The storms are past, these clouds are overblown, And humble cheer great rigor hath repressed; For the default is set a pain foreknown, And patience graft in a determed breast. And in the heart where heaps of griefs were grown The sweet revenge hath planted mirth and rest; No company so pleasant as mine own. . . . Thralldom at large hath made this prison free; Danger well past rememb'red works delight. Of ling'ring doubts such hope is sprung, pardie, That naught I find displeasant in my sight But when my glass presented unto me The cureless wound that bleedeth day and night. To think, alas, such hap should granted be Unto a wretch that hath no heart to fight, To spill that blood that hath so oft been shed For Britain's sake, alas, and now is dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GLADYS AND HER ISLAND; AN IMPERFECT TALE WITH DOUBTFUL MORAL by JEAN INGELOW BEAUTIFUL MEALS by THOMAS STURGE MOORE IDYLLS OF THE KING: LANCELOT AND ELAINE by ALFRED TENNYSON NOTHING WILL DIE by ALFRED TENNYSON THE STEAM-ENGINE: CANTO 6. ON THE CORK PACKET, 1837 by T. BAKER THE HWOMESTEAD A-VELL INTO HAND by WILLIAM BARNES |