Count Rosenberg that evening sat,
With all a judge’s solemn state,
In stern vindictive mood.
A skilful leach the trifling wound,
In Ulric’s bosom careful bound.
The whispering servants crowded round;—
With thoughtful eyes that sought the ground,
Dark Steinfort silent stood,
And ever pale that lofty brow,
Its ashy hue was ghastlier now,
And mute the lips, and close compressed
And bent the arms upon the breast—
And while, as a contagious pest,
All shunned his guilty side.
No lofty martyr in the land
In attitude, more calm could stand,
Of innocence and pride.
Count Rosenberg the haughty look
Indignant marked, and sternly spoke:
"Count Steinfort, thou didst hear me say,
While riding hither on the way,
That, in my life, I never yet
A wrong could pardon or forget.
If thou didst doubt—at once be thou
A witness and example now.
Thou'st played a cunning game and bold,
That fits a villain, false and cold.
I ne'er did think on earth to see
Such baseness—least of all in thee!
E'en from suspicion safe, till fate,
This night, thy crimes, so black and great,
Did bid the dying groom relate.
This miserable, guilty fool,
Purchased by thee—a, willing tool,
Who his eternal hope hath sold,
For some poor bits of paltry gold,
By lies to blast Count Ulric's fame,
And work his ruin and his shame,
With many a tale, for many a year,
Thy poisoned tongue abused my ear.
With damning charge, with forged proof,
Thou kept'st my heart from his aloof,
And almost drove him from my roof.
And, but for this heaven-ordered fray,
Ulric had been, by thee, to-day,
Thrust rudely forth, outcast, to rove,
And from my fortune and my love.
And this, I learn, he well did know—
Our honest Loulou told him so.
The will still good, and yet, this night,
In danger and in death's despite,
Whose generous hand hath struck to save
Both of us from a certain grave?
This is the man no laws control,
Who watched with dagger and with hbwl;
And this the wretch, with dark design,
Who sought thy life, as well as mine.
Liar and slanderer! black as night!
Begone! pollute no more my sight.
I cut thee of—away! begone!
The ruin thou for him hast sown,
To burst this night—be now thy own!
Here lies, unaltered yet, the will,
Which, with mute words, doth witness still
My equal love—its page I tear—
And Ulric be my only heir."
Then Ulric forward stepped, and said,
While on his uncle's arm he laid
His bloody hand, "Dear uncle, I
Was never Steinfort's enemy.
That he is mine, I know not why;
But, friend or foe—his arts o'erthrown,
I crave for me a single boon."
"A boon? to thee?—That all may know
What confidence and love I owe,
Thy favor name; and whatsoe'er,
To grant it on the spot, I swear!
Although it half my fortune were."
"Then, uncle, be the past forgot!
Revenge is Heaven's, pursue it not!
The will names Steinfort my co-heir,
Gives of thy wealth an equal share;
Still leave his name unaltered there,
And, for my sake, refrain to tear!
Thy rule, for once, to banish strive,
And, this time, pardon and forgive!
Still 'neath thy roof let Steinfort live;
To shame his wrath, my gentle word
Will answer better than a sword."
Stamped Steinfort now, with boundless ire,
And flashed his eyes unnatural fire.
"Demon! this is too much!" he said,
And thrust a pistol to his head.
The flaming peal astounds the hall,
Scarce Ulric 'scaped the whistling ball,
Deep buried in a golden wall.
Loud Steinfort laughed, in savage mood,
And on his lip the foam-flake stood.
"Upon your knees!" he cried, "for I
Am Emperor of Germany!
And fifty thousand fathoms down,
Vile Ulric hides my golden crown."
Now blended cries of rage augment
The horror and astonishment;
And to the dungeon some would bear,
And some would slay him standing there—
When spoke the doctor, calm and sad:
"Back! silence! back! the Count is mad!
And, ere the morning streak the sky,
Without your dagger's points, must die."
Within the room where Steinfort lay,
And mingling with the fame
Of the pale lamp's expiring ray,
The soft beams of the breaking day
In silent lustre came.
And Ulric stood and gazed upon
His dying foe—with him alone;
For so the wretched Steinfort chose
No other hand his eyes should close,
And but one holy friar there
His crimes to count, and aid his prayer.
Now came at lust, with death’s deep fears,
His reason, lost so many years;
And now the kneeling father hears
The trembling infidel,
All shuddering, tell his wicked life,
How weak he yielded in the strife
With envy, hatred, malice, pride—
How oft he heard sweet voices chide,
But scornful turned from God aside,
And chose the devil for his guide,
Who led to burning Hell,
The only prize that e'er can win
The blind of heart, by deadly sin.
Not half the story yet is done,
When lo! death's damp his brow upon.
"Kneel, Ulric, kneel," he said, "and e'er
My spirit parted be,
My blessing take—forgive—with prayer—
Oh! ask God's grace for me!"
"True as I hope to be forgiven,"
Said Ulric, "I forgive,
And on my knees implore of Heaven
That both of us may live,
By Christ’s redeeming blood to be
Washed from earth's loathsome leprosy."
"I .mw-parser-output .nowrap,.mw-parser-output .nowrap a:before,.mw-parser-output .nowrap .selflink:before{white-space:nowrap}thank—save—God—" * *
His hands to raise
He strove, but left the broken phrase—
The voiceless marble lips forbore—
Their task is done—they pray no more.
"And thus," said Ulric, "they that plow
Iniquity, and darkness sow,
Do reap the game they cast abroad,
And perish by the blast of God!”
"My son," the white-haired sage replied,
"He who for man's salvation died,
On us to judge doth never call,
Lest, tempted, we ourselves may fall.
Low in the dust, thy prayer must be
For meekness, faith, and charity.
Judge never! and, oh! cast aside
The haughty look, the heart of pride.
To us it is not given to know
The source whence Steinfort's sorrows flow—
If damning guilt, or piteous woe.
If his self-willed and wandering feet,
In mocking God, did madness meet—
The withering bolt in anger sent,
To strike with endless punishment;
Or whether, as I humbly pray,
A body sick—a mind astray,
Did lead from God his feet away;
Who sent affliction's fiery wave,
Not more to punish than to save.
In mercy let his ashes rest:
Look thou, my son, to thy own breast."