Though his gay conscience many a heavier crime Than this had borne, and drifted off to Time; Though this but sport with a fond heart which Fate Had given to master, but denied to mate, Yet seem'd it as in that least sin arose The shapes of all that Memory's deeps disclose; The general phantom of a life whose waste Had spoil'd each bloom by which its path was traced, Sporting at will, and moulding sport to art, With that sad holiness--the Human Heart! Upon his lip the vain excuses died, In vain his manhood struggled for its pride; Up from the dead, with one convulsive throe, He turn'd his gaze, and voiceless faced his foe: Still, as if changed by horror into stone, He saw those eyes glare doom upon his own; Saw that remorseless hand glide sternly slow To the bright steel the robe half hid below,-- Near, and more near, he felt the fiery breath Breathe on his cheek; the air was hot with death, And yet he sought nor flight--nor strove for prayer, As one chance-led into a lion's lair, Who sees his fate, nor deems submission shame,-- Unarm'd to combat, and unskill'd to tame, What could this social world afford its child, Against the roused Nemaean of the wild! A lifted arm--a gleaming steel--a cry Of savage vengeance!--swiftly--suddenly, As through two clouds a star--on the dread time Shone forth an angel face and check'd the startled crime! She stood, the maiden guest, the plighted bride, The victim's daughter, by the madman's side; Her airy clasp upon the murtherous arm, Her pure eyes chaining with a solemn charm: Like some blest thought of mercy, on a soul Brooding on blood--the holy Image stole! And, as a maniac in his fellest hour Lull'd by a look whose calmness is its power, Backward the Indian quail'd--and dropp'd the blade!-- To see the foeman kneeling to the maid; As with new awe and wilder, Arden cried, "Out from the grave, O com'st thou, injured bride!" Then with a bound he reach'd the Indian-- "Lo! I tempt thy fury, and invite thy blow; But, by man's rights o'er men,--oh, speak! whose eyes Ope, on life's brink, my youth's lost paradise? The same--the same--(look, look!)--the same--lip, brow, Form, aspect,--all and each--fresh, fair as now, Bloom'd my heart's bride!"-- Silent the Indian heard, Nor seem'd to feel the grasp, nor heed the word! As when some storm-beat argosy glides free From its vain wrath,--subsides a baffled sea,-- His heaving breast calm'd back--the tempest fell, And the smooth surface veil'd the inward hell. Yet his eye, resting on the wondering maid, Somewhat of woe, perchance remorse, betray'd, And grew to doubtful trouble--as it saw Her aspect brightening slowly from its awe, Gazing on Arden till shone out commix'd, Doubt, hope, and joy, in the sweet eyes thus fix'd;-- Till on her memory all the portrait smil'd,