
Of sacred nature with its own unrest;
As some perverted beings think to find
In scorn or hate a medicine for the mind 355
Which scorn or hate have wounded—­O how vain! 
The dagger heals not but may rend again... 
Believe that I am ever still the same
In creed as in resolve, and what may tame
My heart, must leave the understanding free, 360
Or all would sink in this keen agony—­
Nor dream that I will join the vulgar cry;
Or with my silence sanction tyranny;
Or seek a moment’s shelter from my pain
In any madness which the world calls gain, 365
Ambition or revenge or thoughts as stern
As those which make me what I am; or turn
To avarice or misanthropy or lust... 
Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust! 
Till then the dungeon may demand its prey, 370
And Poverty and Shame may meet and say—­
Halting beside me on the public way—­
“That love-devoted youth is ours—­let’s sit
Beside him—­he may live some six months yet.” 
Or the red scaffold, as our country bends, 375