 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
THE DARK LANE.
In a dark lane of yonder crowded city,
Lampless and silent all the gloomy night,
What deeds devoid of godliness and pity
Are done in absence of the tell-tale light.
Lampless and silent all the gloomy night,
What deeds devoid of godliness and pity
Are done in absence of the tell-tale light.
Here, too worn-out to push his journey further,
Lies down the beggar in his garments mean;
Here, in a dark recess, lurks brutal Murther,
Watching its purposed prey with vision keen.
Lies down the beggar in his garments mean;
Here, in a dark recess, lurks brutal Murther,
Watching its purposed prey with vision keen.
Yon house you see is now a tottering shelter
For wretched people packed its rooms within—
Folk who in winter freeze, in summer swelter,
Frequent in want and evermore in sin.
For wretched people packed its rooms within—
Folk who in winter freeze, in summer swelter,
Frequent in want and evermore in sin.
The house was once a mansion, where the stately
And silk-robed damsels of an early day
Swept through its lofty drawing-room sedately,
With cavaliers as elegant as they.
And silk-robed damsels of an early day
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With cavaliers as elegant as they.
Then 'twas a family's country mansion splendid:
Shaded by elms the serpentine approach
Wherein, by liveried lackeys still attended,
By prancing horses drawn, came coach on coach.
Shaded by elms the serpentine approach
Wherein, by liveried lackeys still attended,
By prancing horses drawn, came coach on coach.
Soon spread the suburbs of the town, and swallowed
The grand approach and all the garden round;
A narrow lane, close built with houses followed,
As rose in costliness surrounding ground.
The grand approach and all the garden round;
A narrow lane, close built with houses followed,
As rose in costliness surrounding ground.
There dwelt alone, save with his hoards, a miser—
A wretch who lived to hoard where others spend;
He had more gold than some who thought them wiser;
He had a son; but then he had no friend.
A wretch who lived to hoard where others spend;
He had more gold than some who thought them wiser;
He had a son; but then he had no friend.
The boy was spendthrift—worst of all offences!
Not to be cured, though theft or lying might;
And lest his habits might entail expenses,
He drove him from the house one winter night.
Not to be cured, though theft or lying might;
And lest his habits might entail expenses,
He drove him from the house one winter night.
No more returned the boy—if dead, or living,
Was never to his old companions known;
And there as sordid, cold, and unforgiving
As at the first, the father dwelt alone.
Was never to his old companions known;
And there as sordid, cold, and unforgiving
As at the first, the father dwelt alone.
Years past away. One night in cold December
The miser bent him o'er the chilly grate;
There was no heat there—cold was every ember—
When from the darkness came the old man's fate.
The miser bent him o'er the chilly grate;
There was no heat there—cold was every ember—
When from the darkness came the old man's fate.
Days after that they found him, dead and ghastly,
But not from cold. His skull was cleft in twain;
But, strange to say, and all men wondered vastly,
His gold was gone—none saw those hoards again.
But not from cold. His skull was cleft in twain;
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His gold was gone—none saw those hoards again.
And now the inmates, never heaven fearing,
Shake at the noises sounding in its walls
On one night in the year, as on their hearing,
Clear and distinct, a piteous moaning falls.
Shake at the noises sounding in its walls
On one night in the year, as on their hearing,
Clear and distinct, a piteous moaning falls.
Brutes though they be, at that they shake and quiver,
And feel the heart within them waxing chill,
As, with a shriek that makes each hearer shiver,
That piteous moaning ends, and all is still.
And feel the heart within them waxing chill,
As, with a shriek that makes each hearer shiver,
That piteous moaning ends, and all is still.
Who was the assassin? In that city crowded
His trace was never found in street or lane;
And the son's fate in mystery is enshrouded,
The murderer and the son—where are the twain?
His trace was never found in street or lane;
And the son's fate in mystery is enshrouded,
The murderer and the son—where are the twain?
In a dark lane of yonder crowded city,
Lampless and silent all the gloomy night,
Such deeds, devoid of godliness and pity,
Are done in absence of the tell-tale light.
Lampless and silent all the gloomy night,
Such deeds, devoid of godliness and pity,
Are done in absence of the tell-tale light.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |