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16 Low muttering o'er his loathed name; Till from that self-contention came Remorse where sin was none; a hell Which in pure spirits should not dwell.

I'll tell thee truth. He was a man Hard, selfish, loving only gold, Yet full of guile: his pale eyes ran With tears, which each some falsehood told, And oft his smooth and bridled tongue Would give the lie to his flushing cheek: He was a coward to the strong: He was a tyrant to the weak, On whom his vengeance he would wreak: For scorn, whose arrows search the heart, From many a stranger's eye would dart, And on his memory cling, and follow His soul to it's home so cold and hollow. He was a tyrant to the weak, And we were such, alas the day! Oft, when my little ones at play,