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