In her inmost, deepest being;
Fain she'd linger o'er the vision,
Then repels it,—it returneth,—
And, perplexed, she bends her flood-wards
With uncertain hands to draw it;
But, alas, she draws no more!
For the water's sacred billows
Seem to fly, to hasten from her;
She but sees the fearful chasm
Of a whirlpool black disclosed.
Arms drop down, and footsteps stumble,
Can this be the pathway homewards?
Shall she fly, or shall she tarry?
Can she think, when thought and counsel,
When assistance, all are lost?
So before her spouse appears she—
On her looks he—look is judgment—
Proudly on the sword he seizes,
To the hill of death he drags her,
Where delinquents' blood pays forfeit.
What resistance could she offer?
What excuses could she proffer,
Guilty, knowing not her guilt?
And with bloody sword returns he,
Musing, to his silent dwelling.
When his son before him stands:
"Whose this blood? Oh, father! father!"
"The delinquent woman's!"—"Never!
For upon the sword it dries not,
Like the blood of the delinquent;
Fresh it flows, as from the wound.
Mother! mother! hither hasten;
Unjust never was my father.
Tell me what he now hath done."—
