140
Poems
Oh, holy Virgin Mother! Spare him!—Spare!"—
He needs such prayers,—the assassin's knife is bare,
Seeking his heart! A rival in love, or fame,—
For Corinne's favor, or the artist's name,—
Slips from the shelter of a doorway near,
And follows in his wake,—a shade of fear.
He needs such prayers,—the assassin's knife is bare,
Seeking his heart! A rival in love, or fame,—
For Corinne's favor, or the artist's name,—
Slips from the shelter of a doorway near,
And follows in his wake,—a shade of fear.
And as he steps within the shadow, thrown
Across his way by the dark archway's stone,—
The weapon flashed; but ere it reached his heart,
A woman's piercing scream has rent apart
And broken up the silence; and a form,—
Black-robed and lithe,—lies drooping on his arm!
Footsteps are coming,—yes, and going too!—
Does he but dream,—or is it really true
That some one sought his life?—and this true friend
Has bared her own sweet bosom to defend?
He lays her down,—the mantle draws aside,—
And finds a woman, robed as might a bride.
Across his way by the dark archway's stone,—
The weapon flashed; but ere it reached his heart,
A woman's piercing scream has rent apart
And broken up the silence; and a form,—
Black-robed and lithe,—lies drooping on his arm!
Footsteps are coming,—yes, and going too!—
Does he but dream,—or is it really true
That some one sought his life?—and this true friend
Has bared her own sweet bosom to defend?
He lays her down,—the mantle draws aside,—
And finds a woman, robed as might a bride.
"Raphael," she whispered in a tender tone,
"I die,—as I have lived,—for thee alone!"
Then from his heart went up a bitter cry,—
A cry so anguished, it must pierce the sky;
And tears of pity there in Heaven would flow,
"I die,—as I have lived,—for thee alone!"
Then from his heart went up a bitter cry,—
A cry so anguished, it must pierce the sky;
And tears of pity there in Heaven would flow,
