A fatal sword hung o’er my head unknown, Yawned at my feet a precipice unseen! One morn Montoro had gone forth alone, Methought there was a sadness in his mien, And tender had his words at parting been; A long fond kiss upon our babe he prest, Still in her cradle slumbering serene; The tide of love gushed warmer in my breast, His glance recalled the hours when first that love was blest. Thrice the accumulating mound of sand Marked in my glass the hours that passed away, I turned it listlessly with weary hand, And marvelled at Montoro’s long delay: Heavy with mist and rain advanced the day; My babe awoke and wept, her cry of fear I strove to soothe with melancholy lay, And bore her, sobbing, to the casement near, And bade her infant accents call her father dear. Upon the dreary prospect forth I gazed; Poured from the lowering sky incessant rain, The trees their dark and dripping branches raised, Reflected dimly on the flooded plain, Trickled the raindrops down the misty pane; The wind in sudden gusts our dwelling shook, Then sank, in mournful murmurs to complain; With heavy heart the casement I forsook, While to my early home her flight sad memory took. “Where is the happiness I thought to find When forth I went, a young rejoicing bride? Springs grief from earthly trials, or a mind For ever restless and dissatisfied? Montoro’s love outweighed the world beside,— Is it his wife’s misfortune or her sin That petty cares so oft our hearts divide? Oh, that another era might begin, And life’s storms but enhance the holy peace within! “My childhood’s friend I in his age forsook,— The old man sleeps beneath the grassy sod! To frown of care is changed the joyous look With which Montoro once life’s garden trod; God gave me life,—I have not lived to God! My threefold duties I neglected see,— Great God! suspend awhile thy chastening rod! Oh, come, my husband, life henceforth shall be Devoted unto piety and thee!” He came—but oh! _how_ did Montoro come? Why did I live to look on his return? Bleeding and pale they bore him to his home. Life glimmered faintly,—I had yet to learn The hopeless grief that must for ever burn Within the widow’s desolated breast: Enough—mine eyes have seen Montoro’s urn; One tie is left—one treasure still possest,— The shadow of despair is cast on all the rest! There is no wretchedness where sin is not,— Religion may relieve the darkest woes, All—save remorse—be softened or forgot— But where can she—the guilty—find repose, Whose anguish from her own transgression flows? _My_ pride—_my_ envy bade Montoro die, His life embittered, stained with blood its close! Aye, weep ye who _can_ weep—but I—but I My heart weeps tears of blood, and yet mine eyes are dry! III. PRIDE.