The silence of the cell. And up he starts,
Roused from his dizzy trance of wretchedness,
And gasps for breath, as that deep solemn toll
Sinks on his spirit, like a warning voice
Sent from eternity; again it rolls—
Thy awful bell, St. Sepulchre, which tells
The criminal of death;—his life-pulse stops,
As if in awe, and then beats rapidly:
Flushes a sudden crimson on his face,
Passes, and leaves it deadlier than before.
He is alone no longer; one is there
Whose only language is her tears, and one
Whose words of anger on the sinful child,
His shame and sorrow, find no utterance now.
At first the look the murderer wore was stern,
And cold, and ghastly, for his pride had nerved
His spirit to its agony; but when
He felt that pale girl's tears upon his hand,
And heard his father's words of penitence,
Of tenderness and pardon, then relaxed
His marble brow, and wild warm drops came down
He strove no more to quell. And there she lay,
His wretched Ellen, pillowed on a breast
Whose lightest beat to her was more than life,
All guilty as it was;—her fair blue eyes
(How softly beautiful!) were filled with drops
They had no power to shed, but heavily
