Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/549

Rh And whose that name? that o'er his pillow

Sounds fearful as the breaking billow,

Which rolls the plank upon the shore,

And dashes on the pointed rock

The wretch who sinks to rise no more,—

So came upon his soul the shock.

And whose that name?—'tis Hugo's,—his—

In sooth he had not deemed of this!—

'Tis Hugo's,—he, the child of one

He loved—his own all-evil son—

The offspring of his wayward youth,

When he betrayed Bianca's truth,

The maid whose folly could confide

In him who made her not his bride.

VII.

He plucked his poniard in its sheath,

But sheathed it ere the point was bare;

Howe'er unworthy now to breathe,

He could not slay a thing so fair—

At least, not smiling—sleeping—there—

Nay, more:—he did not wake her then,

But gazed upon her with a glance

Which, had she roused her from her trance,

Had frozen her sense to sleep again;

And o'er his brow the burning lamp

Gleamed on the dew-drops big and damp.

She spake no more—but still she slumbered—

While, in his thought, her days are numbered.