The Complaint.
Thou, not content to see my bitter doom, 1
Who at the very dead thy dart hast hurl’d, 2
Beware ;— a voice may issue from the tomb, 3
To blast thy name and give thee to the world.4
Believe, ev’n death itself takes not away5
The vital essence that existence gave, 6
And honour, trampled in the very clay, 7
Will vindicate his title from the grave.8
Hear, Envy, hear ; the Powers above command, 9
My spirit cries upon thee from the dust ; 10
Oh ! let my tomb be sacred from thy hand,— 11
Nor desecrate my inoffensive dust.12