The leaden-footed weeks o'er Conrad pass'd, With deadening weight. Privation bow'd his pride. The lily-handed, smiting at the forge, Detested life, and meditated means To accomplish suicide. At dusk of eve, While in his cell, on darkest themes he mused, Before his grate, a veiled woman stood. --She spake not, but her presence made him glad,-- A purer atmosphere seem'd breathing round To expand his shrivell'd heart. Fair gifts she brought, Roses fresh-blown, and cates, and fragrant fruits Most grateful to his fever'd lip. "Oh speak! Speak to me!" But she glided light away, And heavenly sweet, her parting whisper said "Good night! With the new moon I'll come again." * * * * * "_With the new Moon!_" Hope! hope! Its magic wand With phosphorescence ting'd that Stygian pool Of chill despair, in which his soul had sank Lower and lower still. Now, at the forge A blessed vision gleam'd. Its mystery woke The romance of his nature. Every day Moved lighter on, and when he laid it down, It breathed "_good night_!" like a complacent child Going to rest. One barrier less remain'd Between him and the goal, and to each night A tarrying, tedious guest, he bade farewell, Like lover, counting toward his spousal-morn. * * * * * But _will she come_? And then, he blamed the doubt. His pulse beat quicker, as the old moon died. And when the slender sickle of pale gold Cut the blue concave, by his grated door Stood the veil'd visitant. The breath of flowers Foretold her coming. With their wealth she brought Grapes in the cluster, and a clasped Book, The holiest, and the best. "Show me thine eyes!" He pray'd. But still with undrawn veil, she gave The promise of return, in whisper sweet, "Good night! good night! Wilt read my Book? and say Oh Lamb of God, forgive!" So, by the lamp When tardy Evening still'd the din of toil, He read of Him who came to save the lost, Who touch'd the blind, and they receiv'd their sight, The dead young man, and raised him from his bier, Reproved the raging Sea, and it was still: Deeds that his boyhood heard unheedingly. But here, in this strange solitude of pain With different voice they spake. And as he read, The fragrance of the mignionette he loved, Press'd 'tween the pages, lured him onward still. * * * * * Now, a new echo in his heart was born, And sometimes mid the weary task, and leer Of felon faces, ere he was aware From a compress'd unmurmuring lip, it broke, _O Lamb of God!_ If still unquell'd Despair Thrust up a rebel standard, down it fell At the o'er-powering sigh, _O Lamb of God!_ And ere upon his pallet low, he sank, It sometimes breathed, "_O Lamb of God, forgive!_ Like the taught lesson of a humbled child. * * * * *