The shroud-like robe Hell's destined victim wears;
Still shall the fillet bind this burning brow—
That sable braid the Doomsman's hand prepares!
4.
Weep, ye who never fell—for whom, unerring,
The soul's white lilies keep their virgin hue,
Ye who when thoughts so danger-sweet are stirring,
Take the stern strength that Nature gives the few
Woe, for too human was this fond heart's feeling—
Feeling!--my sin's avenger[12] doom'd to be;