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.