3.

    Swanlike the robe which Innocence bestowing,
      Deck’d with the virgin favours, rosy fair,
    In the gay time when many a young rose glowing,
      Blush’d through the loose train of the amber hair. 
    Woe, woe! as white the robe that decks me now—­
      The shroud-like robe Hell’s destined victim wears;
    Still shall the fillet bind this burning brow—­
      That sable braid the Doomsman’s hand prepares!

    4.

    Weep, ye who never fell—­for whom, unerring,
      The soul’s white lilies keep their virgin hue,
    Ye who when thoughts so danger-sweet are stirring,
      Take the stern strength that Nature gives the few
    Woe, for too human was this fond heart’s feeling—­
      Feeling!—­my sin’s avenger[12] doom’d to be;
    Woe—­for the false man’s arm around me stealing,
      Stole the lull’d Virtue, charm’d to sleep, from me.

    5.

    Ah, he perhaps shall, round another sighing,
      (Forgot the serpents stinging at my breast,)
    Gaily, when I in the dumb grave am lying,
      Pour the warm wish, or speed the wanton jest,
    Or play, perchance, with his new maiden’s tresses,
      Answer the kiss her lip enamour’d brings,
    When the dread block the head he cradled presses,
      And high the blood his kiss once fever’d springs.

    6.

    Thee, Francis, Francis,[13] league on league, shall follow
      The death-dirge of the Lucy once so dear;
    From yonder steeple, dismal, dull, and hollow,
      Shall knell the warning horror on thy ear. 
    On thy fresh leman’s lips when Love is dawning,
      And the lisp’d music glides from that sweet well—­
    Lo, in that breast a red wound shall be yawning,
      And, in the midst of rapture, warn of hell!

    7.

    Betrayer, what! thy soul relentless closing
      To grief—­the woman-shame no art can heal—­
    To that small life beneath my heart reposing! 
      Man, man, the wild beast for its young can feel! 
    Proud flew the sails—­receding from the land,
      I watch’d them waning from the wistful eye,
    Round the gay maids on Seine’s voluptuous strand,
      Breathes the false incense of his fatal sigh.

    8.

    And there the Babe! there, on the mother’s bosom,
      Lull’d in its sweet and golden rest it lay,
    Fresh in life’s morning as a rosy blossom,
      It smiled, poor harmless one, my tears away. 
    Deathlike yet lovely, every feature speaking
      In such dear calm and beauty to my sadness,
    And cradled still the mother’s heart, in breaking,
      The soft’ning love and the despairing madness.

    9.