Came not upon me—from the solid earth,
That, still unseen, swelled to my warmer sole,
Grew up, and through my frame spread cordial life,
That left not my heart empty. Not by sight
Man lives (my hope grew lusty) but by faith.

My misery chokes my life!
And thou, the cause of all,
Dost sit and walk, and, mocking on the strife,
Kiss hands to every fopling of the ball!

Chit, you are carrying honey in your palm;
Beware thy steps! What! see it fall to ground.
Waste, and be lost, which were the balm
Of such a wound as mine—of all this wound!

What did I mutter while by thee I stood?
I muttered, "Dragging her to shameful shade,
Shall I let forth the battle of my blood
On those white plains?"———Art not afraid?