From his eaves'-nest, the elm-bough swayed
  Moaning;—they slumbered unafraid.

  Without a creak the chamber-door
  Crept open!—with a cat-like tread,
  Shading his lamp with hand that bore
  A dagger, came beside their bed
  The Count. His hair was tinged with gray:
  Gold locks brown-mixed before him lay.

  A thrust,—a groan,—a fearful scream,
  As from the peace of love's sweet rest
  She starts!—O God! what horrid dream
  Swells her bound eyeballs? From her breast
  Fall off the garments of the night,—
  A red hand strikes her bosom's white!

  She knew no more that passed; her ear
  Caught not the hurried cries,—the rush
  Of the scared household,—nor could hear
  The voice that broke the after-hush:—
  "There with her paramour she lay!
  He lies here!—carry her away!"

  The evening after I was born
  No roses on the bier were spread,
  As when for maids or mothers mourn
  Pure-hearted ones who love the dead;
  They buried her, so young, so fair,
  With hasty hands and scarce a prayer.

  Count Bernard gained the lands, while I,
  Cast forth, forgotten, thus have grown
  To manhood; for I could not die—
  I cannot die—till I atone
  For her great shame; and so you see
  I track him, and he flies from me.

  And one day soon my hand I'll lay
  Upon his arm, with lighter touch
  Than ladies use when in their play
  They tap you with their fans; yet such
  A thrill will freeze his every limb
  As if the dead were clutching him!

  I think that it would make you smile
  To see him kneel and hear him plead,—
  I leaning on my sword the while,
  With a half-laugh, to watch his need:—
  At last my good blade finds his heart,
  And then this red stain will depart.