Mine open enemy hath no power to wound—
His poison shafts fall hurtless to the ground;
He may wreak a treach’rous lynx-like deed
And yet will never cause my heart to bleed.
If he should glare on me in hottest hate,
With tiger fierceness, plan the direst fate,
With claws distended, lusting for the roon,
I’d smile and do him kindness over soon,
Or, give a sure nepenthe for his wrath
By silent, strewing favors in his path.
But when those to whom my heart is bound in trust,
With aim concealed, make unexpected thrust,—
When those I’d counted friends, as friends had served,
Whose joy and weal my strongest effort nerved—
If THEY shall stab and gaze with hungry eyes
To catch my wince of pain, ’neath friendship’s guise,
Then, a wound is made, that all the quivering senses feel—
A wound, that only trusted friends could deal;
And, saddest hurt of all, the heart will find,
The same stab struck its faith in human kind.