Thy look of love has power to calmThe stormiest passion of my soul;Thy gentle words are drops of balmIn life's too bitter bowl;No grief is mine, but that aloneThese choicest blessings I have known.Harriet! if all who want to liveIn the warm sunshine of thine eye,That price beyond all pain must give,Beneath thy scorn to die;Then hear thy chosen own too lateHis heart must worthy of thy hate.Be thou, then, one among mankindWhose heart is harder not for state,Thou only virtuous, gentle, kindAmid a world of hate;And by slight endurance sealA fellow-being's lasting weal.For pale with anguish is his cheek,His breath comes fast, his eyes are dim, Thy name is struggling ere he speak,Weak is each trembling limb;In mercy let him not endureThe misery of a fatal cure.Oh, trust for once no erring guide!Bid the remorseless feeling flee;'Tis malice. 'tis revenge, 'tis pride,'Tis anything but thee;Oh, deign a nobler pride to prove,And pity if thou canst not love.Percy Bysshe Shelley.