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 'My curse for all thy gifts may be Heavier than death or night on thee; For now this sword thou gavest me Shall set me from thy bondage free.' And there the man had died self-slain, But Balen leapt on him and caught The blind fierce hand that fain had wrought Self-murder, stung with fire of thought, As rage makes anguish fain.

Then, mad for thwarted grief, 'Let go My hand,' the fool of wrath and woe Cried, 'or I slay thee.' Scarce the glow In Balen's cheek and eye might show, As dawn shows day while seas lie chill, He heard, though pity took not heed, But smiled and spake, 'That shall not need: What man may do to bid you speed I, so God speed me, will.'