HE fault was mine, the fault was mine" Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and still, Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill ? It is this guilty hand! And there rises ever a passionate cry From underneath in the darkening land— O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky, The fires of Hell and of Hate; For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a word, When her brother ran in his rage to the gate, He came with the babe-faced lord; Heap'd on her terms of disgrace, And while she wept, and I strove to be cool, He fiercely gave me the lie, Till I with as fierce an anger spoke, And he struck me, madman, over the face, Struck me before the languid fool, Who was gaping and grinning by: Struck for himself an evil stroke; Wrought for his house an irredeemable woe; For front to front in an hour we stood, And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood, And thunder'd up into Heaven the Christless code, That must have life for a blow. Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to grow. Was it he lay there with a fading eye? "The fault was mine," he whisper'd, "fly!" Then glided out of the joyous wood The ghastly Wraith of one that I know; And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry, It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till I die. II. Is it gone? my pulses beat What was it? a lying trick of the brain? Yet I thought I saw her stand, A shadow there at my feet, High over the shadowy land. It is gone; and the heavens fall in a gentle rain, |