Page:Poems of Sentiment and Imagination.djvu/17

Rh With warmth upon his passion. He dream'd not

That one so gentle could turn from the power

Of the same spell that bound him. But he found,

Too late to save his peace, her heart preferred

The homage of another. Then sprang forth

The demon in his nature. With a howl

He fled through night and darkness, recking not

Of men's thoughts or of danger. On he went,

Gnashing his teeth with rage, and hissing out

Curses upon his rival. Thus was spent

The first burst of his fury; then there came

A darker spirit, with a deadlier aim,

And counseled with the demon in his heart,

And it consented. Ere the stars had looked

Upon another meeting of the lovers,

One slept in death; and he, the assassin, stole

A look of triumph on his bloody work,

Then fled to serve his COUNTRY! He saw not

His bitterest revenge, the helpless grief

Of her who died of madness.

'Twas this, the story of her pitiful death,

And her long suffering first, that woke once more

The inner wells of feeling, and drew tears,

The first had moistened his wild, burning eye

For many terrible months. For hours he wept,

Till drowsiness, like a nepenthe, soothed

His wakened feeling, and sleep came with dreams.

In thought he wandered weary o'er the earth,

Seeking a place to hide himself from men;

But all the world was peopled, and the crowds

That met him everywhere, all looked on him

With their astonished eyes, as if to say,

"How! art thou here?" and children shrunk away,

And peered at him from out each window nook,

Mocking at him, yet fearing to be seen.

Nowhere was solitude; he had grown old

Seeking for rest that he might never find;