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GREGORY BRANDON.
[_]
[Gregory Brandon, the executioner of Charles the First, did not long survive him, and pined in his last sickness for want of the forgiveness of his sovereign.]
“What irks thee, father?—in thy sleep
I see thee toss and start,
While sometimes deep and fearful groans
Burst from thy labouring heart,
And often, since this fever came,
I hear thee wildly say,
Amid the conflict of thy dream,
‘Turn, turn those eyes away.’”
I see thee toss and start,
While sometimes deep and fearful groans
Burst from thy labouring heart,
And often, since this fever came,
I hear thee wildly say,
Amid the conflict of thy dream,
‘Turn, turn those eyes away.’”
“My life hath been a life of blood,”
The sick man said with pain,
“And monsters from its curdling flood
Creep out and haunt my brain:
But, daughter, such hath been thy love,
That I will tell thee true.”
He paused, and o'er his forehead came
The starting drops, like dew.
The sick man said with pain,
“And monsters from its curdling flood
Creep out and haunt my brain:
But, daughter, such hath been thy love,
That I will tell thee true.”
He paused, and o'er his forehead came
The starting drops, like dew.
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“When civil war, with countless ills,
Our suffering land dismayed,
I still was reckless of her woe,
Nor loathed the headman's trade.
Full many a proud and gallant head
My axe hath shred away,
And merry was I in my cups,
Though I had need to pray.
Our suffering land dismayed,
I still was reckless of her woe,
Nor loathed the headman's trade.
Full many a proud and gallant head
My axe hath shred away,
And merry was I in my cups,
Though I had need to pray.
“Once, on a bitter, wintry day,
Five weeks from Christmas tide,
When in Rosemary Lane we lived,
Ere your poor mother died,
Stout Axtel drew me from my home,
Stern man he was, and grim,
And, with a heavy, silver bribe
Lured me to go with him.
Five weeks from Christmas tide,
When in Rosemary Lane we lived,
Ere your poor mother died,
Stout Axtel drew me from my home,
Stern man he was, and grim,
And, with a heavy, silver bribe
Lured me to go with him.
“A butcher's coat, a sable mask,
Did form and face enshrine,
And well such hideous garb beseemed
So dire a deed as mine,
To Whitehall's stately dome he led,
And by that palace fair,
Strange guest!—a scaffold rudely framed,
And block, and axe, were there.
Did form and face enshrine,
And well such hideous garb beseemed
So dire a deed as mine,
To Whitehall's stately dome he led,
And by that palace fair,
Strange guest!—a scaffold rudely framed,
And block, and axe, were there.
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“Then, from that fair and princely hall,
Where oft the feast was spread,
He came,—who bare the anointing oil
Upon his royal head,
As noble was his beaming brow,
As clear his dauntless tone,
As when a sceptred hand he raised,
And filled a nation's throne.
Where oft the feast was spread,
He came,—who bare the anointing oil
Upon his royal head,
As noble was his beaming brow,
As clear his dauntless tone,
As when a sceptred hand he raised,
And filled a nation's throne.
“None, save a prelate bathed in tears,
A servant true and tried,
A soldier with uncovered head,
Stood firmly by his side;
While all around, a countless throng
Like blackening clouds did lower,
That erst with peans loud and long
Would hail his day of power.
A servant true and tried,
A soldier with uncovered head,
Stood firmly by his side;
While all around, a countless throng
Like blackening clouds did lower,
That erst with peans loud and long
Would hail his day of power.
“The hour had come, I bowed me down
There, on that fatal spot,
To win his pardon for my crime;
Yet he forgave me not,
But turned his large and lustrous eyes
With such a mournful ray,
That never from my inmost soul
Their glance hath fled away.
There, on that fatal spot,
To win his pardon for my crime;
Yet he forgave me not,
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With such a mournful ray,
That never from my inmost soul
Their glance hath fled away.
“The hour had come. The prelate spake
Like one with anguish riven:
‘One stage alone, my king, remains,
One step from earth to heaven.’
Calm was the sufferer's voice, ‘A clime
From all disturbance free,
A heavenly and immortal crown
A good exchange shall be.’
Like one with anguish riven:
‘One stage alone, my king, remains,
One step from earth to heaven.’
Calm was the sufferer's voice, ‘A clime
From all disturbance free,
A heavenly and immortal crown
A good exchange shall be.’
“He murmured low, in prayer profound,
Beside the block he knelt;
But ah! once more those searching eyes
Did make my spirit melt.
And scarcely knowing what I did,
I struck!—with hollow sound
Methought the moaning earth replied,—
And all was dark around.
Beside the block he knelt;
But ah! once more those searching eyes
Did make my spirit melt.
And scarcely knowing what I did,
I struck!—with hollow sound
Methought the moaning earth replied,—
And all was dark around.
“I saw not, when that head they raised;
Yet on the scaffold dire,
The trickling drops of sacred blood
Did scathe my soul like fire,
While from the people's grieving heart
Rose such a groan of pain,
As never more this English realm
I trust shall hear again.
Yet on the scaffold dire,
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Did scathe my soul like fire,
While from the people's grieving heart
Rose such a groan of pain,
As never more this English realm
I trust shall hear again.
“Then fiercely through the mourning ranks
The arméd horsemen rode,
Rudely enforcing every man
To seek his own abode;
But there in mine, my glittering hoard,
My thirty pounds well told,
Seemed as the traitor Judas' hire,
For which his hope was sold.”
The arméd horsemen rode,
Rudely enforcing every man
To seek his own abode;
But there in mine, my glittering hoard,
My thirty pounds well told,
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For which his hope was sold.”
“O father! father! fret not so,”
The pitying maiden said,
“It was your lot, and not your will,
To do this work of dread.
Grim men were those, and hard of heart,
Who bore the rule that day;
And had you spared the precious blood,
Most sure your own would pay.”
The pitying maiden said,
“It was your lot, and not your will,
To do this work of dread.
Grim men were those, and hard of heart,
Who bore the rule that day;
And had you spared the precious blood,
Most sure your own would pay.”
“They might have torn me limb from limb,
Or crushed me to the tomb,
But thus to linger slow away
Doth seem a harder doom,—
To moulder piecemeal here, my child,
And night and day to see
Those solemn and reproachful eyes
For ever fixed on me.
Or crushed me to the tomb,
But thus to linger slow away
Doth seem a harder doom,—
To moulder piecemeal here, my child,
And night and day to see
Those solemn and reproachful eyes
For ever fixed on me.
“In health, or youthful prime, our sins
Lie on the conscience light;
But in the dark and evil time,
With scorpion lash they smite.
O daughter! who with duteous feet
Life's dangerous path dost tread,
Keep clean thy hands, keep pure thy heart,
And bide the bar of dread.”
Lie on the conscience light;
But in the dark and evil time,
With scorpion lash they smite.
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Life's dangerous path dost tread,
Keep clean thy hands, keep pure thy heart,
And bide the bar of dread.”
Once, at the chill and shadowy dawn,
With noiseless step she crept
Beside the sick man's bed to see
If peacefully he slept.
The straining eyes were open wide,
The lips asunder set,
And closely clenched the wasted hands,
As if some foe he met.
With noiseless step she crept
Beside the sick man's bed to see
If peacefully he slept.
The straining eyes were open wide,
The lips asunder set,
And closely clenched the wasted hands,
As if some foe he met.
But in those orbs there was no light,
Upon those lips no breath,
And every rigid feature wore
The torture stamp of death.
And ever as she onward fared,
Through change and chance of life,
Or wrote new titles on its scroll,
Of mother and of wife,—
Upon those lips no breath,
And every rigid feature wore
The torture stamp of death.
And ever as she onward fared,
Through change and chance of life,
Or wrote new titles on its scroll,
Of mother and of wife,—
Oft, o'er her weary couch of rest,
The dying sire would seem
With fixed and glazing eyes to give
Strange horror to her dream.
And as the sinful wail arose
Of one who shunned to pray,
She shuddered at the spirit-cry,—
“Turn, turn those eyes away.”
The dying sire would seem
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Strange horror to her dream.
And as the sinful wail arose
Of one who shunned to pray,
She shuddered at the spirit-cry,—
“Turn, turn those eyes away.”
Bishop Juxon, Sir Thomas Herbert, and Col. Tomlinson, accompanied Charles the First to the scaffold.
The biographer of the Rev. Philip Henry, a pious and excellent non-conformist divine, thus remarks: “He was at Whitehall, January 30th, 1648, when the king was beheaded, and with a sad heart saw that tragical blow given. Two things he used to speak of, which I know not whether any of the historians mention. One was, that, at the instant when the blow was given, there was such a dismal, universal groan among the many thousands of people, as he never heard before, and desired he might never hear the like again. The other was, that, immediately after the stroke was struck, there was, according to order, one troop marching from Charing Cross towards King-street, and another from King-street to Charing Cross, purposely to disperse and scatter the people, and divert the dismal thoughts that they could not but be filled with, by driving them to shift every one for his own safety.”
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