Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds; Forced to behold that visage, hour by hour, In whose gaunt lines the abhorrent gazer reads A triple lust of gold, and blood, and power; A soul whom motives fierce, yet abject, urge-- Rome's servile slave, and Judah's tyrant scourge. How can I love, or mourn, or pity him? I, who so long my fetter'd hands have wrung; I, who for grief have wept my eyesight dim; Because, while life for me was bright and young, He robb'd my youth--he quench'd my life's fair ray-- He crush'd my mind, and did my freedom slay. And at this hour-although I be his wife-- He has no more of tenderness from me Than any other wretch of guilty life; Less, for I know his household privacy-- I see him as he is--without a screen; And, by the gods, my soul abhors his mien! Has he not sought my presence, dyed in blood-- Innocent, righteous blood, shed shamelessly? And have I not his red salute withstood? Ay, when, as erst, he plunged all Galilee In dark bereavement--in affliction sore, Mingling their very offerings with their gore. Then came he--in his eyes a serpent-smile, Upon his lips some false, endearing word, And through the streets of Salem clang'd the while His slaughtering, hacking, sacrilegious sword-- And I, to see a man cause men such woe, Trembled with ire--I did not fear to show. And now, the envious Jewish priests have brought Jesus--whom they in mock'ry call their king-- To have, by this grim power, their vengeance wrought; By this mean reptile, innocence to sting. Oh! could I but the purposed doom avert, And shield the blameless head from cruel hurt! Accessible is Pilate's heart to fear, Omens will shake his soul, like autumn leaf; Could he this night's appalling vision hear, This just man's bonds were loosed, his life were safe, Unless that bitter priesthood should prevail, And make even terror to their malice quail. Yet if I tell the dream--but let me pause. What dream? Erewhile the characters were clear, Graved on my brain--at once some unknown cause Has dimm'd and razed the thoughts, which now appear, Like a vague remnant of some by-past scene;-- Not what will be, but what, long since, has been. I suffer'd many things--I heard foretold A dreadful doom for Pilate,--lingering woes, In far, barbarian climes, where mountains cold Built up a solitude of trackless snows, There he and grisly wolves prowl'd side by side, There he lived famish'd--there, methought, he died;