Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/317

CANTO III.] 'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where

That passage led; nor lamp nor guard was there;

He sees a dusky glimmering—shall he seek

Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak?

Chance guides his steps—a freshness seems to bear

Full on his brow as if from morning air;

He reached an open gallery—on his eye

Gleamed the last star of night, the clearing sky:

Yet scarcely heeded these—another light

From a lone chamber struck upon his sight.

Towards it he moved; a scarcely closing door

Revealed the ray within, but nothing more.

With hasty step a figure outward passed,

Then paused, and turned—and paused—'tis She at last!

No poniard in that hand, nor sign of ill—

"Thanks to that softening heart—she could not kill!"

Again he looked, the wildness of her eye

Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully.

She stopped—threw back her dark far-floating hair,

That nearly veiled her face and bosom fair,

As if she late had bent her leaning head

Above some object of her doubt or dread.

They meet—upon her brow—unknown—forgot—

Her hurrying hand had left—'twas but a spot—

Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood—

Oh! slight but certain pledge of crime—'tis Blood!

X.

He had seen battle—he had brooded lone

O'er promised pangs to sentenced Guilt foreshown;

He had been tempted—chastened—and the chain

Yet on his arms might ever there remain:

But ne'er from strife—captivity—remorse—

From all his feelings in their inmost force—