I Hyacinth, of whom she wrote, now write:
  Not from the hope of fame, or wish for praise;
  But that, in waning of her latter days,
She willed her warning tale should see the light,

And whispered with her fading breath that I
  Should soften nothing that she did reveal,
  But charter her confession with a seal
Of manual pardon — as I do hereby.

And ere ye scorn her troubles, passion-fed,
  Her wilful choosing of the crooked path,
  And ere ye make a virtue of your wrath,
I pray you all, remember — she is dead.

Forgive the passions that she could not curb,
  The heaving trouble of a fevered breast.
  She's very quiet now. She hath her rest:
And there is none can wake her, none disturb.

I, who have most to pardon, pardon all,
  As I myself beseech forgiving grace;
  And live in hope that I shall her face,
Even as an angel's, at the Judgment call.

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