Full of its Marsh-waters must be drained
E’en to the dregs—when ye will need relief
From those upon whose head your lips have rained,
Curses; when they who were by you disdained,
Shall offer in their mockery, to dry
The hot dew of your brows by anguish strained
Through the parched skin. Ah! then, in grief to fly
For refuge to the grave, and find but calumny.
Let the dead rest—if ye must “snarl and bite,”
Turn to the living—there your venom spill;