Page:Poems - Southey (1799) volume 2.djvu/40

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Mourning the lot of man; and happy heWho on his thread those precious drops receives;If it be happiness to have the pulseThrob fast with pity, and in such a worldOf wretchedness, the generous heart that achesWith anguish at the sight of human woe.
To her the Fiend, well hoping now success,"This is thy thread! observe how short the span,And see how copious yonder Genius poursThe bitter stream of woe." The Maiden sawFearless. "Now gaze!" the tempter Fiend exclaim'd,And placed again the poniard in her hand,For Superstition, with sulphureal torchStalk'd to the loom. "This, Damsel, is thy fate!The hour draws on—now drench the dagger deep!Now rush to happier worlds!"The Maid replied,"Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven,Impious I strive not: be that will perform'd!"
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