And the dart-like hail caused a shoot of pain,
Till I raved with torture wild;
And swore, in the darkness of fell despair,
As I tore in my fury my whit'ning hair—
Though weak as a puny child.
(For I wished to move, but in vain I tried,)
I had slain myself, and had willingly died,
Though sworn to be revenged.
For I swore that nothing should cool my rage,
No kindness hereafter my hate assuage,