Chapter XV

Oh, every soul is only pain embalmed;
And every torment is but bliss's sting.
Humanity lies gasping and becalmed
Upon a torrid ocean; and no wing
Of albatross is seen--nor e'er was seen--
Our worldly hope is dead--yet rules as king.
Dust, ashes, ashes, dust, upon these lean
All of the upward struggle of mankind;
And pain, unending pain, is all they glean.
Goddess of pain, O mistress of the mind,
Art thou the Soul of life? Or hast thou palmed
Thyself on men once happy? Have we pined
Forever? Can our spirits e'er be calmed;
Or _is_ the spirit only pain embalmed?