Be laid in waste!
To me the world and all the joys I sought
Are less than naught.

Gladly, O Executioner, to Death
I yield my breath;
And only wonder who shall after me
Thy victim be!

FIGHAN.




XVIII.


If you should meet the Loved One as you stray,
O give my letter secretly to her,
Then haste away
And do not tell my name, O Messenger.

O Morning Winds that from the garden blow,
Should you meet one like me forlorn and sad,
On him bestow
The peace and solace I have never had.

O Eyes that weep and weep unsatisfied,
That shed such floods, yet never find relief,
O stem your tide