What terrestial woe can match The self-convicted bosom, which hath wrought The bane of others, or enslaved itself With shackles vile? Not poison, nor sharp fire, Nor the worst pangs that ever monkish hate Suggested, or despotic rage imposed, Were at that season an unwished exchange; When the soul loathes herself, when flying thence, To crowds, on every brow she sees pourtrayed Fell demons, hate or scorn, which drive her back To solitude, her Judge’s voice divine, To hear in secret, haply sounding through The troubled dreams of midnight, and still, still Demanding for his violated laws Fit recompense; or charging her own tongue To speak the award of justice on herself. _Akenside._ _Conscience_ distasteful truths may tell, But mark her sacred lessons well, With her whoever lives at strife, Loses his better friend for life. _Anon._ _Conscience_, tremendous _conscience_, in his fits Of inspiration, whencesoe’er it came, Rose like a ghost, inflicting fear of death On those who feared not death in fiercest battle, And mocked him in their martyrdoms of torments; That secret, swift, and silent messenger, Broke on them in their lonely hours;--in sleep, In sickness; haunting them with dire suspicions Of something in themselves that would not die-- Of an existence elsewhere, and hereafter; Of which tradition was not wholly silent, Yet spake not out; its dreary oracles Confounded superstition to conceive, And baffled scepticism to reject, What fear of death is like the fear beyond it? _J. Montgomery._ Nothing they saw, but a low voice was heard Threading the ominous silence of that fear, Gentle and terrorless, as if a bird, Wakened by some volcano’s glare, should cheer The murk air with his song; yet every word In the cathedral’s farthest arch seemed near, As if it spoke to every one apart, Like the clear voice of _conscience_ to each heart. _Lowell._ Lest too powerful passions should propel Headlong to acts immoral, nor allow Time for slow Reason to deduce a rule To curb their mad career, _Conscience_ kind heaven Appointed her assistant; _Conscience_ quick To heed the call of duty, to discern ’Twixt right and wrong, and bias to the best. _William Gibson._ Oh, that folk would well consider What it is to lose a name, What this world is altogether, If bereft of honest fame. Poverty ne’er brings dishonour, Hardship ne’er breeds sorrow’s smart, If bright _conscience_ takes upon her To shed sunshine round the heart. _Hector Mc’ Neill._