"Few words, half-blurr'd by shame, the motive clear'd, For the false wooer, not herself, she feared; 'Accept,' she wrote 'O brother, sternly just, The life I yield,--but holy be my dust! Hear my last words, for, _them_ Death sanctify! Forbear his life for whom it soothes to die. And let my thought, the memory of old time, The soul that flees the stain, nor knew the crime, Strike down thine arm! and see me in the tomb, Stand, like a ghost, between Revenge and Doom!' "I bent, in agony and awe, above The broken idol of my boyhood's love. Echo'd each groan and writhed with every throe, And cried, 'Live yet! O dove, but brood below, Hide with thy wings the vengeance and the guilt, And give my soul thy softness if thou wilt!' And, as I spoke, the heavy eye unclosed, The hand press'd mine, and in the clasp reposed, The wan lip smiled, the weak frame seem'd to win Strange power against the torture-fire within; The leach's skill the heart's strong impulse sped, She lived--she lived:--And my revenge was dead! "She lived!--and, clasp'd within my arms, I vow'd To leave the secret in its thunder-shroud, To shun all question, to refuse all clue, And close each hope that honour deems its due; _But while she lived!_--the weak vow halted there, Her life the shield to that it tainted mine to spare! "But to have walk'd into the thronging street, But to have sought the haunt where babblers meet, But to have pluck'd one idler by the sleeve, And asked, '_who_ woo'd yon fairhair'd bride, to leave?' And street, and haunt, and every idler's tongue, Had given the name with which the slander rung-- To me alone,--to _me_ of all the throng, The unnatural silence mask'd the face of wrong. But I had sworn! and, of myself in dread, From the loath'd scene, from mine own wrath, I fled. "We left the land, in this a home we find. Home! by our hearth the cleaving curse is shrined! Distrust in her--and shame in me; and all The unspoken past cold present hours recal; And unconfiding hearts, and smiles but rife With the bland hollowness of formal life! In vain my sacrifice, she fears me still! Vain her reprieve;--grief barr'd from vent can kill. And then, and then (O joy through agony!) My oath absolves me, and my arm is free! The lofty soul may oft forgive, I own, The lighter wrong that smites itself alone; But vile the nature, that when wrong hath marr'd All the rich life it was our boast to guard But weeps the broken heart and blasted name;-- Here the mean pardon were the manhood's shame; And I were vilest of the vile, to live To see Calantha's grave--and to forgive: _Forgive!_" There hung such hate upon that word, The weeping listener shudder'd as she heard, And sobb'd--