Ah, well-a-day! the bitter bridal-bed,
  When the fair mischief lay by Paris' side!
What curse on palace and on people sped
    With her, the Fury sent on Priam's pride,
By angered Zeus! what tears of many a widowed bride!

  Long, long ago to mortals this was told,
    How sweet security and blissful state
  Have curses for their children—so men hold—
    And for the man of all-too prosperous fate
Springs from a bitter seed some woe insatiate.

  Alone, alone, I deem far otherwise;
    Not bliss nor wealth it is, but impious deed,
  From which that after-growth of ill doth rise!
    Woe springs from wrong, the plant is like the seed—
While Right, in honour's house, doth its own likeness breed.

  Some past impiety, some gray old crime,
    Breeds the young curse, that wantons in our ill,
  Early or late, when haps th' appointed time—
    And out of light brings power of darkness still,
A master-fiend, a foe, unseen, invincible;

  A pride accursed, that broods upon the race
    And home in which dark Atè holds her sway—
  Sin's child and Woe's, that wears its parents' face;
    While Right in smoky cribs shines clear as day,
And decks with weal his life, who walks the righteous way.

  From gilded ha