Convict Once

I Hyacinth, of whom she wrote, now write: Not from the hope of fame, or wish for praise; But that, in waning of her latter days, She willed her warning tale should see the light,

And whispered with her fading breath that I  Should soften nothing that she did reveal, But charter her confession with a seal Of manual pardon — as I do hereby.

And ere ye scorn her troubles, passion-fed, Her wilful choosing of the crooked path, And ere ye make a virtue of your wrath, I pray you all, remember — she is dead.

Forgive the passions that she could not curb, The heaving trouble of a fevered breast. She's very quiet now. She hath her rest: And there is none can wake her, none disturb.

I, who have most to pardon, pardon all, As I myself beseech forgiving grace; And live in hope that I shall her face, Even as an angel's, at the Judgment call.