English Songs and Ballads Part 60

Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside; For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide: Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the ponderous tome; With a fast and fervent grasp He strain'd the dusky covers close, And fix'd the brazen hasp: 'O Heav'n, could I so close my mind, And clasp it with a clasp!'

Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took; Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook: And lo, he saw a little boy That pored upon a book.

'My gentle lad, what is 't you read-- Romance or fairy fable?

Or is it some historic page Of kings and crowns unstable?'

The young boy gave an upward glance-- 'It is the death of Abel.'

The usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain; Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again: And down he sat beside the lad, And talked with him of Cain;

And long since then, of b.l.o.o.d.y men, Whose deeds tradition saves; Of lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves; Of horrid stabs in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves;

And how the sprites of injured men Shriek upward from the sod-- Ay, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod; And unknown facts of guilty acts Are seen in dreams from G.o.d.

He told how murderers walk'd the earth Beneath the curse of Cain-- With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames about their brain: For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain.

'And well,' quoth he, 'I know, for truth, Their pangs must be extreme-- Wo, wo, unutterable wo-- Who spill life's sacred stream!

For why? Methought last night I wrought A murder in a dream!

'One that had never done me wrong-- A feeble man, and old; I led him to a lonely field, The moon shone clear and cold: Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold!

'Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, And one with a heavy stone, One hurried gash with a hasty knife, And then the deed was done: There was nothing lying at my feet, But lifeless flesh and bone!

'Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, That could not do me ill; And yet I fear'd him all the more, For lying there so still: There was a manhood in his look That murder could not kill.

'And lo, the universal air Seem'd lit with ghastly flame-- Ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame: I took the dead man by the hand, And call'd upon his name!

'Oh me, it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain!

But when I touch'd the lifeless clay, The blood gush'd out amain!

For every clot, a burning spot Was scorching in my brain!

'My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the devil's price: A dozen times I groan'd; the dead Had never groan'd but twice.

'And now from forth the frowning sky, From the heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice--the awful voice Of the blood-avenging sprite: "Thou guilty man, take up thy dead, And hide it from my sight!"

'I took the dreary body up And cast it in a stream-- A sluggish water, black as ink, The depth was so extreme.

My gentle boy, remember, this Is nothing but a dream!

'Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanish'd in the pool; Anon I cleansed my b.l.o.o.d.y hands, And washed my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young That evening in the school.

'O heaven, to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim!

I could not share in childish prayer, Nor join in evening hymn: Like a devil of the pit I seem'd, 'Mid holy cherubim!

'And peace went with them, one and all, And each calm pillow spread; But Guilt was my grim chamberlain That lighted me to bed, And drew my midnight curtains round, With fingers b.l.o.o.d.y red!

'All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep; My fever'd eyes I dared not close, But star'd aghast at Sleep; For sin had render'd unto her The keys of h.e.l.l to keep!

'All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint, That rack'd me all the time-- A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime.

'One stern tyrannic thought that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave-- Still urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave.

'Heavily I rose up--as soon As light was in the sky-- And sought the black accursed pool With a wild misgiving eye; And I saw the dead, in the river bed, For the faithless stream was dry!

'Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dew-drop from its wing; But I never mark'd its morning flight, I never heard it sing: For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing.

'With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran-- There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began: In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, I hid the murder'd man.

'And all that day I read in school, But my thought was otherwhere; As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there: And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare!

'Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep; For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep; Or land, or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep.

'So wills the fierce avenging sprite, Till blood for blood atones; Ay, though he's buried in a cave, And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted off his flesh-- The world shall see his bones.

'Oh me--that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake!

Again, again, with a dizzy brain, The human life I take; And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake.

'And still no peace for the restless clay Will wave or mould allow; The horrid thing pursues my soul-- It stands before me now!'

The fearful boy looked up and saw Huge drops upon his brow.

That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin's eyelids kiss'd, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walk'd between, With gyves upon his wrist.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread-- St.i.tch--st.i.tch--st.i.tch In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the Song of the Shirt.

'Work--work--work While the c.o.c.k is crowing aloof; And work--work--work Till the stars shine through the roof!

It's O! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save If this is Christian work!

'Work--work--work Till the brain begins to swim; Work--work--work Till the eyes are heavy and dim!

Seam, and gusset, and band,-- Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the b.u.t.tons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

'O men with Sisters dear!

O men with Mothers and Wives!

It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!

St.i.tch--st.i.tch--st.i.tch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

'But why do I talk of Death?

That phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own-- It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh G.o.d, that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!

'Work--work--work!

My labour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread--and rags.

That shattered roof,--and this naked floor,-- A table,--a broken chair,-- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there.

'Work--work--work From weary chime to chime, Work--work--work As prisoners work for crime!