Soliloquy of a Duellist
They all at length have left me—long I wish'd
While round me with officious care they stood,
To dress this paltry wound, to be alone;
And now I find that solitude is dreadful—
Dreadful to one, upon whose burning soul,
The weight of murder rests! Oh, would to heaven
This day were blotted from the scroll of time:
Or, as indeed it seems, that some wild dream
Had wrapp'd me in its horrid tangled maze.
It is a dream,—it must be,—o'er my brain
Such strange bewildering seenes in memory crowd,
As are not, cannot be reality;
And yet this agony is too intense,
'T would rive the chains of sleep. This stiffen'd arm,
These bandages, and the sharp pain which shoots
Across my burning temples—these are real—
Oh, no—'t is not the phantasy of sleep—
He does lie bleeding, yonder, pale and dead;
I, too, am slightly wounded.—Would to heaven
The erring ball, that pierced this guilty arm,
Had found a goal within my guiltier breast,
Ere I had lived to be a murderer—
A hateful murderer, still living on
Beneath the weight, the torment of a curse,
Heavy as that of Cain, the stain of blood
Forever on my conscience, crying out
To heaven for vengeance. Yet my wounded honour
Claim'd, sure, some reparation for the blot
His language on it cast. Could I have lived
Beneath the brand of cowardice, and borne
The sneer and the expression of contempt,
That would have follow'd me from every lip?
He gave the challenge, and could I refuse?
I could not—yet I might—I could—I could—
The offence was mine, and mine is all the guilt.
Why o'er my heated passions could I not
One instant hold the reins of self-control?
One single moment of deliberate thought
And cloudless reason, would have spared me all
This guilt, this agony. The approving smiles
Of peaceful conscience, and mine own respect,
Had balanced well the idle laugh of fools—
And now, what am I now? I dare not think!
The stain of life-blood is upon my soul—
The life-blood of my friend—he was my friend,
And I have kill'd him! Oh, that this dark hour
Of deep remorseful anguish might recall
The moments that have pass'd. My wife!—my wife!
I cannot meet thee thus. I hate myself—
All whom I have loved, and e'en thou wilt hate me.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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