Page:The Cornhill magazine (Volume 1).djvu/215

 "Ah! why not die? This cruel strife,   Can thus—thus only—cease? Dear God! take home this erring life—    This struggling soul release: From Heaven, perchance, upon his wife    I might look down in peace."

That prayer—like some electric flame, Struck with resistless force The lady's agitated frame,— Nor halted in its course, Till her hard pride was turn'd to shame, Her passion to remorse.

She spoke—her words were very low, But resolute in tone— "Dear child! he comes.—Nay, blush not so   To have your secret known: 'Tis best, 'tis best, that I should go—    And leave you here alone."

Then, as his steps grew near and fast, Her hand was on the door, Her heart by holy grace had cast The demon from its core,— And on the threshold calm she pass'd   The man she loved no more.