'My curse for all thy gifts may be
Heavier than death or night on thee;
For now this sword thou gavest me
Shall set me from thy bondage free.'
⁠And there the man had died self-slain,
But Balen leapt on him and caught
The blind fierce hand that fain had wrought
Self-murder, stung with fire of thought,
⁠As rage makes anguish fain.

Then, mad for thwarted grief, 'Let go
My hand,' the fool of wrath and woe
Cried, 'or I slay thee.' Scarce the glow
In Balen's cheek and eye might show,
⁠As dawn shows day while seas lie chill,
He heard, though pity took not heed,
But smiled and spake, 'That shall not need:
What man may do to bid you speed
⁠I, so God speed me, will.'