Ballad of Reading Gaol | Page 7

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