Page:Oriental Sketches Dramatic Sketches and Tales.pdf/123

Rh

Oh, good my lord! My early patron, thou hast rent my heart By these sad tales. I am a man borne down By lava floods; in vain I struggle; fate Pursues me; every bright and cheering hope Whelmed in the burning cataract, my soul Withers within me. This fair atmosphere, The breeze, which unto others brings rich balm And healing on its wings, to me is hot And suffocating; cursed by heaven and man, I hide my miserable wasted form Within my palace walls,

Can friendship soothe Thy deep-felt woes?