This Conrad mark'd, and felt—ah! could he less: 1690
Hate of that deed—but grief for her distress;
What she had done no tears can wash away,
And heaven must punish on its angry day:
But—it was done—he knew, whatever her guilt,
For him that poignard smote—that blood was spilt—
And he was free!—and she for him had given
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven!
And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave
Whose brow was bowed beneath the glance he gave, 1699
Who now seemed changed and humbled:—faint and meek,
But varying oft the colour of her cheek
To deeper shades of paleness—all it's red
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead!
He took that hand—it trembled—now too late—
So soft in love—so wildly nerved in hate;
He clasp'd that hand—it trembled—and his own
Had lost it's firmness, and his voice it's tone.
"Gulnare!"—but she replied not—"dear Gulnare!"
She raised her eye—her only answer there—
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace: 1710
If he had driven her from that resting place,