University of Virginia Library

What, will he never, never come?
I sent to him an hour ago.
I cannot bear the madd'ning strain,
The fires within me that consume,
The torture, agony, and pain,
The horror of the coming tomb.
These old men are so slow—so slow!
The day is wearing on to eve,
The last that I shall ever see—
He would not mock me or deceive.
If I could break these prison bars,
Through which I hardly see the stars,
To him all quickly would I flee,
And pour into his awe-struck ear
My tale of sin, to lay all bare
My heart, my soul, its shame and fear;
These, these before my conscience glare,
And drive and goad me to despair.
I long denied and cloaked it all,
My heart was hard as this cold stone
'Gainst which I press my aching breast
To still its throbbings into rest.
I did not even make a moan,
Nor sob, nor utter any cry,
Not when I found myself alone;
No, not a tear was in my eye,
Although I saw her bleeding fall,
And felt and knew that she would die.
But now I am no longer brave;
My heart is filled with bitter dread;
I know they've dug for me a grave—
I long my soul to purge and save;
To-morrow sees me with the dead.
But hark! Ah, surely this is he
Who comes to shrive my guilty soul.
I hear the key turn in the door;
How shall I tell my bitter dole,
Lay bare my crime, reveal my woe?
Yet all shall be confessed by me.
I hear his step upon the floor—
Father! father! thou art come!
I will no more, no more be dumb,
Thou shalt know all, all, all.
Yes; I am guilty! do not shrink,
Oh! do not turn away thy face;
Have mercy, father; show some grace—
I stand upon the icy brink
Of death; I know my fate, my doom—
The rack, the torture! Save me, save!
If that thou canst. I do repent.
Oh! must I leave the prison's gloom
To meet the headsman's cruel eye!
Beneath his glittering axe to die,
Then thrown into the loathsome grave!
Is there no hope they will relent?
Father, I turn to you with tears;
I am so young—my mother dead—
No one to care for me or lead;
A child, a foolish child in years.
Listen again. I see your eyes
Are yearning towards me. Ah, you feel
For me. I hear your sighs;
Your heart is human—'tis not steel;
It is not death I so much dread,
If there were rest when I am dead.
Ah, to lay down my head to sleep
On earth's calm breast, no more to weep,
Or waken to another morn
To face man's cruel hate and scorn!
Ah, this were blessed, this were sweet!
But oh, to think that I must meet
The Judge upon the Judgment Seat!
I dread His wrath—I fear His ire—
The deathless worm—the quenchless fire;
Save me from these, the curse, the ban,
Save me, dear Father, if you can!
Yes, I will tell you all.—Bend down
Your ear, and do not shrink or start;
Take pity on me; do not frown,
As I lay bare to thee my heart.
Young Giuglio,—I remember not
The time when we were not as one.
Our homes were near, among the vines—
To grow together was our lot.
We played as children in the sun,
We worked together in the shade,
We sat together neath the pines,
We knelt together, and we prayed;
And in San Joseph's solemn aisle,
Heard what the holy father said,
When speaking of the joys of heaven,
How men repent and are forgiven.
We loved, loved truly, without guile.
I hardly knew a mother's love—
I was an infant when she died,
And she was taken up above
To rest with God in Paradise,
Far from my wistful heart and eyes,
And, from my weeping father's side.
For me, I was left near alone,
And did what pleased me,—worked or played,
Wandered by valley, stream, and glade,
And so grew up. Some called me fair,
And praised the lustre of my hair.
I cared not for their praise or blame,
One only did I seek to please—
Others to me were all the same;
But Giuglio, oh my love, my life!
My Morning-Star, my joy, my light!
Sweet as the breezes of the May;
He was to make me his own wife—
To keep me ever in his sight,
And be mine own strong staff and stay.
And so for me the world grew bright,
More sweet the day; more fair the night.
The world was like a Paradise,
From which there rose a happy hymn,
And angels from the heavens looked down
With kind and sympathising eyes.
And I was seated on a throne,
And queen-like reigned in bliss alone,
Crowned with my Giuglio's happy love,
A crown to me all crowns above.
I must not linger on the joy,
The bliss was brief. A serpent came
Into my garden,—brought a curse,
It wore a woman's face,—was fair,
Had fatal beauty to destroy;
Black browed, with eyes of subtle flame,
And glorious clouds of purple hair,
With meshes to ensnare the soul.
She had a cold and cruel smile,
False, false, and fitted to beguile.
She caught my Giuglio in her snare.

His love from me she slowly stole,
And made him her poor foolish slave,
Drawing him surely by her art.
The world for me became a grave,
Wherein lay buried my dead heart,
And over which she lightly trod.
She triumphed when she saw me sad—
I was to her but as the sod
On which she placed her dainty feet.
Her scorn, her laughter, made me mad.
The sunshine left my darkened life,
'Twas all o'ershadowed with a cloud.
I withered 'neath the inward strife;
I longed to wear the deathly shroud,
That all the passion and the fever
Might pass, for ever and for ever,
And I low in the ground, at rest,
The green grass waving o'er my breast.
Oh, to have died there at his feet!
That would have been most sweet, most sweet.
But death was not so to be won—
I was to live, live sadly on,
When all that made life dear was gone.
The days passed by, I know not how,
I could not say if summer shone,
Or winter came with chilling snow—
My heart was dead, and still, and cold—
My face grew pinched, and grey, and wan—
And youth was o'er, and I was old.
My life became a wintry thing—
For me there was no future spring.
One evening late I walked alone,
My heart hard, lifeless as a stone;
And through the garden passed, and by
The thick-leafed vines, and through the flowers
Which scented all the dusky air,
I paused a moment with a sigh—
All was so sweet and fragrant there.
Father, I think I smell them now,
Jasmine, and rose, and lily fair.
Then heard I voices, saw them pace
The twilight alleys, up and down.
Love looked from out his up-turned face,
And set upon her head a crown.
He drew her dainty hand in his,
She leaned against him all her weight,
He stooped and gave her one long kiss—
And I was forced to see their bliss.
I, that stood there so desolate,
I heard her laugh a silver laugh,
It pierced me like a sharpened sword,
It ran like fire through all my blood,
It maddened me as there I stood,
A devil it within me stirred—
It was too sweet,—too sweet by half.
I looked on—stricken, wounded, slain,
With tortured heart and whirling brain.
Father, would'st know what then took place?
They walked together to the door,
I followed through the dusky gloom,
Drawn by a fatal secret force
That held and pressed me more and more,
And drew me onward to my doom.
With heart aflame and ghastly face,
I saw them part with fond embrace,
And then he left her. She went in—
I glided swiftly after her.
She turned; she saw me where I stood;
She smiled the smile of those who sin.
I for a moment did not stir,
And then in wild and wrathful mood
I spoke; she answered, laughed; and then
I felt the dagger 'neath my breast;
Held it a moment tightly pressed;
And as I heard the laugh again
That stung me with a sudden pain,
I raised my hand,—there shrilled a cry,
Upon her dress I saw a stain;
'Twas blood, red blood; I knew the why—
The dagger! Yes, close to my heart,
Hidden beneath my dress it lay;
But why I kept it closely there,
I hardly know or cannot say.
Perhaps that it might give me rest,
And save me from my dark despair.
Father, I think that I was mad—
I left the house; I did not care
What next befell. Why should I flee,
For what was left of life to me?
'Tis all confused what happened then;
A crowd of faces; startling cries;
Women aghast and wondering men;
My father, horror in his eyes,
Their lids all red with unshed tears;
And Giuglio with a face like stone,
White, as the dead, with such a look
Of woe, as though had passed whole years
And left him old. His whole frame shook
And trembled like the aspen leaf,
And in his eyes, as in a book,
I read my guilt. And then a swoon
Brought for a season sweet relief.
Oh, never to have waked again!
That in death's arms I might have lain!
The waking came too soon, too soon,
I woke, and found me here. The rest
You know. Father, I am to die—
To-morrow? Is it then so near?
Only a summer night between
Me and the bitter doom I fear?
A few more hours,—what shall have been?
Can it indeed be then so soon?
Shall I not see again that moon
Which shineth brightly through these bars,
Nor look upon those happy stars,
Nor move amongst the fragrant flowers,
Nor train again the trellised vine?
No! I can reckon up the hours
Before they take this life of mine.
Well, let that go. My sin! my sin!
Can I for this forgiveness win?
Say, is there hope for me—and where?
Tell me some refuge from despair.
For oh, to die with this poor hand
All red with blood! and then to go
And meet with God, where she will be
To charge the guilty deed on me!
For then together we shall stand,
And on my brow will burn the brand
Of murder! Oh, the woe, the woe,
The deathless worm, the quenchless flame,
The horror, agony, and shame!
Have pity, Father, save, oh save!
Let me not fill a hopeless grave!
“Mary!” the Virgin Mother mild,
The gentle, good, and undefiled,
What, what,—oh, tell me what of her?
She is too pure, too far above
A wicked, cruel thing like me;
I am not worthy of her love,
Or tenderness—No, let that be—
For if I prayed she would not hear;
No cry of mine her heart would move;
She standeth on the glassy sea,
And songs of angels, sweet and clear,
Fill with their harmonies her ear.
What knows she of the maddened mind,
The tortured heart, the burning brain,
The deep remorse, the gnawing pain,
The fears that all my senses bind,
The horror more than I can tell,
The dread that scorches like a hell?
Speak not of her. Tell me of one,
If such there be, who will not scorn
A sinner guilty, lost, undone,
Outcast from all, helpless, forlorn;
Who will both pity and show grace.
Tell me of such, Father, I pray,
Nay, look not with that hopeless face,
The hours are speeding fast away;
To me is left but little space
Before the breaking of the day.
And at the dawn—you know the rest.
Ah, lives no pity in your breast?
That Crucifix—you hold it there
Between me and my dark despair,
Truly I trusted to it once
My hope lay in that carvéd bronze.
But now,—nay, Father,—do not start,
I need a living, loving heart;
His,—His,—I need,—the Man, the Man,
Who died upon the bitter cross,
And mockery and anguish bare,
And shame, and suffering and loss,
And all, and more than nature can;
Bare it for sinners on the rood—
Ah, He was merciful and good!
I would have nothing pass between
Me and the Christ on whom I lean.
Oh, it were wondrous strange and sweet
To fall like her of old, love-led,
Down at His own dear blessed feet,
And wash them with the tears I shed,
And weep, and weep, till I were dead.
He would not spurn me from the place,
For He was ever full of grace,
And loving, pitiful, and kind.
The lost He came to seek and find;
The broken heart to heal and bind.
Have mercy, Jesu; here I lie;
Low from the dust to Thee I cry;
No one so lost, undone, as I.
Oh, by Thy seven bleeding wounds,
And by the scars on hands and side,
By shudd'ring wail, and awful sounds,
That pierced the skies from Calvary,
And by the flowing, crimson tide,
Oh, save me, Jesu, or I die!
Hark! Hark! Did'st thou not hear them toll
The great and solemn funeral bell?
'Twas for the passing of my soul
That loudly rang that dismal knell.
Now shrive me—speak the words of peace.
'Tis well. My death is drawing near,
The headsman, he will soon be here—
I hear his steps. Well, let him come;
I am prepared to meet my doom,
Nor think, good Father, I would live;
I shrink no longer from the tomb,
Dark though it be, and full of gloom.
But Giuglio!—pray him to forgive;
And say that I still thought of him,
E'en 'neath the headsman's axe so keen,
And loved him. Say all this from me,
And more,—I hope to meet him, where
In the now near eternity
There is no sin, and no despair.
One moment—kneel with me in prayer—
Now, Father,—let us go.