Revenge

    Ay, gaze upon her rose-wreath'd hair,

      And gaze upon her smile;

    Seem as you drank the very air

      Her breath perfumed the while;

    And wake for her the gifted line,

      That wild and witching lay,

    And swear your heart is as a shrine,

      That only holds her sway.

    'Tis well: I am revenged at last;—

      Mark you that scornful cheek,—

    The eye averted as you pass'd,

      Spoke more than words could speak.

    Ay, now by all the bitter tears

      That I have shed for thee,—

    The racking doubts, the burning fears,—

      Avenged they well may be—

    By the nights pass'd in sleepless care,

      The days of endless woe;

    All that you taught my heart to bear,

      All that yourself will know.

    I would not wish to see you laid

      Within an early tomb;

    I should forget how you betray'd,

      And only weep your doom:

    But this is fitting punishment,

      To live and love in vain,—

    O my wrung heart, be thou content,

      And feed upon his pain.

    Go thou and watch her lightest sigh,—

      Thine own it will not be;

    And bask beneath her sunny eye,—

      It will not turn on thee.

    'Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel,

      Far better hadst thou proved;

    Ev'n I could almost pity feel,

      For thou art nor beloved.