And pay back scorn by scorn, keener than that The eye of man e’er threw upon me—thus Was I ever—thus will ever be: Though it heap coals of fire upon my head, And writhe me with its tortures, still my soul, Strong in its desperate fury, asks no boon But hate, to be repaid by darker hate— Failing in that, to die unwept, unsung. Madness is not my portion—I shall live! And from the chaplet round the brow of Fame Yet seize, perchance, a leaf. Love in my heart Is not yet all extinct: what it has been, Brighter and purer than the present hour, Has fled forever! Yet I cannot live Unloving and unloved. But hand in hand With my ambition, upward must it rise, Subordinate, yet true unto the truthful. Into the channels where deceit has crept— Into the hearts unfaithful—o’er the paths Of those who have repaid my love with guile, The blast of my sirocco hate shall sweep, Sudden to rise and swift to overthrow. Such are my thoughts. Would they were written on my brow, that all Might read the tale untold. My story’s brief. ’Tis the twin passions—they have mastery, And sway my pulse of life. There are brief moments When passion lieth sleeping, and my mind Reveling in its dominion, far removed From petty cares and struggles, soars aloft (Smiling amid its tortures, then forgotten,) Through the dark Future; with untiring wing, Restless as the young eaglet, seeks the sun Of light, and truth, and wisdom: or retiring Back to the brilliant, unforgotten past, Where every foot of earth contains a portion Of immortality, seeks out its mate, That may have wrestled with the storms of Time And won the victor’s crown: or, from the page Of mighty spirits, who have left a deep And never-failing well of giant thought, Feeding my flickering lamp of life, nor dream There is a world elsewhere, but in the visions The arch-enchanters have raised up for Time! God’s blessings on ye, noble-hearted men! How often to this saddened soul of mine Have ye brought strength and hope! Earth has not Jewels so rare, as those ye thickly scatter Upon the wind for your posterity. To me your voices, In the still midnight, in the garish day, Have ever gently come: I trust in you— And ye are faithful: Rest forever with me. The prophet lore of Israel—the sound Of swelling harps by Grecian wizards strung— Promethean echoes!—the ever-burning page Of England’s brighter days—the undying song Of richest Shakspeare—and the noble strains Of master-minds drinking their inspiration From his pure fountain—all the mighty line— Sweeps by this distant shallow generation, The monody of Time! Sweet friends! My heart henceforth must nestle in your loves, Or be forever lost. When forgotten, For a brief period, ’mid the worldly strife And emptiness of things, how sinks my spirit,