 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
SMITING THE ROCK.
The stern old judge, in relentless mood,
Glanced at the two who before him stood—
She was bowed and haggard and old,
He was young and defiant and bold—
Mother and son; and to gaze at the pair,
Their different attitudes, look and air,
One would believe, ere the truth were won,
The mother convicted, and not the son.
Glanced at the two who before him stood—
She was bowed and haggard and old,
He was young and defiant and bold—
Mother and son; and to gaze at the pair,
Their different attitudes, look and air,
One would believe, ere the truth were won,
The mother convicted, and not the son.
There was the mother; the boy stood nigh
With a shameless look, and his head held high.
Age had come over her, sorrow and care;
These mattered but little so he was there,
A prop to her years and a light to her eyes,
And prized as only a mother can prize;
But what for him could a mother say,
Waiting his doom on the sentence-day?
With a shameless look, and his head held high.
Age had come over her, sorrow and care;
These mattered but little so he was there,
A prop to her years and a light to her eyes,
And prized as only a mother can prize;
But what for him could a mother say,
Waiting his doom on the sentence-day?
Her husband had died in his shame and sin;
And she, a widow, her living to win,
Had toiled and struggled from morn to night,
Making with want a wearisome fight,
Bent over her work with a resolute zeal,
Till she felt her old frame totter and reel,
Her weak limbs tremble, her eyes grow dim;
But she had her boy, and she toiled for him.
And she, a widow, her living to win,
Had toiled and struggled from morn to night,
Making with want a wearisome fight,
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Till she felt her old frame totter and reel,
Her weak limbs tremble, her eyes grow dim;
But she had her boy, and she toiled for him.
And he—he stood in the criminal dock,
With a heart as hard as the flinty rock,
An impudent glance and reckless air.
Braving the scorn of the gazers there;
Dipped in crime and encompassed round
With proofs of his guilt by his captors found,
Ready to stand, as he phrased it, “game,”
Holding not crime, but penitence, shame.
With a heart as hard as the flinty rock,
An impudent glance and reckless air.
Braving the scorn of the gazers there;
Dipped in crime and encompassed round
With proofs of his guilt by his captors found,
Ready to stand, as he phrased it, “game,”
Holding not crime, but penitence, shame.
Poured in a flood o'er the mother's cheek
The moistening prayers where the tongue was weak,
And she saw through the mist of those bitter tears
Only the child in his innocent years;
She remembered him pure as a child might be,
The guilt of the present she could not see;
And for mercy her wistful looks made prayer
To the stern old judge in his cushioned chair.
The moistening prayers where the tongue was weak,
And she saw through the mist of those bitter tears
Only the child in his innocent years;
She remembered him pure as a child might be,
The guilt of the present she could not see;
And for mercy her wistful looks made prayer
To the stern old judge in his cushioned chair.
“Woman,” the old judge crabbily said—
“Your boy is the neighborhood's plague and dread;
Of a gang of reprobates chosen chief;
An idler and rioter, ruffian and thief.
The jury did right, for the facts were plain;
Denial is idle, excuses are vain.
The sentence the court imposes is one—”
“Your honor,” she cried, “he's my only son.”
“Your boy is the neighborhood's plague and dread;
Of a gang of reprobates chosen chief;
An idler and rioter, ruffian and thief.
The jury did right, for the facts were plain;
Denial is idle, excuses are vain.
The sentence the court imposes is one—”
“Your honor,” she cried, “he's my only son.”
The tipstaves grinned at the words she spoke,
And a ripple of fun through the court-room broke;
But over the face of the culprit came
An angry look and a shadow of shame.
“Don't laugh at my mother!” loud cried he;
“You've got me fast, and can deal with me;
But she's too good for your coward jeers,
And I'll—” then his utterance choked with tears.
And a ripple of fun through the court-room broke;
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An angry look and a shadow of shame.
“Don't laugh at my mother!” loud cried he;
“You've got me fast, and can deal with me;
But she's too good for your coward jeers,
And I'll—” then his utterance choked with tears.
The judge for a moment bent his head,
And looked at him keenly, and then he said—
“We suspend the sentence—the boy can go;”
And the words were tremulous, forced and low.
“But stay!” and he raised his finger then—
“Don't let them bring you hither again.
There is something good in you yet, I know;
I'll give you a chance—make the most of it—Go!”
And looked at him keenly, and then he said—
“We suspend the sentence—the boy can go;”
And the words were tremulous, forced and low.
“But stay!” and he raised his finger then—
“Don't let them bring you hither again.
There is something good in you yet, I know;
I'll give you a chance—make the most of it—Go!”
The twain went forth, and the old judge said—
“I meant to have given him a year instead;
And perhaps 'tis a difficult thing to tell
If clemency here be ill or well.
But a rock was struck in that callous heart
From which a fountain of good may start;
For one on the ocean of crime long tossed
Who loves his mother, is not quite lost.”
“I meant to have given him a year instead;
And perhaps 'tis a difficult thing to tell
If clemency here be ill or well.
But a rock was struck in that callous heart
From which a fountain of good may start;
For one on the ocean of crime long tossed
Who loves his mother, is not quite lost.”
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |