And Margaret! Oh, pity her!
A criminal I sought her side,
Still thinking love was justified
In all for her—whatever were
The price: a brother thrice denied,
Or thrice a brothers murderer.
Since then long years have passed away.
And through those years, perhaps, you ’ll ask
How to the world I wore my mask
Of honesty?—I can but say
Beyond my powers it was a task;
Before my time it turned me gray.
And when at last the ceaseless hiss
Of conscience drove, and I betrayed
All to her, she knelt down and prayed:
Then rose: and ’twixt us an abyss
Was opened; and she seemed to fade
Out of my life: I came to miss
The sweet attentions of a bride:
For each appealing heart’s caress
In me her heart assumed a dress
Of dull indifference; till denied
To me was all responsiveness;
And then I knew her love had died.
Ah, had she loaded me, perchance,
With wild reproach or even hate,
Such would have helped me hope and wait
Forgiveness and returned romance:
But ’twixt our souls, instead, a gate
She closed of silent tolerance.
Yet, ’t was for love of her I lent
My soul to crime.... I question me
Often, if less entirely
I’d loved her, then, in that event
She had been justified to see
The deed alone stand prominent.
The deed alone! But love records
In his own heart, I will aver,
No depth I did not feel for her
Beyond the plummet-reach of words:
And though there may be worthier,
No truer love this world affords
Than mine was, though it could not rise
Above itself. And so ’t was best,
Perhaps, that she saw manifest
The crime, so I,—as saw her eyes,—
Might see; and so, in soul confessed,
Some life atonement might devise.
Sadly my heart one comfort keeps,
That, towards her end, she took my hands
And said,—as one who understands,—
“Had I but seen!—But love that weeps
Sees only as its loss commands.”
And sighed.—Beneath this stone she sleeps.
Yes; I have suffered for that sin:
Yet in no instance would I shun
What I should suffer. Many a one,
Who heard my tale, has tried to win
Me to believe that Hamilton
It was not; and, though proven kin,
This had not saved him. Still the stain
Of the intention—had I erred
And ’t was not he—had writ the word
Red on my soul that branded Cain:
For still my error had incurred
The fact of guilt that would remain.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .