Antoinette DeCoursey Patterson

BEFORE me shine the words of her last letter—

Lucrezia Borgia to the Pope at Rome—

Wherein she begs, as life’s remaining fetter

Slips from her, that his prayers will guide her home:

The favor God has shown to me confessing,

As swift my end approaches, Father, I,

A Christian though a sinner, ask your blessing

And kiss your feet in all humility.

The thought of death brings no regret, but pleasure;

And after the last sacrament great peace

Will be mine own—in overflowing measure,

If but your mercy marks my soul’s release.

And here the letter finds a sudden ending,

As though the dying hand had lost its power:

My children to Rome’s love and care commending—

Ferrara—Friday—at the fourteenth hour.

An odor as of incense faintly lingers

About the page of saintly sophistries—

And I am thinking clever were the fingers

That could mix poison and write words like these.