Page:Poems of Emma Lazarus vol 1.djvu/355

338 What devil moved thee? Who and whence art thou, That wear'st the form of woman, though thou lack'st The heart of the she-wolf? Who was thy parent, What fiend of torture, that thine impious hands Should quench the living source of thine own life?

MABIA.

Spare me ! oh, spare me ! Nay, my hands are clean. He was the first, best, noblest among men. I was his light, his soul, his breath of life. These I withdrew from him, and made his days A darkness. Yet, perchance he is not dead. And blood and tears may wash away my guilt. Oh, tell me there is hope, though it gleam far — One solitary ray, one steadfast spark. Beyond a million years of purgatory ! My burning soul thirsts for the dewy balm Of comfortable grace. One word, one word, Or ere I perish of despair !

MONK.

What word ? The one wherewith thou bad'st thy father hope? What though he be, not dead ? Is breathing life? Hast thou not murdered him in spirit ? dealt