"This then the tale that, while it snapp'd the chord, Still to the father's heart the child restored; This told to her by the hard zealot's tongue, Had the last hope from spoil'd existence wrung; Had driven the outcast through the waste to roam, And with the altar shatter'd ev'n the home. No! trust ev'n then,--ev'n then, hope, was not o'er: One morn the wanderer reach'd Clanalbin's door. O steadfast saint! amidst the lightning's scathe, Still to the anchor clung the lingerer Faith; Still through the tempest of a darken'd brain, Where misery gnaw'd and memory rack'd in vain, The last lone angel that deserts the grief Of noble souls, survived and smiled,--BELIEF! There had she come, herself myself to know, And bow'd the head, and waited for the blow! What matter how the villain soothed, or sought To mask the crime?--enough that it was wrought; She heard in silence,--when all said, all learn'd, Still silent linger'd; then a flush return'd To the pale cheek,--the Woman and the Wrong Rear'd the light form,--the voice came clear and strong. 'Tell him my father's grave is closed; the dread Of shame sleeps with him--dying with the dead: Tell him on earth we meet no more;--in vain Would he redress the wrong, and clear the stain, His child is nameless; and his bride--what now To her, too late, the mockery of the vow? I was his wife--his equal;--to endure Earth's slander? Yes!--because my soul was pure! Now, were he kneeling here,--fame, fortune won,-- My pride would bar him from the fallen one. Say this; if more he seek my fate, reply-- 'Once stain the ermine, and its fate--to die!' I need not tell thee if my fury burst Against the wretch--the accurser--the accurst! I need not tell thee if I sought each trace That lured false hope to woe's lorn resting-place; If, when all vain,--gold, toil, and art essay'd, Still in my sunlight stalk'd the avenging shade, Lost to my life for ever;--on the ground Where dwell the spectres,--Conscience--ever found!" X.