All this was innocent, but soon there came Blushes and starts of consciousness and shame; That, when she entered, upon either cheek The hasty blood in guilty red would speak Of something that should not be known--and still Sighs half suppressed seemed struggling with the will. It told how oft at eve was Leon gone In moody wandering to the wood alone; And in the night, how many a broken dream Of bliss, or terror, seemed to shake his frame. How Florence too, in long abstracted fit Of soul-wrapt musing, for whole hours would sit; Nor even the power of music, friend, or book, Could chase her deep forgetfulness of look; And how, when questioned--with an indrawn sigh, In vague and far-off phrase, she made reply, And smiled and struggled to be gay and free, And then relapsed in dreaming reverie. How when of Leon she was forced to speak, Unbidden crimson mantled in her cheek; And when he entered, how her eye would swim, And strive to look on every one but him; Yet, by unconscious fascination led, In quick short glance each moment tow'rds him fled. How he, too, seemed to shun her speech and gaze, And yet he always lingered where she was; Though nothing in his aspect or his air Told that he knew she was in presence there; But an appearance of constrained distress, And a dull tongue of moveless silentness, And a down drooping eye of gloom and sadness, Oh! how unlike his former face of gladness. "'Tis plain! too plain! and I am lost," she cried; And in that thought her last good feeling died. That thought of hopeless sorrow seemed to dart A thousand stings at once into her heart; But a strong effort quelled it, and she gave The next to hatred, vengeance, and the grave. Her face was calmly stern, and but a glare Within her eyes--there was no feature there That told what lashing fiends her inmates were; Within--there was no thought to bid her swerve From her intent--but every strained nerve Was settled and bent up with terrible force, To some deep deed, far, far beyond remorse; No glimpse of mercy's light her purpose crost, Love, nature, pity, in its depths were lost; Or lent an added fury to the ire That seared her soul with unconsuming fire; All that was dear in the wide earth was gone, She loved but two, and these she doted on With passionate ardour--and the close strong press Of woman's heart-cored, clinging tenderness; These links were torn, and now she stood alone, Bereft of all, her husband, sister--gone! Ah! who can tell that ne'er has known such fate, What wild and dreadful strength it gives to hate? What had she left? Revenge! Revenge! was there; He crushed remorse and wrestled down despair: Held his red torch to memory's page, and threw A bloody stain on every line she drew; She felt dark pleasure with her frenzy blend, And hugged him to her heart, and called him friend.