Remorse

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,

Beyond comparison the worst are those

That to our folly or our guilt we owe.

In every other circumstance, the mind

Has this to say—'It was no deed of mine;'

But when to all the evil of misfortune

This sting is added—'Blame thy foolish self!'

Or worser far, the pangs of keen Remorse;

The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt—

Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involvèd others;

The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us,

Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!

O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,

There's not a keener lash!

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart

Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,

Can reason down its agonizing throbs;

And, after proper purpose of amendment,

Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?

O, happy! happy! enviable man!

O glorious magnanimity of soul!