Poem 34 (What is the guerdon of all…)

What is the guerdon of all his pains? He is dead himself, but Hell remains.

He forged his coffin before he died. 'Twas made of gold that was seven times tried:

The glittering golden words of those, Who counted themselves his chiefest foes.

Where will you bury him? Not on earth! In poison flowers he would come to birth.

We will not cast him into the sea. The winds and the waves would set him free.

Lay him out straight on the funeral pyre! All his life he has lived in fire,

And lo! as the crackling flame burns bright, Satan transformed to an angel of light,

That he may work more utter woe Than ever he worked when he dwelt below.