fresh leman's lips when love is dawning, And the lisped music glides from that sweet well—    Lo, in that breast a red wound shall be yawning, And, in the midst of rapture, warn of hell! Betrayer, what! thy soul relentless closing To grief—the woman-shame no art can heal—    To that small life beneath my heart reposing! Man, man, the wild beast for its young can feel! Proud flew the sails—receding from the land, I watched them waning from the wistful eye, Round the gay maids on Seine's voluptuous strand, Breathes the false incense of his fatal sigh. And there the babe! there, on the mother's bosom, Lulled in its sweet and golden rest it lay, Fresh in life's morning as a rosy blossom, It smiled, poor harmless one, my tears away. Deathlike yet lovely, every feature speaking In such dear calm and beauty to my sadness, And cradled still the mother's heart, in breaking, The softening love and the despairing madness.     "Woman, where is my father?" freezing through me, Lisped the mute innocence with thunder-sound;    "Woman, where is thy husband?"—called unto me, In every look, word, whisper, busying round! Alas, for thee, there is no father's kiss;—     He fondleth other children on his knee. How thou wilt curse our momentary bliss, When bastard on thy name shall branded be! Thy mother—oh, a hell her heart concealeth, Lone-sitting, lone in social nature's all! Thirsting for that glad fount thy love revealeth, While still thy look the glad fount turns to gall. In every infant cry my soul is hearkening, The haunting happiness forever o'er, And all the bitterness of death is darkening The heavenly looks that smiled mine eyes before. Hell, if my sight those looks a moment misses—     Hell, when my sight upon those looks is turned—    The avenging furies madden in thy kisses, That slept in his what time my lips they burned. Out from their graves his oaths spoke back in thunder! The perjury stalked like murder in the sun—    Forever—God!—sense, reason, soul, sunk under—     The deed was done! Francis, O Francis! league on league shall chase thee The shadows hurrying grimly on thy flight—    Still with their icy arms they shall embrace thee, And mutter thunder in thy dream's delight! Down from the soft stars, in their tranquil glory, Shall look thy dead child with a ghastly stare; That shape shall haunt thee in its cerements gory, And scourge thee back from heaven—its home is there! Lifeless—how lifeless!—see, oh see, before me It lies cold—stiff—O God!—and with that blood I feel, as swoops the dizzy darkness o'er me Mine own life mingled—ebbing in the flood—     Hark, at the door they 

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