 | Poems by William W. Story |  |
185
VENICE.
There he lies, stabbed by your dagger!
Ah! 'tis too late for remorse, now,
Will all your weeping and kind words
Give back the life to his corse, now?
'Tis my heart's blood on your point there,
Fling it away I implore you,—
Mad, rash Peppino! I hate you
As much as I used to adore you.
Ah! 'tis too late for remorse, now,
Will all your weeping and kind words
Give back the life to his corse, now?
'Tis my heart's blood on your point there,
Fling it away I implore you,—
Mad, rash Peppino! I hate you
As much as I used to adore you.
Ah, yes! the old man provoked you!
What of it? Here when he caught us
All looked so wrong—He knew nothing—
And—see where one wild act has brought us.
He was my Father—my Father—
'Tis well that you 're silent! what words now
Can bridge o'er the crime that disparts us,
Or mend again Life's broken chords, now?
What of it? Here when he caught us
All looked so wrong—He knew nothing—
And—see where one wild act has brought us.
He was my Father—my Father—
'Tis well that you 're silent! what words now
186
Or mend again Life's broken chords, now?
See! that white rose which I gave you
Is spotted with red blood—ah, heaven!
Every thing's lost—How I loved you!
But such crime can be never forgiven!
Never! no never! his blood there
Would cry out against us to blast us—
Hark! there 's a noise in the palace!
What was that gleam that shot past us?
Is spotted with red blood—ah, heaven!
Every thing's lost—How I loved you!
But such crime can be never forgiven!
Never! no never! his blood there
Would cry out against us to blast us—
Hark! there 's a noise in the palace!
What was that gleam that shot past us?
Fly! see the torches are coming,
The steps on the pavement draw nearer!
Fly! there's the voice of Alberto,
And his scabbard rings clearer and clearer.
There lies the gondola yonder,
There, that black spot in the distance;
I'll swear 'twas a bravo that struck him
Before he could draw for resistance.
The steps on the pavement draw nearer!
Fly! there's the voice of Alberto,
And his scabbard rings clearer and clearer.
There lies the gondola yonder,
There, that black spot in the distance;
I'll swear 'twas a bravo that struck him
Before he could draw for resistance.
187
Fly, dearest, fly! I'll forgive you,
Never upbraid you, but love you
Dearer than ever, if only
You'll fly.—Is there nothing will move you?
Fly!—Ah my God! 'tis too late now!
Their torches upon us are streaming,
And there's blood on your face and your doublet—
Ah God—is this real or dreaming?
Never upbraid you, but love you
Dearer than ever, if only
You'll fly.—Is there nothing will move you?
Fly!—Ah my God! 'tis too late now!
Their torches upon us are streaming,
And there's blood on your face and your doublet—
Ah God—is this real or dreaming?
| Poems by William W. Story | |