REVENGE
Ay, gaze upon her rose-wreath'd hair,
And gaze upon her smile;
Seem as you drank the very air
Her breath perfumed the while;
And wake for her the gifted line,
That wild and witching lay,
And swear your heart is as a shrine,
That only holds her sway.
'Tis well: I am revenged at last;--
Mark you that scornful cheek,--
The eye averted as you pass'd,
Spoke more than words could speak.
Ay, now by all the bitter tears
That I have shed for thee,--
The racking doubts, the burning fears,--
Avenged they well may be--
By the nights pass'd in sleepless care,
The days of endless woe;
All that you taught my heart to bear,
All that yourself will know.
I would not wish to see you laid
Within an early tomb;
I should forget how you betray'd,
And only weep your doom:
But this is fitting punishment,
To live and love in vain,--
O my wrung heart, be thou content,
And feed upon his pain.
Go thou and watch her lightest sigh,--
Thine own it will not be;
And bask beneath her sunny eye,--
It will not turn on thee.
'Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel,
Far better hadst thou proved;
Ev'n I could almost pity feel,
For thou art nor beloved.
Ay, gaze upon her rose-wreath'd hair,
And gaze upon her smile;
Seem as you drank the very air
Her breath perfumed the while;
And wake for her the gifted line,
That wild and witching lay,
And swear your heart is as a shrine,
That only holds her sway.
'Tis well: I am revenged at last;--
Mark you that scornful cheek,--
The eye averted as you pass'd,
Spoke more than words could speak.
Ay, now by all the bitter tears
That I have shed for thee,--
The racking doubts, the burning fears,--
Avenged they well may be--
By the nights pass'd in sleepless care,
The days of endless woe;
All that you taught my heart to bear,
All that yourself will know.
I would not wish to see you laid
Within an early tomb;
I should forget how you betray'd,
And only weep your doom:
But this is fitting punishment,
To live and love in vain,--
O my wrung heart, be thou content,
And feed upon his pain.
Go thou and watch her lightest sigh,--
Thine own it will not be;
And bask beneath her sunny eye,--
It will not turn on thee.
'Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel,
Far better hadst thou proved;
Ev'n I could almost pity feel,
For thou art nor beloved.