The Southern Literary Messenger, Volume I., 1834-35

Curse of the "Betrayed One."

A FRAGMENT—BY HUGH BLAIR.

They moved her couch, that the whispering breath
Of evening might come with its balmy sigh,
And fan her brow, e'er the film of death
Spread over her dark and beautiful eye.

But she heeded not the whispering wind,
For her burning thoughts afar were roaming;
Madness had seized on her wretched mind,
And her high brow throb'd, and her lips were foaming!

And the beautiful curls of her sable hair
Streamed wildly over her fevered pillow—
And her bosom heaved in its whiteness there,
As the breeze heaves up the snowy billow—

And her teeth with convulsive grasp were set,
And her eye burned bright as a beam of day—
She twined her hand in her locks of jet,
And tore their glittering curls away!

And she screamed with a wild, convulsive shriek,
Then uttered a low protracted groan—
As ye've heard the wind thro' your lattice break,
And die away with a hollow moan.

But at length, through the evening's gathering gloom,
Her voice came forth from the riven chords
Of her broken heart, as from a tomb!
And she utter'd these wild and fearful words:

"I've loved thee, man, with an ardent love;
I've sworn it by each orb above—
By the glorious Sun when he sank to rest,
And lit with his beams the glowing west—
By the pallid Moon, when her silver beam
Danced gladly o'er yon murmuring stream,
Upon whose verdant banks with you
I've stood that holy orb to view—
And by every lamp which the dusk of even
Hung out in the glittering arch of heaven.
I cannot now deny the flame
Which has wasted thus my wretched frame—
For I've told it thee by many a word
Which came from the core of my bleeding heart,
As you touched each thrilling, aching chord,
By that hellish power, thy fiendish art.
I've told it thee by many a sigh,
By many a tear in my weary eye,
By many a sob, and many a groan,
Which burst from the lips of thy 'lovely one'—
And I've told it thee by the burning streak
Which so often lit my fevered cheek,
As you played with each glittering curl of jet
That waved on the neck of 'Thy Martinette!'
Come hither thou fiend and gaze upon me;
Behold the wreck of thy hellish power—
Come hither, I have a blessing for thee,
Which thou shalt hear in my dying hour.

"That maiden, she of the lovely face,
Who holds in thy heart my wretched place,
Shall become thy bride, and her first born son
Be a monster, hideous to gaze upon!
And the sight of the thing shall drive her mad!
And while she's screaming in accents wild,
She shall call upon thee in tones most sad,
Thyself to murder her hideous child!
Oh, she shall shriek in her wild despair,
And her phrensied eye, with a fearful glare,
Full on thy faithless face shall gleam—
And with lips of foam and teeth close set,
Her voice full in thy ear shall scream,
'Remember the curse of thy Martinette!'
And with fingers of blood she shall rend her cheek—
And those lips which now in their freshness part,
Shall utter as wild and terrific a shriek
As ever yet burst from my broken heart;
And her every shriek and her every groan
Shall wither thy heart, thou faithless one!
And thus she shall die, ere reason's dawn
The veil from her wildered soul hath drawn.
But her blasted babe, that hideous thing,
Shall live—and its frightful presence shall bring
Galling thoughts, which shall have the power
To blast thy every peaceful hour!
By its blasted form thou shalt never forget
The dying curse of thy Martinette!"

She spoke, and sunk back on her dying bed,
And the blood gushed forth from her lips of foam!
They raised her again—but the spirit had fled
Away, away to its secret home!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.