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What noise, what uproar in the street?
What wide-diffusing rumour fleet,
Hath brought those thousand gather'd feet?
At Jasper's house the people stand,
Awaiting something yet unknown;
Anxiety on every hand,
In every gesture, look, and tone.
While one the other doth beseech
“What news?” “The matter?” and while each
Hates all inquisitiveness shown,
In neighbour's nudge, or twitch, or speech,
Because unsatisfied his own.
But if without this dizzying din,
There is sufficing cause within:
Sin working with imputed sin.
Behold! two men, alert, yet grim,
Of order'd face, and strong of limb,
And active deeds, not idle words,
Bind Philip's passive arms with cords;
And a young girl, poor, strenuous thing!
Clings to the youth, and still must cling;
And calls on every saint to save,
And man to hear, and Heaven to spare;
How vain, how bootless, though she rave!
Blessings are won by prayer.
“Good friends, in God's name list to me;
If you will set my husband free,
My life and all my soul is worth,
Thanks endless, and from this day forth,
Slave's service till my dying day,
Cannot—you must not say me nay—
The deed of graciousness repay.”
Then with sheer hopelessness possest,
By the two faces blank and dense,
Her heart ceas'd throbbing, and the sense
Of life went from her vacant breast,
And she was carried thence
Gently, by one of those rude men,
Who was not in his function then.
And whom doth yonder room contain?
Him whose cold heart and heated brain
Have wrought this wickedness amain—
Old Jasper; and, with trembling knees,
And rheumy eyes, and palsied hands,
One, whom fourscore hath curs'd with these,
Before old Jasper stands.
So old is he who speaks, 'tis well
That, having such a tale to tell,
He is so old, and weak, and here;
For even his voice too shrill and clear
Rings in the startled Jasper's ear.
“Master, I dare not do this thing;
'Tis poison added to the sting
Of Death, who soon will fold me round,
And leave my body in the ground.
Thoughts have come on me unaware,
Thoughts unsolicited by prayer.
The little lad; I see him now;
'Twas the first time his pretty brow
Was ever bent by sorrow's stress:
His blessed mother, as I guess,
Who was all grace and heavenliness,
Had told him I was like to die—”

“Yet, Kirke, good Kirke,”—but Jasper's eye
And teeth tight-clench'd with malice fell,
Suit not with soft persuasion well;—
“Hast thou not promis'd? would'st begone
From what we have struck hands upon?”

But Kirke took up his former strain:
“The little lad; I see him now;
How did he tend me—soothe my pain,
And bring me cooling drink, and how
For hours and hours watch by my side—
Would 'twere God's pleasure I had died!
I have done sin for you, but this—”

“The holy book hath had thy kiss,”
Urg'd Jasper; “and to be forsworn,
Better that thou had'st ne'er been born.
Thou 'rt outcast by thine own consent:
An oath when broken is not sprent;
But with a curse of Heaven re-knit;
For angels have attested it.
Dost thou forget; dost thou regard
What I have pledg'd—that rich reward
Which hath been, during fifty years,
The texture of thy hopes and fears,
Which makes thee lord of time, with power,
Blithe, sprightly as a paramour,
To turn to pleasure every hour?”
He had deem'd it strange, who had beheld:
Nature, which in Kirke's breast had swell'd,
At once his avarice expell'd;
And his eyes glimmer'd, and his face,
Expanding, put on hideous grace.
His palm in Jasper's coyly slid,
Told he would do as he was bid:
He sigh'd, and said, “I am content.”
Jasper knew well his implement,
And had him fast; and forth they went.
The senseless girl, as still as stone,
Is tended by a household crone,
And Philip to his fate is gone.
Fast bound, 'twixt the two keepers led,
None see upon him guilt or dread,
For on his breast his face is bow'd,
Passing through the fissur'd crowd;
Whose eyes the following twain engage:
Never were seen such types of age;
Jasper collected, cold, severe,
Kirke past the consciousness of fear,
His hearing numb'd, his eye-sight blear—
Fill'd, as it seem'd, with many woes;
The people bless him as he goes.
Yet ne'er was bosom vainly cross'd;
Mistaken blessings are not lost:
Pious intention sanctifies
What to its object Heaven denies.

But how is this? Old Brooke abroad!
Like to a drover with a goad,
Who pricks a beast along the road,
Following his son, the gentle youth
Whom they have bound in felon guise!
Why this is wonder, shame and ruth,
Here is a sight for eyes!
Who can explain what this should mean?
Sight like to this was never seen:
Each asks, but none replies.
So all drive onward; all are bent
To know the cause and its event;
All press along the sultry way,
As each for his own welfare strove;
While casements fraught with life above
Give it a look of holiday.
The multitude with heaving sway,
The sun-motes dallying with the dust,
Which is as full of warmth as they;
Who would not take the scene on trust?
Had Philip's face been rais'd, I ween,
It had not look'd so gay a scene.

And they are come to the Guildhall,
And silence on the crowd doth fall,
Silence as at a funeral
For a moment. Cancell'd is the hush,
And rude the clamour and the crush,
When they behold a narrow slit,
Which sideways only will admit
One singly; and the cautious door,
Having received its destin'd five,
Sharp closes, and will have no more.
How with the porters do they strive,
Face-flush'd, whose crown-surmounted staves,
Held transverse, he is bold who braves!
“Back! turbulent, disloyal knaves!”
Cries the head door-keeper in heat;
“Seek ye committal to the Fleet?”