BRAND.
From a childish scene that still
Lives in my mind, and ever will,
That scams my soul with foul device
Like an infestering cicatrice.
It was an autumn evening. Dead
Was father; you lay sick in bed.
I stole where he was laid by night,
All pallid in the silver light.
I stood and watch’d him from my nook,
Saw how his two hands clasp’d the Book;
I marvell’d why he slept so long,
Mark’d his thin wrists, and smelt the strong
Odour of linen newly dried;—
And then I heard a step outside;—
A woman enter’d, strode apace
Up to the bed, nor saw my face.
Then she began to grope and pry;
First put the corpse’s vesture by,
Drew forth a bundle, then a store,
Counted, and whisper’d: There is more!
Then, grubbing deeper in the ground,
Clutch’d a seal’d packet tightly bound,
With trembling fingers strove and tore,
Bit it in two, groped deeper, found,
Counted, and whisper’d: There is more!
She cried, she cursed, she wail’d, she wept,
She scented where the treasure lay,
And then with eager anguish swept
Down like a falcon on her prey.
When she had ransacked all the room,
She turn’d, like one who hears her doom,
Wrapp’d up her booty in a shawl,
And faintly groaned: So t h a t was all!