I
He
did not wear his scarlet coat,
For
blood and wine are red,
And
blood and wine were on his hands
When
they found him with the dead,
The
poor dead woman whom he loved,
And
murdered in her bed.
He
walked amongst the Trial Men
In
a suit of shabby gray;
A
cricket cap was on his head,
And
his step seemed light and gay;
But
I never saw a man who looked
So
wistfully at the day.
I
never saw a man who looked
With
such a wistful eye
Upon
that little tent of blue
Which
prisoners call the sky,
And
at every drifting cloud that went
With
sails of silver by.
I
walked, with other souls in pain,
Within
another ring,
And
was wondering if the man had done
A
great or little thing,
When
a voice behind me whispered low,
"That
fellow's got to swing."
Dear
Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly
seemed to reel,
And
the sky above my head became
Like
a casque of scorching steel;
And,
though I was a soul in pain,
My
pain I could not feel.
I
only knew what hunted thought
Quickened
his step, and why
He
looked upon the garish day
With
such a wistful eye;
The
man had killed the thing he loved,
And
so he had to die.
Yet
each man kills the thing he loves,
By
each let this be heard,
Some
do it with a bitter look,
Some
with a flattering word,
The
coward does it with a kiss,
The
brave man with a sword!
Some
kill their love when they are young,
And
some when they are old;
Some
strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some
with the hands of Gold:
The
kindest use a knife, because
The
dead so soon grow cold.
Some
love too little, some too long,
Some
sell, and others buy;
Some
do the deed with many tears,
And
some without a sigh:
For
each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet
each man does not die.
He
does not die a death of shame
On
a day of dark disgrace,
Nor
have a noose about his neck,
Nor
a cloth upon his face,
Nor
drop feet foremost through the floor
Into
an empty space.
He
does not sit with silent men
Who
watch him night and day;
Who
watch him when he tries to weep,
And
when he tries to pray;
Who
watch him lest himself should rob
The
prison of its prey.
He
does not wake at dawn to see
Dread
figures throng his room,
The
shivering Chaplain robed in white,
The
Sheriff stern with gloom,
And
the Governor all in shiny black,
With
the yellow face of Doom.
He
does not rise in piteous haste
To
put on convict-clothes,
While
some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
Each
new and nerve-twitched pose,
Fingering
a watch whose little ticks
Are
like horrible hammer-blows.
He
does not know that sickening thirst
That
sands one's throat, before
The
hangman with his gardener's gloves
Slips
through the padded door,
And
binds one with three leathern thongs,
That
the throat may thirst no more.
He
does not bend his head to hear
The
Burial Office read,
Nor
while the terror of his soul
Tells
him he is not dead,
Cross
his own coffin, as he moves
Into
the hideous shed.
He
does not stare upon the air
Through
a little roof of glass:
He
does not pray with lips of clay
For
his agony to pass;
Nor
feel upon his shuddering cheek
The
kiss of Caiaphas.
II
Six
weeks the guardsman walked the yard,
In
the suit of shabby gray:
His
cricket cap was on his head,
And
his step seemed light and gay,
But
I never saw a man who looked
So
wistfully at the day.
I
never saw a man who looked
With
such a wistful eye
Upon
that little tent of blue
Which
prisoners call the sky,
And
at every wandering cloud that trailed
Its
ravelled fleeces by.
He
did not wring his hands, as do
Those
witless men who dare
To
try to rear the changeling Hope
In
the cave of black Despair:
He
only looked upon the sun,
And
drank the morning air.
He
did not wring his hands nor weep,
Nor
did he peek or pine,
But
he drank the air as though it held
Some
healthful anodyne;
With
open mouth he drank the sun
As
though it had been wine!
And
I and all the souls in pain,
Who
tramped the other ring,
Forgot
if we ourselves had done
A
great or little thing,
And
watched with gaze of dull amaze
The
man who had to swing.
For
strange it was to see him pass
With
a step so light and gay,
And
strange it was to see him look
So
wistfully at the day,
And
strange it was to think that he
Had
such a debt to pay.
For
oak and elm have pleasant leaves
That
in the spring-time shoot:
But
grim to see is the gallows-tree,
With
its alder-bitten root,
And,
green or dry, a man must die
Before
it bears its fruit!
The
loftiest place is that seat of grace
For
which all worldlings try:
But
who would stand in hempen band
Upon
a scaffold high,
And
through a murderer's collar take
His
last look at the sky?
It
is sweet to dance to violins
When
Love and Life are fair:
To
dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
Is
delicate and rare:
But
it is not sweet with nimble feet
To
dance upon the air!
So
with curious eyes and sick surmise
We
watched him day by day,
And
wondered if each one of us
Would
end the self-same way,
For
none can tell to what red Hell
His
sightless soul may stray.
At
last the dead man walked no more
Amongst
the Trial Men,
And
I knew that he was standing up
In
the black dock's dreadful pen,
And
that never would I see his face
In
God's sweet world again.
Like
two doomed ships that pass in storm
We
had crossed each other's way:
But
we made no sign, we said no word,
We
had no word to say;
For
we did not meet in the holy night,
But
in the shameful day.
A
prison wall was round us both,
Two
outcast men we were:
The
world had thrust us from its heart,
And
God from out His care:
And
the iron gin that waits for Sin
Had
caught us in its snare.
III
In
Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
And
the dripping wall is high,
So
it was there he took the air
Beneath
the leaden sky,
And
by each side a Warder walked,
For
fear the man might die.
Or
else he sat with those who watched
His
anguish night and day;
Who
watched him when he rose to weep,
And
when he crouched to pray;
Who
watched him lest himself should rob
Their
scaffold of its prey.
The
Governor was strong upon
The
Regulations Act:
The
Doctor said that Death was but
A
scientific fact:
And
twice a day the Chaplain called,
And
left a little tract.
And
twice a day he smoked his pipe,
And
drank his quart of beer:
His
soul was resolute, and held
No
hiding-place for fear;
He
often said that he was glad
The
hangman's hands were near.
But
why he said so strange a thing
No
Warder dared to ask:
For
he to whom a watcher's doom
Is
given as his task,
Must
set a lock upon his lips,
And
make his face a mask.
Or
else he might be moved, and try
To
comfort or console:
And
what should Human Pity do
Pent
up in Murderer's Hole?
What
word of grace in such a place
Could
help a brother's soul?
With
slouch and swing around the ring
We
trod the Fools' Parade!
We
did not care: we knew we were
The
Devil's Own Brigade:
And
shaven head and feet of lead
Make
a merry masquerade.
We
tore the tarry rope to shreds
With
blunt and bleeding nails;
We
rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
And
cleaned the shining rails:
And,
rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
And
clattered with the pails.
We
sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
We
turned the dusty drill:
We
banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
And
sweated on the mill:
But
in the heart of every man
Terror
was lying still.
So
still it lay that every day
Crawled
like a weed-clogged wave:
And
we forgot the bitter lot
That
waits for fool and knave,
Till
once, as we tramped in from work,
We
passed an open grave.
With
yawning mouth the yellow hole
Gaped
for a living thing;
The
very mud cried out for blood
To
the thirsty asphalte ring:
And
we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
Some
prisoner had to swing.
Right
in we went, with soul intent
On
Death and Dread and Doom:
The
hangman, with his little bag,
Went
shuffling through the gloom:
And
each man trembled as he crept
Into
his numbered tomb.
That
night the empty corridors
Were
full of forms of Fear,
And
up and down the iron town
Stole
feet we could not hear,
And
through the bars that hide the stars
White
faces seemed to peer.
He
lay as one who lies and dreams
In
a pleasant meadow-land,
The
watchers watched him as he slept,
And
could not understand
How
one could sleep so sweet a sleep
With
a hangman close at hand.
But
there is no sleep when men must weep
Who
never yet have wept:
So
we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—
That
endless vigil kept,
And
through each brain on hands of pain
Another's
terror crept.
Alas!
it is a fearful thing
To
feel another's guilt!
For,
right within, the sword of Sin
Pierced
to its poisoned hilt,
And
as molten lead were the tears we shed
For
the blood we had not spilt.
The
Warders with their shoes of felt
Crept
by each padlocked door,
And
peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
Gray
figures on the floor,
And
wondered why men knelt to pray
Who
never prayed before.
All
through the night we knelt and prayed,
Mad
mourners of a corse!
The
troubled plumes of midnight were
The
plumes upon a hearse:
And
bitter wine upon a sponge
Was
the savour of Remorse.
The
gray cock crew, the red cock crew,
But
never came the day:
And
crooked shapes of Terror crouched,
In
the corners where we lay:
And
each evil sprite that walks by night
Before
us seemed to play.
They
glided past, they glided fast,
Like
travellers through a mist:
They
mocked the moon in a rigadoon
Of
delicate turn and twist,
And
with formal pace and loathsome grace
The
phantoms kept their tryst.
With
mop and mow, we saw them go,
Slim
shadows hand in hand:
About,
about, in ghostly rout
They
trod a saraband:
And
damned grotesques made arabesques,
Like
the wind upon the sand!
With
the pirouettes of marionettes,
They
tripped on pointed tread:
But
with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
As
their grisly masque they led,
And
loud they sang, and long they sang,
For
they sang to wake the dead.
"Oho!" they cried, "the world is wide,
But
fettered limbs go lame!
And
once, or twice, to throw the dice
Is
a gentlemanly game,
But
he does not win who plays with Sin
In
the Secret House of Shame."
No
things of air these antics were,
That
frolicked with such glee:
To
men whose lives were held in gyves,
And
whose feet might not go free,
Ah!
wounds of Christ! they were living things,
Most
terrible to see.
Around,
around, they waltzed and wound;
Some
wheeled in smirking pairs;
With
the mincing step of a demirep
Some
sidled up the stairs:
And
with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
Each
helped us at our prayers.
The
morning wind began to moan,
But
still the night went on:
Through
its giant loom the web of gloom
Crept
till each thread was spun:
And,
as we prayed, we grew afraid
Of
the Justice of the Sun.
The
moaning wind went wandering round
The
weeping prison-wall:
Till
like a wheel of turning steel
We
felt the minutes crawl:
O
moaning wind! what had we done
To
have such a seneschal?
At
last I saw the shadowed bars,
Like
a lattice wrought in lead,
Move
right across the whitewashed wall
That
faced my three-plank bed,
And
I knew that somewhere in the world
God's
dreadful dawn was red.
At
six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
At
seven all was still,
But
the sough and swing of a mighty wing
The
prison seemed to fill,
For
the Lord of Death with icy breath
Had
entered in to kill.
He
did not pass in purple pomp,
Nor
ride a moon-white steed.
Three
yards of cord and a sliding board
Are
all the gallows' need:
So
with rope of shame the Herald came
To
do the secret deed.
We
were as men who through a fen
Of
filthy darkness grope:
We
did not dare to breathe a prayer,
Or
to give our anguish scope:
Something
was dead in each of us,
And
what was dead was Hope.
For
Man's grim Justice goes its way
And
will not swerve aside:
It
slays the weak, it slays the strong,
It
has a deadly stride:
With
iron heel it slays the strong,
The
monstrous parricide!
We
waited for the stroke of eight:
Each
tongue was thick with thirst:
For
the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
That
makes a man accursed,
And
Fate will use a running noose
For
the best man and the worst.
We
had no other thing to do,
Save
to wait for the sign to come:
So,
like things of stone in a valley lone,
Quiet
we sat and dumb:
But
each man's heart beat thick and quick,
Like
a madman on a drum!
With
sudden shock the prison-clock
Smote
on the shivering air,
And
from all the gaol rose up a wail
Of
impotent despair,
Like
the sound the frightened marshes hear
From
some leper in his lair.
And
as one sees most fearful things
In
the crystal of a dream,
We
saw the greasy hempen rope
Hooked
to the blackened beam,
And
heard the prayer the hangman's snare
Strangled
into a scream.
And
all the woe that moved him so
That
he gave that bitter cry,
And
the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None
knew so well as I:
For
he who lives more lives than one
More
deaths than one must die.
IV
There
is no chapel on the day
On
which they hang a man:
The
Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
Or
his face is far too wan,
Or
there is that written in his eyes
Which
none should look upon.
So
they kept us close till nigh on noon,
And
then they rang the bell,
And
the Warders with their jingling keys
Opened
each listening cell,
And
down the iron stair we tramped,
Each
from his separate Hell.
Out
into God's sweet air we went,
But
not in wonted way,
For
this man's face was white with fear,
And
that man's face was gray,
And
I never saw sad men who looked
So
wistfully at the day.
I
never saw sad men who looked
With
such a wistful eye
Upon
that little tent of blue
We
prisoners called the sky,
And
at every careless cloud that passed
In
happy freedom by.
But
there were those amongst us all
Who
walked with downcast head,
And
knew that, had each got his due,
They
should have died instead:
He
had but killed a thing that lived,
Whilst
they had killed the dead.
For
he who sins a second time
Wakes
a dead soul to pain,
And
draws it from its spotted shroud,
And
makes it bleed again,
And
makes it bleed great gouts of blood,
And
makes it bleed in vain!
Like
ape or clown, in monstrous garb
With
crooked arrows starred,
Silently
we went round and round
The
slippery asphalte yard;
Silently
we went round and round,
And
no man spoke a word.
Silently
we went round and round,
And
through each hollow mind
The
Memory of dreadful things
Rushed
like a dreadful wind,
And
Horror stalked before each man,
And
Terror crept behind.
The
Warders strutted up and down,
And
kept their herd of brutes,
Their
uniforms were spick and span,
And
they wore their Sunday suits,
But
we knew the work they had been at,
By
the quicklime on their boots.
For
where a grave had opened wide,
There
was no grave at all:
Only
a stretch of mud and sand
By
the hideous prison-wall,
And
a little heap of burning lime,
That
the man should have his pall.
For
he has a pall, this wretched man,
Such
as few men can claim:
Deep
down below a prison-yard,
Naked
for greater shame,
He
lies, with fetters on each foot,
Wrapt
in a sheet of flame!
And
all the while the burning lime
Eats
flesh and bone away,
It
eats the brittle bone by night,
And
the soft flesh by day,
It
eats the flesh and bone by turns,
But
it eats the heart alway.
For
three long years they will not sow
Or
root or seedling there:
For
three long years the unblessed spot
Will
sterile be and bare,
And
look upon the wondering sky
With
unreproachful stare.
They
think a murderer's heart would taint
Each
simple seed they sow.
It
is not true! God's kindly earth
Is
kindlier than men know,
And
the red rose would but glow more red,
The
white rose whiter blow.
Out
of his mouth a red, red rose!
Out
of his heart a white!
For
who can say by what strange way,
Christ
brings His will to light,
Since
the barren staff the pilgrim bore
Bloomed
in the great Pope's sight?
But
neither milk-white rose nor red
May
bloom in prison air;
The
shard, the pebble, and the flint,
Are
what they give us there:
For
flowers have been known to heal
A
common man's despair.
So
never will wine-red rose or white,
Petal
by petal, fall
On
that stretch of mud and sand that lies
By
the hideous prison-wall,
To
tell the men who tramp the yard
That
God's Son died for all.
Yet
though the hideous prison-wall
Still
hems him round and round,
And
a spirit may not walk by night
That
is with fetters bound,
And
a spirit may but weep that lies
In
such unholy ground,
He
is at peace—this wretched man—
At
peace, or will be soon:
There
is no thing to make him mad,
Nor
does Terror walk at noon,
For
the lampless Earth in which he lies
Has
neither Sun nor Moon.
They
hanged him as a beast is hanged:
They
did not even toll
A
requiem that might have brought
Rest
to his startled soul,
But
hurriedly they took him out,
And
hid him in a hole.
They
stripped him of his canvas clothes,
And
gave him to the flies:
They
mocked the swollen purple throat,
And
the stark and staring eyes:
And
with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
In
which their convict lies.
The
Chaplain would not kneel to pray
By
his dishonoured grave:
Nor
mark it with that blessed Cross
That
Christ for sinners gave,
Because
the man was one of those
Whom
Christ came down to save.
Yet
all is well; he has but passed
To
Life's appointed bourne:
And
alien tears will fill for him
Pity's
long-broken urn,
For
his mourners will be outcast men,
And
outcasts always mourn.
V
I
know not whether Laws be right,
Or
whether Laws be wrong;
All
that we know who lie in gaol
Is
that the wall is strong;
And
that each day is like a year,
A
year whose days are long.
But
this I know, that every Law
That
men have made for Man,
Since
first Man took his brother's life,
And
the sad world began,
But
straws the wheat and saves the chaff
With
a most evil fan.
This
too I know—and wise it were
If
each could know the same—
That
every prison that men build
Is
built with bricks of shame,
And
bound with bars lest Christ should see
How
men their brothers maim.
With
bars they blur the gracious moon,
And
blind the goodly sun:
And
they do well to hide their Hell,
For
in it things are done
That
Son of God nor son of Man
Ever
should look upon!
The
vilest deeds like poison weeds
Bloom
well in prison-air:
It
is only what is good in Man
That
wastes and withers there:
Pale
Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
And
the Warder is Despair.
For
they starve the little frightened child
Till
it weeps both night and day:
And
they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
And
gibe the old and gray,
And
some grow mad, and all grow bad,
And
none a word may say.
Each
narrow cell in which we dwell
Is
a foul and dark latrine,
And
the fetid breath of living Death
Chokes
up each grated screen,
And
all, but Lust, is turned to dust
In
Humanity's machine.
The
brackish water that we drink
Creeps
with a loathsome slime,
And
the bitter bread they weigh in scales
Is
full of chalk and lime,
And
Sleep will not lie down, but walks
Wild-eyed,
and cries to Time.
But
though lean Hunger and green Thirst
Like
asp with adder fight,
We
have little care of prison fare,
For
what chills and kills outright
Is
that every stone one lifts by day
Becomes
one's heart by night.
With
midnight always in one's heart,
And
twilight in one's cell,
We
turn the crank, or tear the rope,
Each
in his separate Hell,
And
the silence is more awful far
Than
the sound of a brazen bell.
And
never a human voice comes near
To
speak a gentle word:
And
the eye that watches through the door
Is
pitiless and hard:
And
by all forgot, we rot and rot,
With
soul and body marred.
And
thus we rust Life's iron chain
Degraded
and alone:
And
some men curse, and some men weep,
And
some men make no moan:
But
God's eternal Laws are kind
And
break the heart of stone.
And
every human heart that breaks,
In
prison-cell or yard,
Is
as that broken box that gave
Its
treasure to the Lord,
And
filled the unclean leper's house
With
the scent of costliest nard.
Ah!
happy they whose hearts can break
And
peace of pardon win!
How
else may man make straight his plan
And
cleanse his soul from Sin?
How
else but through a broken heart
May
Lord Christ enter in?
And
he of the swollen purple throat,
And
the stark and staring eyes,
Waits
for the holy hands that took
The
Thief to Paradise;
And
a broken and a contrite heart
The
Lord will not despise.
The
man in red who reads the Law
Gave
him three weeks of life,
Three
little weeks in which to heal
His
soul of his soul's strife,
And
cleanse from every blot of blood
The
hand that held the knife.
And
with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
The
hand that held the steel:
For
only blood can wipe out blood,
And
only tears can heal:
And
the crimson stain that was of Cain
Became
Christ's snow-white seal.
VI
In
Reading gaol by Reading town
There
is a pit of shame,
And
in it lies a wretched man
Eaten
by teeth of flame,
In
a burning winding-sheet he lies,
And
his grave has got no name.
And
there, till Christ call forth the dead,
In
silence let him lie:
No
need to waste the foolish tear,
Or
heave the windy sigh:
The
man had killed the thing he loved,
And
so he had to die.
And
all men kill the thing they love,
By
all let this be heard,
Some
do it with a bitter look,
Some
with a flattering word,
The
coward does it with a kiss,
The
brave man with a sword.