The Ballad of Reading Gaol

 

By

 

Oscar Wilde

 

 


CONTENTS:

 

First Version. 9

I. 9

II. 11

III 13

IV. 19

V. 22

VI. 25

Second Version. 27

I 27

II 29

III 31

IV.. 37

V.. 40

VI 43

 

 


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The Ballad of Reading Gaol

 

by

 

Oscar Wilde

 

July, 1995  [Etext #301]

 

In Memoriam

C.T.W.

Sometime Trooper of the Royal Horse Guards.

Obiit H.M. Prison, Reading, Berkshire,

July 7th, 1896

Presented by Project Gutenberg on the 99th Anniversary.

 

The Project Gutenberg Etext Wilde's The Ballad of Reading Gaol

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In Memoriam

C.T.W.

Sometime Trooper of the Royal Horse Guards.

Obiit H.M. Prison, Reading, Berkshire,

July 7th, 1896

Presented by Project Gutenberg on the 99th Anniversary.

 

First version prepared by:

 

Faith Knowles

faith@wile.thetech.org


First Version

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 grey;

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 fellows 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 place

 

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 our guardsman walked the yard,

  In a 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 raveled 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 spring-time 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 were we:

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 Fool's 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 watcher 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 corpse!

The troubled plumes of midnight were

  The plumes upon a hearse:

And bitter wine upon a sponge

  Was the savior of Remorse.

___

The cock crew, the red cock crew,

  But never came the day:

And crooked shape 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 travelers 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 the 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 loud 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 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 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 that frightened marshes hear

  From a 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 live 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 to 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 grey,

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 their were those amongst us all

  Who walked with downcast head,

And knew that, had each go 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,

An 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 the day,

It eats the flesh and bones 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 blow 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 man not walk by night

  That is with fetters bound,

And a spirit may not 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 reguiem 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 dishonored 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 mourner 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 goal

  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 grey,

And some grow mad, and all grow bad,

And none a word may say.

 

Each narrow cell in which we dwell

  Is 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 day 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 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!

 

End of the first Project Gutenberg Etext of

 

The Ballad of Reading Gaol. ***


Second Version

 

 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 haunted 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 feel that sickening thirst

  That sands one's throat, before

The hangman with his gardener's gloves

  Comes 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 anguish 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 was 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.

 

The 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 the 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

  For weal or woe 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 day was 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 Devils' 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 horrid 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

  The fellow 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 I trembled as I groped my way

  Into my 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 shook

  Like the plumes upon a hearse:

And as 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, the 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 the 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 that 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 happy cloud that passed

  In such strange 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 watched 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 bones 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.

 

The warders stripped him of his 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 the 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 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 the do well to hide their Hell,

  For in it things are done

That Son of things 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!

 

                         C. 3. 3.

 

 

 

THE END