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 our guardsman walked the yard, In the suit of shabby grey:
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.
And 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 springtime shoot:
But grim to see is the gallows-tree, With its adder-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 Murderers' 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, Grey 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.
