young man, talk not of vengeance here; This sleep shall pass and shame your blood-hot words If it pass'd not the vengeance were forestall'd.

Fling your music on the breeze, Mock the sighing of the willows, Mock the lapping of the billows, Mock not human sympathies; Slow chime, sad chime, mock me not, With that loved voice ne'er forgot, Flooding me with tears blood-hot; Mock not soul-deep memories!