See, here it is, upon my breast,—
  The bloody image of a hand!
  On her white bosom it was pressed,
  Who should have nursed—you understand;—
  I never yet have named her name,
  Nor will I, till 'tis free from shame.

  The good old crone that tended me
  Through sickly childhood, lonely youth,
  Told me the story: so, you see,
  I know it is God's sacred truth,
  That holy lips and holy hands
  In secrecy had blessed the bands.

  And well he knew it, too,—the accursed!—
  To whom my grandsire gave his child
  With dying breath;—for from the first
  He saw, and tried to snare the wild
  And frightened love that thought to rest
  Its wings upon my father's breast.

  You may have seen him riding by,—
  This same Count Bernard, stern and cold;
  You know, then, how his creeping eye
  One's very soul in charm will hold.
  Snow-locks he wears, and gracious art;
  But hell is whiter than his heart.

  Well, as I said, the secret rite
  Had joined them, and the two were one;
  And so it chanced, one summer night,
  When the half-moon had set, and none
  But faint star-shadows on the grass
  Lay watching for his feet to pass,

  Led by the waiting light that gleamed
  From out one chamber-window, came
  The husband-lover;—soon they dreamed,—
  Her lips still murmuring his name
  In sleep,—while, as to guard her, fell
  His arm across her bosom's swell.

  The low wind shook the darkened pane,
  The far clock chimed along the hall,
  There came a moment's gust of rain,
  The swallow chirped a single call