(Night.)

Old Thames! thy merry waters run

Gloomily now, without star or sun!

The wind blows o’er thee, wild and loud,

And heaven is in its death-black shroud;

And the rain comes down with all its might,

Darkening the face of the sullen Night.

Midnight dies! There booms a sound,

From all the church-towers thundering round;

Their echoes into each other run,

And sing out the grand night’s awful “One!”

Saint Bride, Saint Sepulchre, great Saint Paul,

Unto each other, in chorus, call!

Who speaks? ’T was nothing: the patrol grim

Moves stealthily o’er the pavement dim;

The debtor dreams of the gripe of law;

The harlot goes staggering to her straw;

And the drunken robber, and beggar bold

Laugh loud, as they limp by the Bailey Old.

Hark, — I hear the blood in a felon’s heart!

I see him shiver — and heave — and start

(Does he cry?) from his last short bitter slumber,

To find that his days have reached their number, —

To feel that there comes, with the morning text,

Blind death, and the scaffold, and then — what next?

Sound, stormy Autumn! Brazen bell,

Into the morning send your knell!

Mourn, Thames! keep firm your chant of sorrow;

Mourn, men! for a fellow-man dies to-morrow.

Alas! none mourn; none care;—the debt

Of pity the whole wide world forget!

(Morning)

’Tis dawn, — ’tis Day! In floods of light

He drives back the dark and shrinking night.

The clouds? — they’re lost. The rains — they’re fled:

And the streets are alive with a busy tread;

And thousands are thronging, with gossip gay,

To see how a felon will die to-day.

The thief is abroad in his last new dress,

Earning his bread in the thickest press;

The idler is there, and the painter fine,

Studying a look for his next design;

The fighter, the brawler, the drover strong;

And all curse that the felon should stay so long.

At last, — he comes! with a heavy tread,

He mounts — he reels — he drops — he’s dead!

The show is over! — the crowd depart,

Each with a laugh and a merry heart.

Hark! — merrily now the bells are ringing;

The Thames on his careless way is springing;

The bird on the chimney top is singing:

Now, who will say

That Earth is not gay,

Or that Heaven is not brighter than yesterday!

The Song of a Felon’s Wife

The brand is on thy brow,

A dark and guilty spot;

‘Tis ne’er to be erased!

‘Tis ne’er to be forgot!

The brand is on thy brow!

Yet I must shade the spot:

For who will love thee now,

If I love thee not?

Thy soul is dark, — is stained; —

From out the bright world thrown;

By God and man disdained,

But not by me, — thy own!

Oh! even the tiger slain

Hath one who ne’er doth flee,

Who soothes his dying pain!

— That one am I to thee!

The Old Witch in the Copse

I am a Witch, and a kind old Witch,

There’s many a one knows that —

Alone I live in my little dark house

With Pillycock, my cat.

A girl came running through the night,

When all the winds blew free: —

"O mother, change a young man’s heart

That will not look on me.

O mother, brew a magic mead

To stir his heart so cold."

"Just as you will, my dear," said I;

"And I thank you for your gold."

So here am I in the wattled copse

Where all the twigs are brown,

To find what I need to brew my mead

As the dark of night comes down.

Primroses in my old hands,

Sweet to smell and young,

And violets blue that spring in the grass

Wherever the larks have sung.

With celandines as heavenly crowns

Yellowy-gold and bright;

All of these, O all of these,

Shall bring her Love’s delight.