Religion may relieve the darkest woes,
All—save remorse—be softened or forgot—
But where can she—the guilty—find repose,
Whose anguish from her own transgression flows?
My pride—my envy bade Montoro die,
His life embittered, stained with blood its close!
Aye, weep ye who can weep—but I—but I
My heart weeps tears of blood, and yet mine eyes are dry!
