Classic Poem

Passion! thou to thyself art true,
And well dost all thou hast to do.
Adwick beheld the sweet surprise
With which she gaz'd on Konig's eyes,
In that poor infant's face.
He did not fail to trace
His rival's image there!
With fiery scowl
He stamp'd it on his soul.
With sullen stare,
He saw her kiss the foundling fair;
And in the blood of deathless pain,
Painted that picture on his brain.

She knew not what a change had come
O'er Adwick's mind and heart;
A cloud of grief and ire,
Thence never to depart;
A sorrow worse than dungeon-gloom,
Or blackness of the coffin'd tomb;
The tortur'd sleep, that ever wakes;
A memory made of knotted snakes;
With fire, for blood, in every vein,
And cold, that burns like fire.
The outlaw's heart was turn'd to stone;
His all was gone.