Читать книгу Poems and Songs of Robert Burns - Robert Burns - Страница 48

Table of Contents

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish

Beyond comparison the worst are those

By our own folly, or our guilt brought on:

In ev'ry other circumstance, the mind

Has this to say, “It was no deed of mine:”

But, when to all the evil of misfortune

This sting is added, “Blame thy foolish self!”

Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse,

The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt—

Of guilt, perhaps, when we've involved others,

The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us;

Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin!

O burning hell! in all thy store of torments

There's not a keener lash!

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart

Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,

Can reason down its agonizing throbs;

And, after proper purpose of amendment,

Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?

O happy, happy, enviable man!

O glorious magnanimity of soul!