Remorse: A Fragment – Robert Burns

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguishBeyond comparison the worst are thoseBy our own folly, or our guilt brought on:In ev’ry other circumstance, the mindHas this to say, “It was no deed of mine:”But, when to all the evil of misfortuneThis sting is added, “Blame thy foolish self!”Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse,The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt—Of guilt, perhaps, when we’ve involved others,The young, the innocent, who fondly lov’d us;Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin!O burning hell! in all thy store of tormentsThere’s not a keener lash!Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heartFeels all the bitter horrors of his crime,Can reason down its agonizing throbs;And, after proper purpose of amendment,Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?O happy, happy, enviable man!O glorious magnanimity of soul!