Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 2.djvu/421

1858.] From his eaves'-nest, the elm-bough swayed Moaning;—they slumbered unafraid.

Without a creak the chamber-door
 * Crept open!—with a cat-like tread,

Shading his lamp with hand that bore
 * A dagger, came beside their bed

The Count. His hair was tinged with gray: Gold locks brown-mixed before him lay.

A thrust,—a groan,—a fearful scream,
 * As from the peace of love's sweet rest

She starts!—O God! what horrid dream
 * Swells her bound eyeballs? From her breast

Fall off the garments of the night,— A red hand strikes her bosom's white!

She knew no more that passed; her ear
 * Caught not the hurried cries,—the rush

Of the scared household,—nor could hear
 * The voice that broke the after-hush:—

"There with her paramour she lay! He lies here!—carry her away!"

The evening after I was born
 * No roses on the bier were spread,

As when for maids or mothers mourn
 * Pure-hearted ones who love the dead;

They buried her, so young, so fair, With hasty hands and scarce a prayer.

Count Bernard gained the lands, while I,
 * Cast forth, forgotten, thus have grown

To manhood; for I could not die—
 * I cannot die—till I atone

For her great shame; and so you see I track him, and he flies from me.

And one day soon my hand I'll lay
 * Upon his arm, with lighter touch

Than ladies use when in their play
 * They tap you with their fans; yet such

A thrill will freeze his every limb As if the dead were clutching him!

I think that it would make you smile
 * To see him kneel and hear him plead,—

I leaning on my sword the while,
 * With a half-laugh, to watch his need:—

At last my good blade finds his heart, And then this red stain will depart.