University of Virginia Library

Yet what am I? A robber: and why bring
In robbers' haunts so fair and sweet a thing?
Men who will steal a purse a heart will steal,
And beauty wakes the roughest hearts to feel.
Why did I wrong her with the name of wife
And hate her as the dearest thing in life?
For love like mine is nothing else but hate—
To link bright beings to so dark a fate;
Who if she knew one link that holds that tie,
Her heart would chill with terrors all and die,
Her ears would grow too adamant to hear
One word related of that tale of fear,
Her soul would be on fire could she but see
One shadow of a robber's history.

'Tis night, 'tis midnight!—hark, the horse's tramp
Comes plashing through the old heath's hollow swamp.
We tied the gate—and ere that gate we tied,
Or held that weapon, would that I had died!
The traveller heard one whistle shrill and clear,
And muttered: ‘Poachers! come on, Dobbin, never fear!’
The horse could see us at the wood gate stand
And snorted at the weapon in my hand;
But the old farmer checked the trembling steed
To try the gate—and midnight knew the deed.
The shot was fired—dead silence paused—then groans
That would have fretted human hearts to stones;
And that last groan of uttermost despair,
I hear it now—or did I stir the chair?
That last groan waked an echo which I hear
Now and for ever, here and everywhere—
A howl—a shriek—a hoarse unearthly call—
'Twas this and that and all made up of all;
Just from our lair it came within the wood:
‘They're mine; they've sealed the bond in death and blood.’
The gun dropt from my hand, and where it fell
The ground seemed opening like the mouth of hell.
I was not drunk but sober all, yet fear
Could see that sight and still that sound could hear;
And though I stopt my ears and held my breath,
The wind and grass and bushes muttered ‘Death!’
‘Do good and good shall come,’ the parson said;
But I was poaching while he preached or prayed.
And when he read his lessons and his prayers,
My mind was busy after dogs and hares.
‘Do good and good shall come.’ I know it now.
Oh, could I wipe this murther from my brow!
And good had come, but harm blocks all the way,
And I must suffer, for I cannot pray.
Look! there's the wood gate—don't you see it tied?
Untie it now—and throw that gun aside!
No; all's too late—you help me all in vain;
Blood will for ever on its bands remain.
I hear the groan again, the midnight yell;
Guns may go off half cocked—but ere mine fell
The shot was fired; yet when it met the ground
A sputtering fire one moment blazed around;
Trees trembled to their trunks, a dreadful sign,
When that unearthly hoarseness muttered ‘Mine!’
I hear't again! Oh, wipe that stain away,
That stains that dreadful place this very day.
Nay, chop the bushes up, they speak so loud.
Look! now 'tis there upon that dismal cloud:
A giant—no a monster—sails; look there!
He'll swallow up the moon, stars, all—beware!
He hears the muttering guns; well, never fear;
'Tis but a hare—the crime is not severe.
There, now 'tis changed!—a dragon from his hole,
His body black, his head a burning coal:
Oh, what a horrid picture! don't you see?
He darts his venom fangs and mocks at me.
Ah, that's the horrid demon of the heath!
Chop down those trees—I choke for want of breath.
Nay, take that bullet out—'twill burst the gun!
The gun's not bursted, but the deed is done.
Grub up the bushes! ‘Death,’ they sighed and sighed.
I stopt my ears to hear; he groaned—and died.

The robber's wife had all that women heir,
A form all lovely, and a face so fair
In nature's sunny lap she seemed as nursed,
Until the robber into misery cursed
Her poor forsaken presence. Wonder stared
On that sweet face that sorrow sadly marred,
And marvelled how a flower of winning grace
Could trust itself in such a dangerous place
As the affections of a robber's heart.
But in love's faith suspicion bears no part;
They could not feel, while wasting idle breath,
That love like ivy clings to life and death.
Yet when the law's decision met her ears,
The last hope [fell] that propt up all her fears;
So young, so beautiful, she was not born
To stand against the world's down-trampling scorn.
Rich beauty ne'er was made for thorny ways,
That only blooms and thrives on smiles and praise.
It could not bear the withering frowns of scorn;
As well might blossoms bear a frosty morn.
She withered into death for nothing done,
And shunned her life that had no sin to shun.
Then pity's hand was held before its eyes,
And scorn itself grew tender in disguise;
‘So young, so beautiful, and thus to die!’—
So pity sighed; scorn uttered no reply.