Confession

Alas, how many vain and bitter things
  My zeal, and pride, and natural haste have wrought;
  Yea, thou my soul, by word and deed and thought,
The curse of selfishness hath scorch'd thy wings:
  There is a fire within, I feel it now,
A smouldering mass of strong imaginings
  That heat my heart, and burn upon my brow,
And vent their hissing lava on my tongue
  Scathing, unsparing:— yet my will is just,
My wrath is ever quicken'd by a wrong,
  I flame — to strike oppressors to the dust,
      To crush the cruel, and confound the base,
  To welcome insolence with calm disgust,
      And brand the scoffer's forehead with disgrace.