Anger and Indignation

Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.

Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

I seized him by his little pig-tail, And on his knees fell he, As he squirmed and struggled, And gurgled and guggled, I drew my snickersnee!

To sit in solemn silence in a dull dark dock, In a pestilential prison, with a life-long lock, Awaiting the sensation of a short, sharp shock, From a cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block.

I am the wound and the knife! I am the blow and the cheek! I am the limbs and the wheel— The victim and the executioner! 6

The best way to escape His ire Is, not to seem too happy.

One more devils’-triumph and sorrow for angels, One more wrong to man, one more insult to God!

I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together.

Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.

God said, I am tired of kings, I suffer them no more; Up to my ear the morning brings The outrage of the poor.

He tossed them human hearts to chew.

I met Murder on the way— He had a mask like Castlereagh. 3

Hell is a city much like London— A populous and smoky city.

Men of England, wherefore plow For the lords who lay ye low?

He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow? I judge but by the fruits—and they are bitter— Which I must feed on for a fault not mine.

Sweet is revenge—especially to women.

Butcher’d to make a Roman holiday!

I have not loved the world, nor the world me; I have not flatter’d its rank breath, nor bow’d To its idolatries a patient knee.

He who ascends to mountaintops, shall find The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those below.

Forth from his dark and lonely hiding place (Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism, Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon, Drops his blue-fringèd lids, and holds them close, And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven, Cries out, “Where is it?”

Alas! they had been friends in youth; But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain.

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye.

“God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus!— Why look’st thou so?”—“With my crossbow I shot the Albatross.”