IV
There is no chapel on the day On which they hang a man: Or his face is far too wan, Which none should look upon. So they kept us close till nigh on noon, And then they rang the bell, Opened each listening cell, Each from his separate Hell. Out into God's sweet air we went, But not in wonted way, And that man's face was gray, So wistfully at the day. I never saw sad men who looked With such a wistful eye We prisoners called the sky, In such strange freedom by. But there were those amongst us all Who walked with downcast head, They should have died instead: Whilst they had killed the dead. For he who sins a second time Wakes a dead soul to pain, And makes it bleed again, And makes it bleed in vain! Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb With crooked arrows starred, The slippery asphalte yard; And no man spoke a word. Silently we went round and round, And through each hollow mind Rushed like a dreadful wind, And Terror crept behind. The warders strutted up and down, And watched their herd of brutes, And they wore their Sunday suits, By the quicklime on their boots. For where a grave had opened wide, There was no grave at all: By the hideous prison-wall, That the man should have his pall. For he has a pall, this wretched man, Such as few men can claim: Naked, for greater shame, Wrapt in a sheet of flame! And all the while the burning lime Eats flesh and bone away, And the soft flesh by day, But it eats the heart alway. For three long years they will not sow Or root or seedling there: Will sterile be and bare, With unreproachful stare. They think a murderer's heart would taint Each simple seed they sow. Is kindlier than men know, The white rose whiter blow. Out of his mouth a red, red rose! Out of his heart a white! Christ brings His will to light, Bloomed in the great Pope's sight? But neither milk-white rose nor red May bloom in prison air; Are what they give us there: A common man's despair. So never will wine-red rose or white, Petal by petal, fall By the hideous prison-wall, That God's Son died for all. Yet though the hideous prison-wall Still hems him round and round, That is with fetters bound, In such unholy ground, He is at peace- this wretched man- At peace, or will be soon: Nor does Terror walk at noon, Has neither Sun nor Moon. They hanged him as a beast is hanged: They did not even toll Rest to his startled soul, And hid him in a hole. The warders stripped him of his clothes, And gave him to the flies: And the stark and staring eyes: In which the convict lies. The Chaplain would not kneel to pray By his dishonoured grave: That Christ for sinners gave, Whom Christ came down to save. Yet all is well; he has but passed To Life's appointed bourne: Pity's long-broken urn, And outcasts always mourn. |