And if my voice break forth, 't is not that now 
I shrink from what is suffer'd: 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! 

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 suffer'd things to be forgiven? 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's life lied away? 
Am I only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
Have I not seen what human things could do? 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
The Janus glance of whose significant eye, 
Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, 
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain: 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
And my frame perish even in conquering pain; 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 
Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre, 
Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 

Oh! say on a Pillow of Down can you rest,
While I on the Earth or on Straw must recline!
Oh! say can you wrap the warm Fur o'er your breast?
While bare to the Winds and the Tempest is mine.

No Pillow have I, even that you deny one,
No Garment have I, nor a Penny to buy one,
He hears not, nor Pities my frantic distress,
Yet sure he remembers mad Wand'ring Bess.

He gave me bright Gems, and he gave me much Gold;
And proud was his fond foolish Anna to wear them,
But the love which he gave, Oh! it soon grew cold;
And then I no longer, no longer could bear them.

Can Gems calmly lie, on a fast breaking heart,
Can they bind the poor brain, the poor brain that's on fire,
No my sighs from my heart, bade the bright Jewels start,
And the throbs of my brain, of my brain burst their wire.

I sent them all back from a Soul on the rack,
And said all thy presents deceiver I spurn,
For that Jewel my fame, which I gave thee Oh! shame,
That Jewel most precious, thou can'st not return.

They tell me I'm wild, but I answer oh! no,
For my wrongs for my wrongs still my memory can seize on,
And trust me to know the extent of ones woe,
Is a proof too sure of Reason, is a proof too sure of Reason.