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NOTES.
These tyrants, on their beds of thorn,Swell with the thoughts of murderous fame,And with their gains to lift my name.Restless they plan from night to morn:I—I do all; without my aidThy daughter, that relentless maid,Could never o'er a death-bed urgeThe fury of her venomed scourge.
FALSEHOOD.Brother, well:—the world is ours;And whether thou or I have won, The pestilence expectant lowersOn all beneath yon blasted sun.Our joys, our toils, our honours meetIn the milk-white and wormy winding-sheet:A short-lived hope, unceasing care,Some heartless scraps of godly prayer,A moody curse, and a frenzied sleepEre gapes the graves unclosing deep,A tyrant's dream, a coward's start,The ice that clings to a priestly heart,A judge's frown, a courtier's smile,Make the great whole for which we toil;And, brother, whether thou or IHave done the work of misery,It little boots: thy toil and pain,Without my aid were more than vain;And but for thee I ne'er had sateThe guardian of heaven's palace gate.
