I leant mine, pale and cold, beside,
And felt as if I could have died
To save that sleeper from one pang—
Ay, though the arch-fiend's summons rang.
A murmur from his closed lip came;
I listen'd—it was not my name:
Around his neck a ribbon clung,
Close to his heart a picture hung:
I saw the face—it was not mine;
I saw, too, a small dagger shine,
A curious toy—you know the rest."
—Her forehead with her hand she press'd,
As if to still the burning pain
That throbb'd in every beating vein.
He took the cross, that holy man,
And kind and gentle words began;
She fiercely raised to his her eye,
As if such soothing to defy.
"I tell thee, father, 'tis in vain,
His life, mine own is not so dear,
Yet would I do that deed again,
And be again a prisoner here,
Rather than know that he could be
Loving and loved, yet not by me.
Begun in guilt and closed in gloom,
Our love's fit altar is the tomb!"
She died as few can dare to die,
With soul unquail'd and tearless eye:
None soothed the culprit as she pass'd,
With look grown kind, because the last,
Or with affection's desperate tone—
She died, unpitied and alone!
And never told that priest her tale,
But lip grew cold and cheek grew pale.
The guilt of blood on one so young,
Such haughty brow, such daring tongue,
And such wild love; and some would weep,
Some bear the image to their sleep,
And start from feverish dream to see
The moonlight close their phantasie,
And eager count their beads, and pray
To keep such evil from their way;
Then while the warning in them wrought,
Finding it food for serious thought,
And marking how wild passions lead
To wasted life and fearful deed,
Pray, ere they sank to sleep again,
Such tale might not be told in vain.
