Turns back its sword's keen point on its own breast,
Which deep it gashes,--then in mournful tone,
It mutters o'er and o'er again these words,--
"I fought for fame and won unending wo."
His agonies seem like himself, immortal.

Spirit.

Justice is blameless of his sufferings:
For many years his busy, plotting brain,
Made discord out of union, strife from peace,
And set the nations warring till the earth
Was crimson with the blood poured out for him!
He bears what he inflicted,--let him pass
And mark what follows him.

Werner.

A goodly shape,
More fit to string and strike Apollo's lyre,
Than bear the shield or wield the sword of Mars!
A broken harp, suspended at his side,
A faded garland, wreathed about his brow,
Tell what he was, and still employ his care.
With thin white hand, that trembles at its task,
In vain he strives to bind the broken chords,
And to their primal melody attune them;--
In vain,--for to his efforts still replies
A boding strain of harsh, discordant sound.
And then, with hot tears coursing down his cheeks,