102
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Who, would ever dream, but such time
Must be sacred from human crime?
I see two silent figures glide
Moodily by the radiant tide;
I see one fall,—in Agatha's breast
Vivaldi's dagger hath found a nest:
I hear a heavy plunge, the flood,
Oh! 't is crimson'd with human blood;
I see a meteor shining fair,
It is the sweep of golden hair;
Float the waters from the shore,
The waves roll on, I see no more.
Long years have pass'd,—Vivaldi's name
Is foremost in the lists of fame.
Are there, then, spirits that may steep
Conscience in such a charmed sleep?
