That I should carry thus a hell,
Within my bosom from that hour?
I know not—nor shall care to know;
For e’en Repentance will not dart
From her pure realm, a light below,
Upon my agony of heart;
Nor hath Remorse—that mad’ning fire—
That final minister of pain
And deadliest offspring of deep ire—
E’er flashed across my tortured brain: