XLIX.
He, crooked though in frame, in spirit more,
Went by her now as erst he did in life,
A slayer, watching whilst they slowly bore
The helpless victim of his unseen knife;
And sorrow for a mask he broadly wore,
To cloak the guilt that in his heart was rife.
Woe to thee, base heart, from the lids that weep!
Woe to thee, base heart, from the eyes that sleep!