The Rogue's Nightmare

One who, the self-same morning, had decoyed
The widow and her son with glozing talk,
At eve through springing pastures walked abroad,
And, after his poor sort, enjoyed his walk.
That night he dreamed: fresh flowers and April grass
Smothered his cruel pen: the white lamb kneeled
Upon his crafty parchments, signed and sealed
By victim hands; a babbling tream did pass
Sheer through those written wiles, till that base ink,
Which robbed the widow's mite, the orphan's dole,
Lost colour. But that dream-begotten blink
Of damage waked at once his mammon-soul;
From his keen glance all vernal tokens shrink
While Fraud and Twilight watch the lying scroll.