III.
By balustrade and corridor
That lead him to his lady's bower,
He stands before that crape-draped frame--
Its hidden face of _beauteous_ shame--
And holds aloft in his shaking hand
The glimmering lamp, nor can withstand
The fierce desire to feed his eye
With that fair-painted treachery.
He lifts the crape, he peers below--
The fire of wrath upon his brow;
He lets it fall--he lifts again,
To feed on the _pleasure_ of his _pain_,
And gazes without stint or measure
To gloat on the _pain_ that is his _pleasure_;
He turns the picture upon its face,
And reads _the curse of his broken peace_.
He turns the picture round again,
Then away to toss in his bed of pain.
IV.
Some moral thrusts can stab the heart,
And love bestowed returned in hate
May play with some a deadlier part
Than strokes that seem of sterner fate.
In yonder vault down by the aisle
Thou'lt read the good Sir Gregory's name--
His death the sequel of the tale
Inscribed upon that pictured frame.
Yet not forgot while rustic swain
Atunes his throat to melodie,
And warbles forth the soft refrain,
"Alace! alace I for Dowielee."
V.
Her father dead, Burde Olive fair--
Her mother's image--grows apace,
And oft she throws in pensive care
A glance upon that crape-veiled face:
She wonders what may be beneath.
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