by Edward Wilberforce.
Originally published in Temple Bar–A London Magazine for Town and Country Readers (Ward and Lock) vol.1 #4 (Mar 1861).
"Call me my husband; I feel death near:
Now leave us together,—none else may hear."
Nurses and watchers stole from the room,
The watch tick'd loud through the gathering gloom;
No curtains' rustle, no hinges' creak,
But his voice was there—"I am listening; speak!"
"Give me my handkerchief, wipe from my brow
These clammy drops that burst thicker now.
"A drop from that glass—not this, not this!
It burns me up like his parting kiss.
"I fancied I heard his voice, that he told
His love, that he whispered me, as of old.
"But his face never comes, though I strive to see;
Night grows to my eyes—can that shadow be he?
A hearing, an answer; but why that sin?
"My wedded life had been pure as yet;
Did I want more grief, I must breed regret.
"But you speak no word; you stand moody—Who?
What was I thinking?—husband, 'tis you!
"My thoughts have wandered, but now you're here,—
Stoop lower,—I'll whisper it in your ear.
"I have kept one secret that you should know
While life was strong, but 'tis ebbing low.
"Your friend who was with us, he's gone, don't fear!
After my words would he venture here?
"I have driven it back from my lips, my heart
Has held it clenched in its innermost part;
"Till it preyed on me, till it haunted my brain,
Through the long night-watches of fevered pain.
"But I feel death near, and must tell it now:
Husband, with him I forgot my vow."
She stared in his face; no quiver ran
About his lips, the inscrutable man;
But in measured voice, and with studied turns,
"Confidence similar confidence earns.
"Thanks for yours; now for mine: I knew
Your love and your guilt—and I poisoned you!"