And solace shed upon your stricken hearts 

 With balm-drops of sweet speech. 

 Yet, as for me, 

 I speak and none regard, or drooping sit 

 In mournful silence, and none heed my woe. 

 They smite me on the cheek reproachfully, 

 And slander me in secret, though my cause 

 And witness rest with the clear-judging Heaven. 

 My record is on high. 

 Oh Thou, whose hand 

 Hath thus made desolate all my company, 

 And left me a poor, childless man—behold 

 They who once felt it pride to call me friend, 

 Make of my name a by-word, which was erst 

 Like harp or tabret to their venal lip. 

 Mine eye is dim with grief, my wasted brow 

 Furrow'd with wrinkles. 

 Soon I go the way 

 Whence I shall not return. The grave, my house, 

 Is ready for me. In its mouldering clay 

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