Life's early cup with such a draught of woe? The nameless worm would now itself disown: It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 320 Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,

But what was howling in one breast alone, Silent with expectation of the song, Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame! Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me, 326

Thou noteless blot on a remembered name! But be thyself, and know thyself to be! And ever at thy season be thou free

To spill the venom when thy fangs o'erflow: 330

Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee;

Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,

And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt

as now.

Nor let us weep that our delight is fled Far from these carrion kites that scream below; 335