The breath Of accusation kills an innocent name, And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life, Which is a mask without it. - Percy Bysshe Shelley

Thou art Justice — ne'er for gold May thy righteous laws be sold As laws are in England — thou Shield'st alike the high and low.

Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar;