Ay, gaze upon her rose-wreathed hair,

And gaze upon her smile;

Seem as you drank the very air

Her breath perfumed the while:

And wake for her the gifted line,

That wild and witching lay,

And swear your heart is as a shrine,

That only owns her sway.

’Tis well: I am revenged at last, —

Mark you that scornful cheek, —

The eye averted as you pass’d,

Spoke more than words could speak.

Ay, now by all the bitter tears

That I have shed for thee, —

The racking doubts, the burning fears, —

Avenged they well may be —

By the nights pass’d in sleepless care,

The days of endless woe;

All that you taught my heart to bear,

All that yourself will know.

I would not wish to see you laid

Within an early tomb;

I should forget how you betray’d,

And only weep your doom:

But this is fitting punishment,

To live and love in vain, —

Oh my wrung heart, be thou content,

And feed upon his pain.

Go thou and watch her lightest sigh, —

Thine own it will not be;

And bask beneath her sunny eye, —

It will not turn on thee.

’Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel,

Far better had’st thou proved;

Ev’n I could almost pity feel,

For thou art not beloved.

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