Sweet Geraldine! her beauty fell On sense and soul, like light from heaven; My heart looked up, like Dives from hell, And prayed to be forgiven; Love swam within her lustrous eyes, Played in her shadowy hair. Moved in her more than queenly air, And floated on her silver sighs— To drown me with despair. O, woful day! O, woful hour! That told me that my hopes were vain; I felt, that second, centuries Of agonizing pain! Hope, tremulous with feverous fears, Unclasped her wings, and fled; I stood, like one whose dearest dead Lies on the trestles—steeped in tears— Heaven’s judgment on my head. Why did she hate me! Wherefore blight My penitent heart with piercing scorn? My better angel took her flight Despairing and forlorn: The Fiend, who stood exulting by, Reclaimed his trembling slave; God saw, but would not stoop to save The struggling wretch who dared defy His laws, on land and wave. O, Geraldine, I see thee fly, Despairing, from my accursed hands: “Better my bones should bleach,” thy cry, “On savagest of strands Than that my fatal charms should cause My never—never-dying shame; Better, O, villain, virtuous fame With death, than life, when human laws, And God’s, accuse my name!” I see again thy mute, white face, Thy pallid cheeks and bloodless lips, Thine eyes, that shone like stars in space, Rayless with shame’s eclipse— As flying, ghost-like, through the night, Fearing death less than me, Thy heart went out beneath the sea: An angel soul that night took flight, A martyr ceased to be! I walked in blood, I swam in wine, Until my desperate, daring crew Trembled at guilt so great as mine: The unbelieving Jew Who smote his God was white as snow To that which I became; So black was I, so steeped in shame, The very fiends, who writhed below, Howled when they heard my name. Nature gave way: when I awoke The sky was black, the sea was white; Day, that long since had dimly broke, Was little more than night; And madly struggling with the waves Careered my gallant craft; My crew were pale, I only laughed, And coarsely cursed the drunken knaves Who, full of wine, still quaffed. Night came; my men lay sunk in sleep; I only trod the silent deck: God’s anger walked the boisterous deep, But little did I reck; When in the storm, before my eyes, My memory’s virgin queen, The dead, the sainted Geraldine, Stood calmly pointing to the skies, Madonna-like in mien.