Patrick Regan has kindly shared the material from his George Heath site with readers of the Victorian Web, who may wish to consult the original.

Be still, O my desolate heart,
      Crush back the wild sobs that would rise,
Reseal the hot fountain of tears,
      That gushes in streams to my eyes!

Forget that thou ever hast dreamed
      Of wrapping with glory thy name,
Of climbing the mountain sublime,
      Where stands the bright temple of Fame;

Of winning a deathless renown,
      Of standing among the vast throng,
Whose brows are with amaranths wreathed,
      The glorified children of song!

What art thou, that thou should'st aspire
      To mix with the noble and pure?
To rise from the scum and the mire,
      Where wallow the nameless obscure.

What art thou? — a portionless clown,
      A fungus exhumed from the soil,
A graft of that plebeian throng,
      Whose portion is sorrow and toil.

Be still, O my heart, and forget
      The shrine of thy passionate love;
Forget that sweet being whose thoughts
      Are pure as the spirits above!

Forget that calm, beautiful face,
      Lit up with such glorious eyes,
Forget that thou ever hast hoped
      To win, and to wear such a prize.

A scion of honour and wealth,
      Beyond thee in virtue and worth,
As far from thy reach as the stars,
      That smile on the slumbering earth!

Such lofty ambitions and hopes
      Are but for the favoured of Fate,
The wealthy, the learnèd, the wise,
      The beautiful, noble, and great.

Forget, O forget, if thou canst,
      Those wild aspirations and schemes,
That radiant being whose charms
      Exalted thy loftiest dreams.

Go back to thy menial toil,
      Crush out thy ambition and pride,
Float down with the passionless host
      And sink in obscurity's tide!

Already insidious disease
      Has tainted and baffled thy breath;
Be resolute, silent, and calm,
      Awaiting the coming of death!

Last modified 4 September 2002