It was a lovely eve, but known Unto the South’s voluptuous zone; An eve whose shining vesture hung Like Heaven’s own rosy flags unfurl’d, And by some star-eyed cherub flung In sport around our gloomy world; An eve in which the coldest frame And heart must feel a warming flame, When light and soul no longer single, But in a bridal glory mingle: Then think how I whose spirit bowed Whene’er the dimmest light was sent From twinkling star or rosy cloud In God’s blue, glorious firmament— How I in that ethereal time, Standing beside my native rill And shadowed by such hues sublime, Felt unseen lightning through me thrill. I stood within my own domain— Once more upon my birth-right soil, Free’d from the gory battle-plain And weary with its toil. “Laura!” my step is in the hall! My sword suspended on the wall! My standard-sheet once more uprolled Where it has lain for years untold! “Laura!”—In vain I stood for her To meet the long-lost worshipper. “Ho, Julio!” What? No answer yet? It rung from base to parapet! I mounted up the marble stair!— I rushed into the olden room! It shone beneath the evening’s glare As silent as the tomb,— Save that a slave with wond’ring eye Looked from the dreary vacancy. “Your Lady, Serf?” “She’s in the bower.” “In sooth I should have sought her there!” For oft we passed the twilight hour In its delicious air. I rushed with lightning steps—Oh, God! Why flashed not then thy blasting flame— That it might wither from the sod The one who madly called Thy name? My poniard grasped, left not its sheath— I had nor hope—nor life—nor breath; I only felt the ice of death Slowly congealing o’er my heart— And on my eye a dizzy cloud Swam round and round, a sickening part Of that which seemed a closing shroud The one might feel whom burial gave All prematurely to the grave. But soon that deadly trance was o’er; The foliage hid as yet; and I Retraced the path I trod before With such a heart-wild ecstasy. For as I gazed upon their guilt, A thought flashed out of demon-hue; And I resigned my dagger’s hilt As deadlier then my vengeance grew. Small torture satisfies the _weak_— For they but slightly feel a wrong; I would by hours my vengeance wreak! The deep revenge is for the _strong_. In Lorro’s castle is a cell (Where Cruelty has sat in state, I ween that some have known it well,) Which is divided by a grate.