I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name,
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame:
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace
Were those hours—can their joy or their bitterness cease?
We repent—we abjure—we will break from our chain,—
We will part,—we will fly to—unite it again!

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!
Forgive me, adored one!— forsake, if thou wilt;—
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,
And man shall not break it—whatever thou mayst.

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be;
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove;
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign—
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

It has long been my fate to be thought in the wrong,
And my fate it continues to be;
The wise and the wealthy still make it their song,
And the clerk and the cottar agree.
There is nothing I do, and there's nothing I say,
But some one or other thinks wrong;
And to please them I find there is no other way,
But do nothing, and still hold my tongue.

Says the free-thinking Sophist, "The times are refin'd
In sense to a wondrous degree;
Your old fashion'd faith does but fetter the mind,
And it's wrong not to seek to be free."
Says the sage Politician, "Your natural share
Of talents would raise you much higher,
Than thus to crawl on in your present low sphere,
And it's wrong in you not to aspire."

Says the Man of the World, "Your dull stoic life
Is surely deserving of blame?
You have children to care for, as well as a wife,
And it's wrong not to lay up for them."
Says the fat Gormandizer, "To eat and to drink
Is the true summum bonum of man:
Life is nothing without it, whate'er you may think,
And it's wrong not to live while you can."

Says the new made Divine, "Your old modes we reject,
Nor give ourselves trouble about them:
It is manners and dress that procure us respect,
And it's wrong to look for it without them."
Says the grave peevish Saint, in a fit of the spleen,
"Ah! me, but your manners are vile:
A parson that's blythe is a shame to be seen,
And it's wrong in you even to smile."

Says the Clown, when I tell him to do what he ought,
"Sir, whatever your character be,
To obey you in this I will never be brought,
And it's wrong to be meddling with me."
Says my Wife, when she wants this or that for the house,
"Our matters to ruin must go:
Your reading and writing is not worth a souse,
And it's wrong to neglect the house so."

Thus all judge of me by their taste or their wit,
And I'm censur'd by old and by young,
Who in one point agree, though in others they split,
That in something I'm still in the wrong.
But let them say on to the end of the song,
It shall make no impression on me:
If to differ from such be to be in the wrong,
In the wrong I hope always to be.