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THE CRIMINAL.
His hand is red with blood, and life, aye, life
Must pay the forfeiture of his dark sin.
Ah! woman's love is a night-scented flower,
Which yieldeth its most precious perfume forth
'Mid darkness and 'mid tears.
'Tis silence in that cell, and dim the light
Gleaming from the sunk lamp; there is one stands
Fettered and motionless—so very pale,
That were he laid within his winding-sheet
And death were on him, yet his cheek could not
Wear ghastlier hues; cold damps are on his brow;
With intense passion the red veins are swelled;
The white lip quivers with suppressed sobs,
And his dark eye is glazed with tears which still
He is too stern to shed. His countenance
Bears wild and fearful traces of the years
Which have passed on in guilt; pride, headstrong ire
Have left their marks behind; yet, mid this war
Of evil elements, some glimpses shine
Of better feelings, which, like clouded stars,
Soon set in night.—A sullen sound awakes
