University of Virginia Library

JASPER'S EXPIATION.

“No dream hath come to me this night,
Through the long darkness to the light,
Which rose at last in Hell's despite.
Thoughts have been things; strange life has crept
About me; through my pulses leapt:
Loud knockings at my heart and brain,
Quick worms meandering through each vein.
A thousand times the hoarded wealth
Thou got'st by murder or by stealth,
A thousand years of youth and health,
I'd scorn, ay, if quadrupled thrice,
Were such another night the price.
Thou hast done this; 'tis thou hast made
A terror of the sexton's spade;
Thou hast made death than living worse,
And thou who hast made life a curse.
And so I curse thee; from my soul,
Lost as it is, on thee I thrust
A curse, which down thy earthy hole
Shall go with thee, and rack thy dust;
And be a life within thy clay,
A horror, till the Judgment day!”
“Away,” cried Jasper, “hence—away;
'Tis vain for thee to talk, thy words
Are human, and thy voice affords
A comfort; yet speed hence, and stay
The death which now is on its way.
Proclaim all we have sworn, a lie.”
“And shall we save our lives thereby?”
Cried Kirke. “I saw both you and me,
Hanging upon the gallows tree;
This, in the darkness, did I see.
Shall we escape?”
“Thou may'st be sav'd;
My stone waits but to be engrav'd;
'Tis hewn and shap'd: my life is nought:
Stay! let a scrivener be brought:
Thou dost my bidding? be but true;
My will shall leave no cause to rue.”
Kirke did not hasten thence—he flew.
But he returns a different man;
Never was wretch so wild and wan.
The scrivener who first doth scan
His visage, is more struck with dread,
Than when, remov'd unto his bed,
Jasper confess'd his guilt, and bade
His deposition quick be made.
But Kirke comes not alone; he brings
A wayward thing, who mows and sings,
Peers through her fingers, and is pleas'd,
Then pouts, and will not be appeas'd.
Jasper beholds and swoons—I wis,
His dream was not more dread than this.
Soft! he revives. “Now hear me, Brooke,”
Said Kirke, and on his bosom strook,
“I saw him, and the sight hath dried
My blood, and now what may betide
I care not:—he is dead and gone;
Be this engraven on thy stone.
Poor knave! he died before his hour;
I bring his wife for a fresh dower.
The law comes for us; I can smell
The dogs are nigh, and hear their yell;
I go my journey—so farewell!”
He goes, and the poor witless girl
Draws up her lip in a proud curl,
And says, “Well done!” and with mock ire,
Commands the scrivener to admire,
Then pours such tales into his ear,
As almost craze the listener.
“All—all—in masses for my soul;
Dost hear me, Graves? I say the whole:
Straight pen it down, let it be sign'd:
O! what a weight is on my mind!”
Then Graves draws nigh—“Good Sir, my speech
A moment would your ear beseech—
The girl”—here Julia nodding smil'd—
“Spoke of the father of her child.”
“Do what thou wilt—do what thou wilt—
O God! what way to lessen guilt!
I tell thee, man, I must not die;
It is my flesh that fails, not I.”
The leech is come, but strives in vain
To soothe the fever of the brain.
Jasper dies raving:—close the scene—
'Tis fearful to behold, I ween,
But now he lies, as calm, as mild,
As silent as a sleeping child.
Now, when the scrivener and the leech,
Awe-stricken, leave the place of death,
What is the hideous thing that each
Beholds, down-looking far beneath?
The two descend, holding their breath,
Fearing, from death above they go,
To meet him once again below.
Nor are they wrong; 'tis even so.
Kirke, in a noose his hands had made,
Hangs from the lowest balustrade:—
His journey had not been delay'd.
There was a merchant, on whose face
A gravity of solemn grace
Dwelt ever; he was widely known,
Nor by the sons of wealth alone;
For the poor bless'd him, and the sad
Of heart were at his words made glad;
Such power o'er others' griefs he had.
And oft his pensive steps he bent
Towards a marble monument,
Whereat, when none were standing nigh,
He would oft pray, and with a sigh
Depart, and with a lingering look:—
The merchant's name was Philip Brooke.