This last denial of my faith,
⁠Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard;
And, though upon my bed of death,
⁠I call not back a word.
Point not to thy Madonna, Priest,—
⁠Thy sightless saint of stone;
She cannot, from this burning breast,
⁠Wring one repentant moan.

Thou say'st, that when a sinless child,
⁠I duly bent the knee,
And prayed to what in marble smiled
⁠Cold, lifeless, mute, on me.
I did. But listen! Children spring
⁠Full soon to riper youth;
And, for Love's vow and Wedlock's ring,
⁠I sold my early truth.

'Twas not a grey, bare head, like thine,
⁠Bent o'er me, when I said,
"That land and God and Faith are mine,
⁠For which thy fathеrs bled."
I see thee not, my eyes arе dim;
⁠But, well I hear thee say,
"O daughter, cease to think of him
⁠Who led thy soul astray.
Between you lies both space and time;
⁠Let leagues and years prevail
To turn thee from the path of crime,
⁠Back to the Church's pale."
And, did I need that thou shouldst tell
⁠What mighty barriers rise
To part me from that dungeon-cell,
⁠Where my loved Walter lies?

And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt
⁠My dying hour at last,
By bidding this worn spirit pant
⁠No more for what is past?
Priest—must I cease to think of him?
⁠How hollow rings that word!
Can time, can tears, can distance dim
⁠The memory of my lord?

I said before, I saw not thee,
⁠Because, an hour agone,
Over my eye-balls, heavily,
⁠The lids fell down like stone.
But still my spirit's inward sight
⁠Beholds his image beam
As fixed, as clear, as burning bright,
⁠As some red planet's gleam.
Talk not of thy Last Sacrament,
⁠Tell not thy beads for me;
Both rite and prayer are vainly spent,
⁠As dews upon the sea.
Speak not one word of Heaven above,
⁠Rave not of Hell's alarms;
Give me but back my Walter's love,
⁠Restore me to his arms!

Then will the bliss of Heaven be won;
⁠Then will Hell shrink away,
As I have seen night's terrors shun
⁠The conquering steps of day.
'Tis my religion thus to love,
⁠My creed thus fixed to be;
Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break
⁠My rock-like constancy!

Now go; for at the door there waits
⁠Another stranger guest:
He calls—I come—my pulse scarce beats,
⁠My heart fails in my breast.
Again that voice—how far away,
⁠How dreary sounds that tone!
And I, methinks, am gone astray
⁠In trackless wastes and lone.
I fain would rest a little while:
⁠Where can I find a stay,
Till dawn upon the hills shall smile,
⁠And show some trodden way?
"I come! I come!" in haste she said,
⁠"'Twas Walter's voice I heard!"
Then up she sprang—but fell back, dead,
⁠His name her latest word.