Classic Poem

The devastating flame of that fierce plague,
The foe of virtue, fed with others' peace
More than itself foresees,
Being still shut in to gnaw its own desire;
Its strength not weakened, nor its hues more vague,
For all the benison that virtue sheds,
But which for ever spreads
To be a living curse that shall not tire:
Or yet again, that other idle fire
Which flickers with all change as winds may please:
One whichsoe'er of these
At length has hidden the true path from me
Which twice man may not see,
And quenched the intelligence of joy, till now
All solace but abides in perfect woe.

Alas! the more my painful spirit grieves,
The more confused with miserable strife
Is that delicious life
Which sighing it recalls perpetually:
But its worst anguish, whence it still receives
More pain than death, is sent, to yield the sting
Of perfect suffering;
By him who is my lord and governs me;
Who holds all gracious truth in fealty,
Being nursed in those four sisters' fond caress
Through whom comes happiness.
He now has left me; and I draw my breath
Wound in the arms of Death,
Desirous of her: she is cried upon
In all the prayers my heart puts up alone.

How fierce aforetime and how absolute
That wheel of flame which turned within my head,
May never quite be said,
Because there are not words to speak the whole.
It slew my hope whereof I lack the fruit,
And stung the blood within my living flesh
To be an intricate mesh
Of pain beyond endurance or control;
Withdrawing me from God, who gave my soul
To know the sign where honour has its seat
From honour's counterfeit.
So in its longing my heart finds not hope,
Nor knows what door to ope;
Since, parting me from God, this foe took thought
To shut those paths wherein He may be sought.

My second enemy, thrice armed in guile,
As wise and cunning to mine overthrow
As her smooth face doth show,
With yet more shameless strength holds mastery.
My spirit, naked of its light and vile,
Is lit by her with her own deadly gleam,
Which makes all anguish seem
As nothing to her scourges that I see.
O thou the body of grace, abide with me
As thou wast once in the once joyful time;
And though thou hate my crime,
Fill not my life with torture to the end;
But in thy mercy, bend
My steps, and for thine honour, back again;
Till, finding joy through thee, I bless my pain.

Since that first frantic devil without faith
Fell, in thy name, upon the stairs that mount
Unto the limpid fount
Of thine intelligence,—withhold not now
Thy grace, nor spare my second foe from death.
For lo! on this my soul has seTher trust;
And failing this, thou must
Prove false to truth and honour, seest thou!
Then, saving light and throne of strength, allow
My prayer, and vanquish both my foes at last;
That so I be not cast
Into that woe wherein I fear to end.
Yet if it is ordain'd
That I must die ere this be perfected,—
Ah! yield me comfort after I am dead.

Ye unadornèd words obscure of sense,
With weeping and with sighing go from me,
And bear mine agony
(Not to be told by words, being too intense,)
To His intelligence
Who moved by virtue shall fulfil my breath
In human life or compensating death.