The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 11, September, 1858. Various

        See, here it is, upon my breast,—

          The bloody image of a hand!

        On her white bosom it was pressed,

          Who should have nursed—you understand;—

        I never yet have named her name,

        Nor will I, till 'tis free from shame.

        The good old crone that tended me

          Through sickly childhood, lonely youth,

        Told me the story: so, you see,

          I know it is God's sacred truth,

        That holy lips and holy hands

        In secrecy had blessed the bands.

        And well he knew it, too,—the accursed!—

          To whom my grandsire gave his child

        With dying breath;—for from the first

          He saw, and tried to snare the wild

        And frightened love that thought to rest

        Its wings upon my father's breast.

        You may have seen him riding by,—

          This same Count Bernard, stern and cold;

        You know, then, how his creeping eye

          One's very soul in charm will hold.

        Snow-locks he wears, and gracious art;

        But hell is whiter than his heart.

        Well, as I said, the secret rite

          Had joined them, and the two were one;

        And so it chanced, one summer night,

          When the half-moon had set, and none

        But faint star-shadows on the grass

        Lay watching for his feet to pass,

        Led by the waiting light that gleamed

          From out one chamber-window, came

        The husband-lover;—soon they dreamed,—

          Her lips still murmuring his name

        In sleep,—while, as to guard her, fell

        His arm across her bosom's swell.

        The low wind shook the darkened pane,

          The far clock chimed along the hall,

        There came a moment's gust of rain,

          The swallow chirped a single call

        From his eaves'-nest, the elm-bough swayed

        Moaning;—they slumbered unafraid.

        Without a creak the chamber-door

          Crept open!—with a cat-like tread,

        Shading his lamp with hand that bore

          A dagger, came beside their bed

        The Count. His hair was tinged with gray:

        Gold locks brown-mixed before him lay.

        A thrust,—a groan,—a fearful scream,

          As from the peace of love's sweet rest

        She starts!—O God! what horrid dream

          Swells her bound eyeballs? From her breast

        Fall off the garments of the night,—

        A red hand strikes her bosom's white!

        She knew no more that passed; her ear

          Caught not the hurried cries,—the rush

        Of the scared household,—nor could hear

          The voice that broke the after-hush:—

        "There with her paramour she lay!

        He lies here!—carry her away!"

        The evening after I was born

          No roses on the bier were spread,

        As when for maids or mothers mourn

          Pure-hearted ones who love the dead;

        They buried her, so young, so fair,

        With hasty hands and scarce a prayer.

        Count Bernard gained the lands, while I,

          Cast forth, forgotten, thus have grown

        To manhood; for I could not die—

          I cannot die—till I atone

        For her great shame; and so you see

        I track him, and he flies from me.

        And one day soon my hand I'll lay

          Upon his arm, with lighter touch

        Than ladies use when in their play

          They tap you with their fans; yet such

        A thrill will freeze his every limb

        As if the dead were clutching him!

        I think that it would make you smile

          To see him kneel and hear him plead,—

        I leaning on my sword the while,

          With a half-laugh, to watch his need:—

        At last my good blade finds his heart,

        And then this red stain will depart.