The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 16

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-- Aye, 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 wash'd 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 rendered 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!

Aye, 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 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.

_T. Hood_

LII

_THE BELEAGUERED CITY_

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And with a sorrowful deep sound, The river flow'd between.

No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace; The mist-like banners clasp'd the air, As clouds with clouds embrace.

But when the old cathedral bell Proclaim'd the morning prayer, The wild pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far, The troubled army fled; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead.

_H. W. Longfellow_

LIII

_JAFFAR_

Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good Vizier, The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer.

Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust; And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust Of what the good, and e'en the bad might say, Ordain'd that no man living from that day Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.

All Araby and Persia held their breath.

All but the brave Mondeer.--He, proud to show How far for love a grateful soul could go, And facing death for very scorn and grief, (For his great heart wanted a great relief,) Stood forth in Bagdad, daily in the square Where once had stood a happy house, and there Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar On all they owed to the divine Jaffar.