I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,
  And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright,
Till into the chamber of death I came,
  Where she lay all in white.

The moon shone over her winding-sheet,
  There stark she lay on her carven bed: 
Seven burning tapers about her feet,
  And seven about her head.

As I stretched my hand, I held my breath;
  I turned as I drew the curtains apart: 
I dared not look on the face of death: 
  I knew where to find her heart.

I thought at first, as my touch fell there,
  It had warmed that heart to life, with love;
For the thing I touched was warm, I swear,
  And I could feel it move.

’Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow
  O’er the heart of the dead,—­from the other side: 
And at once the sweat broke over my brow. 
  “Who is robbing the corpse?” I cried.

Opposite me by the tapers’ light,
  The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,
Stood over the corpse, and all as white,
  And neither of us moved.

“What do you here, my friend?” ...  The man
  Looked first at me, and then at the dead. 
“There is a portrait here,” he began;
  “There is.  It is mine,” I said.

Said the friend of my bosom, “Yours, no doubt,
  The portrait was, till a month ago,
When this suffering angel took that out,
  And placed mine there, I know.”

“This woman, she loved me well,” said I. 
  “A month ago,” said my friend to me: 
“And in your throat,” I groaned, “you lie!”
  He answered, ...  “Let us see.”

“Enough!” I returned, “let the dead decide: 
  And whosesoever the portrait prove,
His shall it be, when the cause is tried,
  Where Death is arraigned by Love.”

We found the portrait there, in its place: 
  We opened it by the tapers’ shine: 
The gems were all unchanged:  the face
  Was—­neither his nor mine. 
“One nail drives out another, at least! 
  The face of the portrait there,” I cried,
“Is our friend’s, the Raphael-faced young Priest,
  Who confessed her when she died.”

The setting is all of rubies red,
  And pearls which a Peri might have kept. 
For each ruby there my heart hath bled: 
  For each pearl my eyes have wept.

ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON (Owen Meredith).

ONLY A WOMAN.

     “She loves with love that cannot tire: 
       And if, ah, woe! she loves alone,
     Through passionate duty love flames higher,
       As grass grows taller round a stone.”

          —­COVENTRY PATMORE.

So, the truth’s out.  I’ll grasp it like a snake,—­
It will not slay me.  My heart shall not break
Awhile, if only for the children’s sake.

For his, too, somewhat.  Let him stand unblamed;
None say, he gave me less than honor claimed,
Except—­one trifle scarcely worth being named—­