CXXX. Oh, Time! the Beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin[508]--Comforter And only Healer when the heart hath bled; Time! the Corrector where our judgments err, The test of Truth, Love--sole philosopher, For all beside are sophists--from thy thrift, Which never loses though it doth defer-- Time, the Avenger! unto thee I lift My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift: CXXXI. Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine And temple more divinely desolate-- Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, Ruins of years--though few, yet full of fate:-- If thou hast ever seen me too elate, Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne Good, and reserved my pride against the hate Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn This iron in my soul in vain--shall _they_ not mourn? CXXXII. And Thou, who never yet of human wrong Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis![509][28.H.] Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long-- Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss, And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss For that unnatural retribution--just, Had it but been from hands less near--in this Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust! Dost thou not hear my heart?--Awake! thou shalt, and must. CXXXIII. It is not that I may not have incurred, For my ancestral faults or mine, the wound[op] I bleed withal; and, had it been conferred With a just weapon, it had flowed unbound; But now my blood shall not sink in the ground-- To thee I do devote it--_Thou_ shalt take The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found-- Which if _I_ have not taken for the sake-- But let that pass--I sleep--but Thou shalt yet awake. CXXXIV. And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now[oq] I shrink from what is suffered: let him speak Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak; But in this page a record will I seek. Not in the air shall these my words disperse, Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse! CXXXV. That curse shall be Forgiveness.--Have I not-- Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, Heaven!-- Have I not had to wrestle with my lot? Have I not suffered things to be forgiven? Have I not had my brain seared, my heart riven, Hopes sapped, name blighted, Life's life lied away? And only not to desperation driven, Because not altogether of such clay As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. CXXXVI.[or]