SOUL, who would’st prove and know thyself for strong,
Soul, who hast not a tyrant sin beside,
Masked at thine elbow struts the flatterer–Pride,
Whose whisper has befooled thine heart for long.
Lash thee at thine own shrine with shameful thong?
Soft-handed Nemesis between shall glide,
To balk the smart thou seekest to abide,–
Daring at self’s behest that holiest wrong.
Lo! thy good sword that seldom smites in vain
One day shall fail thy pride lest thou be lost;–
Slip in thine hold, and slay thine idol, Pain,
Win for thee treasure who would pay but cost;
Sweet punishment be pride’s reward at length,
And thy best weakness save thee; not thy strength.
I mark thy clench
(Louisa Sarah Bevington)
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