With warmth upon his passion. He dream'd not
That one so gentle could turn from the power
Of the same spell that bound him. But he found,
Too late to save his peace, her heart preferred
The homage of another. Then sprang forth
The demon in his nature. With a howl
He fled through night and darkness, recking not
Of men's thoughts or of danger. On he went,
Gnashing his teeth with rage, and hissing out
Curses upon his rival. Thus was spent
The first burst of his fury; then there came
A darker spirit, with a deadlier aim,
And counseled with the demon in his heart,
And it consented. Ere the stars had looked
Upon another meeting of the lovers,
One slept in death; and he, the assassin, stole
A look of triumph on his bloody work,
Then fled to serve his COUNTRY! He saw not
His bitterest revenge, the helpless grief
Of her who died of madness.
'Twas this, the story of her pitiful death,
And her long suffering first, that woke once more
The inner wells of feeling, and drew tears,
The first had moistened his wild, burning eye
For many terrible months. For hours he wept,
Till drowsiness, like a nepenthe, soothed
His wakened feeling, and sleep came with dreams.
In thought he wandered weary o'er the earth,
Seeking a place to hide himself from men;
But all the world was peopled, and the crowds
That met him everywhere, all looked on him
With their astonished eyes, as if to say,
"How! art thou here?" and children shrunk away,
And peered at him from out each window nook,
Mocking at him, yet fearing to be seen.
Nowhere was solitude; he had grown old
