Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/347

 That on the spacious hearth were spread. I saw within that room. And all was dusky round, Save where these embers shed A pale and sickly gleam of light On the Lady Margaret's bed. On the couch where I did lye That sickly light did shine With one bright flash, when, as a voice Did cry—"Revenge is mine!" Another answered straight, And said, "The hour is come!" I listened—but these voices twain For evermore were dumb. But again the still soft foot Came creeping stealthy on; And then, Oh God! mine ear upcaught A deep and stifled groan. It echoed through the lofty room So loud, so clear, and shrill, Methinks even to my dying-day I'll hear that echo still. Again that deep and smothered groan— That rattle in the throat—