Ay, gaze upon her rose-wreath'd 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 holds 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,— O 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 hadst thou proved; Ev'n I could almost pity feel, For thou art nor beloved.
