THE MURDERER'S CONFESSION.

I PAUSED not to question the Devil's suggestion,

But o'er the cliff, headlong, the living was thrown;

A scream and a plashing, a foam and a flashing,
And the smothering water accomplish'd his slaughter,
All was silent, and I was alone!

With heart-thrilling spasm I leant o'er the chasm;

There was blood on the wave that closed o'er his head,

And in bubbles his breath, as he struggled with death, Rose up to the surface. I shudder'd and fled.

With footsteps that stagger'd and countenance haggard,

I stole to my dwelling, bewilder'd, dismay'd,

Till whisperings stealthy said-" Psha! he was wealthy,

Thou'rt his heir-no one saw thee-then be not

afraid."

I summon'd the neighbours, I join'd in their labours, We sought for the missing by day and by night; We ransack'd each single height, hollow, or dingle, Till shoreward we wended, when starkly extended,

His corpse lay before us--Oh God! what a sight!

And yet was there nothing for terror or loathing.
The blood had been wash'd from his face and his clothing,
But by no language, no pen, his life-like wide open
Eyes can be painted;-

They stared at me, flared at me, angrily glared at me,
I felt murder-attainted;

Yet my guilty commotion seem'd truth and devotion,

When I shudder'd and fainted.

No hint finds emission that breathes of suspicion,

None dare utter a sound when an inquest has found His death accidental;

Whence then and wherefore, having nothing to care for,

These agonies mental?

Why grieve and why sicken, frame-wither'd, soul-stricken?

Age-paralysed, sickly, he must have died quickly,

Each day brought some new ill;

Why leave him to languish and struggle with anguish, The deed that relieved him from all that aggrieved him, Was kindly, not cruel.

In procession extended a funeral splendid,

With banner'd displays and escutcheons emblazon'd,
To church slowly pass'd,

When a dread apparition astounded my vision;

Like an aspen leaf shaking, dumfounded and quaking, I stood all aghast!

From its nail'd coffin prison the corpse had arisen,
And in all its shroud vesture, with menacing gesture,
And eye-balls that stared at me, flared at me, glared

at me,

It pointed-it flouted its slayer, and shouted

In accents that thrill'd me,

"That ruthless dissembler, that guilt-stricken trembler,

Is the villain who kill'd me!"

'Twas fancy's creation-mere hallucination

A lucky delusion, for again my confusion,

Guilt's evidence sinister, seem'd to people and minister The painful achievement of grief and bereavement.

Then why these probations, these self-condemnations

Incessant and fearful?

Some with impunity snatch opportunity,

Slay-and exult in concealment's immunity;
Free from forebodings and heartfelt corrodings,
They fear no disclosure, no public exposure,

And sleeping unhaunted, and waking undaunted,
Live happy and cheerful.

To 'scape the ideal let me dwell on the real,

I, a pauper so lately,

In abundance possessing life's every blessing,

Fine steeds in my stable, rare wines on my table, Servants dress'd gaily, choice banquets daily,

A wife fond and beautiful, children most dutiful,

I, a pauper so lately, live rich and greatly,
In a mansion-house stately.

Life's blessings? O liar! all are curses most dire,

In the midst of my revels,

His eyes ever stare at me, flare at me, glare at me, Before me when treading my manors outspreading,

There yawns an abysmal cliff precipice dismal.

Isolation has vanish'd, all silence is banish'd,

Where'er I immew me his death shrieks pursue me,

I am hunted by devils.