University of Virginia Library

And now before his Worship stands
Philip; and they unloose his bands.
Aloft, of sage head, slow to err,
The Justice sits in gown of fur;
Beneath, a solemn officer,
Who lifts his sudden lids, and then
Again to his assiduous pen.
“How, Master Brooke,” the Justice cries,
At first distrustful of his eyes,
“You here! Your son, too, in this wise!
What should this mean? How should this be?”

“May't please your Worship, ask not me;
My faithful servant, standing by,
He will depose”—An usher straight
Hands Kirke the sacred book to kiss;
While, with a bitter emphasis,
Sighs Jasper, “Blest had been my fate
To die; too long I live, and late,
Since it hath come to this!”
And staying speech, as though perforce,
Folds hands. “Let justice take its course.”

Then Kirke heaves up his voice to tell
A tale which he had conn'd too well;
No lesson had he wont to spell,
Which, when 'twas learn'd, and turned to deed,
Gain'd brave broad pieces for its meed.
“May't please you, my good master here,
Whom I have serv'd this fifty year,
Had lost—mislaid at first he thought—
Treasures from foreign countries brought.
He ask'd me knew I of them aught?
God's mercy! I! I do protest
Methought my master spoke in jest.
A rope of pearls; a Venice chain,
Which on a King's breast might have lain;
A golden cup a King might drain.
He question'd me of these—alack!
No wish of mine could fetch them back,
Unless I owned a magic ring,
The lost, or like the lost, to bring
Safe, by a genie, as they sing.
I watch'd, as Master Brooke beseech'd;
My honesty in part impeach'd,
My duty, my fidelity,
Quicken'd my sense, sharpen'd my eye;
And what at length did it descry?
That I should live to see so clear!
That I should live to tell it here!
Heaven aid me as I hope to thrive!
Young Master Philip, as I live,
Have I not sworn it? and 'tis truth—
True as the creed—I saw the youth,
Myself behind the arras hid,
Saw him creep past me where I stood,
And softly raise the casket-lid,
Wherein lay, by the Holy Rood!
A ruby, red as fairies' blood,
Telling whose worth, belief would fail,
Pric'd at its carats by the tale,
Committed to the goldsmith's scale.
This did I see him filch; he fled,
I following, fill'd with grief and dread.
And to his chamber did he go,
And in his trunk the gem bestow.
Now, when I told this work of woe
To Master Brooke, as duty bade,
Beshrew me, he was well nigh mad;
Call'd me opprobrious names, and swore
I did belie the youth, traduce
The virtuous mother who him bore;
Curs'd me, and the pernicious use
He had put me to; in fine, we clomb,
Like wretches to a midnight tomb,
Trembling, to Master Philip's room;
And there the wrench'd trunk render'd up
The ruby, chain, and pearls, and cup.”

Old Kirke has told his tale at large:
What thinks the Justice of the charge?
He knows not what to think, perplext;
What comment fits so wild a text?
His inmost soul is sorely vex'd.
“Bethink you, Master Brooke,” he said,
“You stand in awful case herein;
Yourself against your son array'd,
Makes justice look as black as sin.
This boy should be your age's staff,
Should grave and gild your epitaph;
Yours—but his mother claims him half.
Let me adjure you in her name,
Strive to awake him, and reclaim.
Justice by mercy is enhanc'd;
The sore of sin by mercy lanc'd,
Knows a blest healing; angels bent
Out of the skies watch the event,
And weeping, teach the penitent.
Think twice, I say.”

“Your worship speaks,”
Said Jasper, “to draw tears down cheeks,
As witness Kirke; but, for my part,
I lack that impulse, or that art.
Think! say'st thou? think! think twice or thrice!
I have thought enough; let that suffice.
Justice must not be nipp'd, or nice,
But irrespective, like to Him
Who arms the glowing cherubim.
Breath must not stain its sword, or dim.
Thou know'st this well, and know'st it true.
What did the rigid Roman do?
And do we call him beast, or rather,
From his illustrious bearing gather
How justice best becomes a father?
I have thought my thought, and said my say;
Bear I this shame as best I may.”

Now, when the worthy Justice heard
This speech of Jasper's, he was stirr'd;
And pluck'd his gown, and well nigh rent,
To know his reason gave consent,
To what his gentle heart abhorr'd;
And each unanswerable word
He hates; but self-rebuk'd, anon—
“What says the boy?”

He asks a stone.
Nothing. How oft is dear blood spilt!
Preach, prying casuist, as thou wilt,
How oft looks innocence like guilt!
When Philip had awak'd to sense,
So that he heard Kirke's evidence,
He was so wrapt with wonder round,
So scar'd by that, ne'er sought but found,
Hell's doing on Heaven-ransom'd ground,
That his own hearing he denied;
'Twas that, not his accuser, lied.
The tender Justice's appeal
To Jasper, what did it import?
To shriek “Not guilty!” through the court,
And with an oath the assertion seal,
Was his first motion; but the steel
Drove home, when Jasper speaks: accus'd—
Nature, humanity, abus'd—
Truth outrag'd, Heaven renounc'd, defied—
The warm blood, in a gushing tide,
Was from the poor boy's heart effus'd;
And to his mind doth glide
The hellish practice, plain and clear,
As though himself were standing near,
When each into each whisper'd ear,
Fashion'd the plan, and shap'd the plot,
As round and sable as a blot.

And now (O! holy weakness!) came
A feeling of reflected shame.
Here was his father: must he take,
Even for his life and honour's sake,
The measure of his acts, and make
Such replication as, allow'd,
Sends his own sire, a monster bow'd
With shame, through a remorseless crowd?
Then, detestation in his breast,
Then, fear lest, impious, he detest
Him whom his mother once lov'd best.
Then, desolation in his mind,
Nature, and woe, and mercy, join'd
With thought of her he left behind.
So he said nothing; but sank down
A leaden grief from sole to crown,
Into the anguish of a swoon.

“He stands committed!” This—no more,
The Justice said, and to a door
Points Kirke and Jasper, and—'tis o'er.
And thence the two old men depart
By a by-passage, light of heart;
One, that revenge is on its way,
And one, that he hath earn'd his pay.
Of the two hideous passions, say,
Thou who canst human hearts unfold,
Which sooner will itself allay,
The thirst of blood, or thirst of gold?
Neither is quench'd as men grow old.