It is night, and the lady of that bright palace lies upon a bed from which she never more must rise! Is it the course of age--Nature's slow wane--that calls upon the lady?--No! She shows yet in beauty's fullest--loveliest--prime. Her youth has seen its spring, but scarce yet fallen into summer. July has yet to come, though May has passed from us! And all that was the opening blossom--bud of love--now revels in the glorious flower. Not age? Not age. Why then--the plague?--Why ay--the plague! for there be other plagues--is it not so--than pestilence? There is the fire that burns, and the famine that pines us--the sun-stroke that withers, the tempest to wreck--there is the mildew that blasts, and the quicksand that swallows--there are floods--lightnings--hurricanes--earthquakes--fear ye for these? Alas! for every one poor life that dies by such slight accidents--think!--think of ambition--envy--avarice--false honour--glory in arms--the lust of beauty--pride--the thirst of power--the zealot's triumph--and the soldier's dreams!--for every single wretch, since order first arose, that perished, cut off by nature's shock or violence--how many thousands--say!--have drawn their timeless fates from that worst spring of human woe, the human heart? Alas! alas! Yet why is the lady thus passing--untouched by sickness--in the pride of youth? Enough--enough! she sleeps--or shortly shall do so. Oh, gentle Death, there is no sleep blest and secure but thine! Revenge! "'tis Heaven's prerogative, not ours." So say divines; but men think otherwise when injury stirs them. Now, all her crimes, with all her charms, rest in eternal silence! Has the owl shrieked, or the bat struck on the window? No! these are the death-tokens of sterner regions. But the livelong night yon thistlefinch has sung under the casement--she sings the last dirge of the Lady of Arestino! Yet the lady's fault was common in the land where she lived. Common? Ay, common! Common as the penalty--she is dying--which has followed it. She dies! and justly--let her meet her doom! She is the ruin of a name that never knew reproach before. The honour of a noble house is gone--their shield is sullied! Blood may wash out the spot--but what the stain? Scorn crooks her white lip, and says, "That shall endure for ever!" And if, for such a crime, blood must be spilled--what slave is he denies that blood should be the blood of woman?--For man--ay, smile!--he has wronged me. And though his body were a poisonous plant that it were death to touch, I'd cast myself upon it! cut--carve it--to morsels--motes. He dies, though LIFE died with him--for I am suffering! but--in death--he shall have justice.