"Stranger! a murderer stands before thee!
To tell the guilty tale were vain--
It is enough--the curse is o'er me--
And I am but a wandering Cain.
What boots it that the world bestows,
For deeds of death its honors dear?
The blood that from the duel flows,
Will cry to heaven, and heaven will hear!
Thou shalt not kill!' 'Twas deeply traced
In living stone, and thunder-sealed;
It cannot be by man effaced,
Or fashion's impious act repealed.
And though we seek with thin deceit,
To blind Jehovah's piercing gaze,
Call murder, honor,--can we cheat
The Omniscient with a specious phrase?
Alas! 'tis adding crime to crime,
To veil the blood our hands have spilt,
And seek by words of softening chime,
To lend blest virtue's charm to guilt.
Oh, no! in vain the world may give
The fearful deed a gentle name--
I slew my friend, and now I live
To feel perdition's glowing flame.
His missile cut the upward air--
Mine, winged with murder won its way,
Straight to his manly bosom,--there
He fell, unconscious as the clay!
One thrill of triumph through me swept,--
But, as I gazed upon his brow,
A chilling horror o'er me crept,--
And I am what thou seest now!
[Illustration: The Moonlit Prairie]