SOUL, who would'st prove and know thyself for strong, Soul, who hast not a tyrant sin beside, Masked at thine elbow struts the flatterer -- Pride, Whose whisper has befooled thine heart for long. Lash thee at thine own shrine with shameful thong? Soft-handed Nemesis between shall glide, To balk the smart thou seekest to abide, -- Daring at self's behest that holiest wrong. Lo! thy good sword that seldom smites in vain One day shall fail thy pride lest thou be lost; -- Slip in thine hold, and slay thine idol, Pain, Win for thee treasure who would pay but cost; Sweet punishment be pride's reward at length, And thy best weakness save thee; not thy strength. |