_The Sting Of Death._

“Is Sin, then, fair?” Nay, love, come now Put back the hair From his sunny brow; See, here, blood-red Across his head A brand is set, The word--“Regret.”

“Is Sin so fleet That while he stays Our hands and feet May go his ways?” Nay, love, his breath Clings round like death, He slakes desire With liquid fire.

“Is Sin Death’s sting?” Ay, sure he is, His golden wing Darkens man’s bliss; And when Death comes, Sin sits and hums A chaunt of fears Into man’s ears.

“How slayeth Sin?” First, God is hid, And the heart within By its own self chid; Then the maddened brain Is scourged by pain To sin as before And more and more, For evermore.