 | War-lyrics and other poems |  |
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JACK'S VISITOR.
'Tis a dull, flat common—a lonely moor,
Where the grass is withered and scant and poor.
In its soil so barren, swampy, and low,
The very weeds have forgotten to grow.
Poisoning the air and clouding the sky,
The monster London croucheth hard by—
(All day long from her nostrils rolled
Flames and smoke, like the giants of old)—
And the breath of her thousand fires comes forth
To taint the air, when the wind is north.
Where the grass is withered and scant and poor.
In its soil so barren, swampy, and low,
The very weeds have forgotten to grow.
Poisoning the air and clouding the sky,
The monster London croucheth hard by—
(All day long from her nostrils rolled
Flames and smoke, like the giants of old)—
And the breath of her thousand fires comes forth
To taint the air, when the wind is north.
Beside it the brackish river runs,
Burdened with ships of a thousand tons.
Their black hulks float on the sluggish tide,
Or rot at anchor in reaches wide.
Burdened with ships of a thousand tons.
Their black hulks float on the sluggish tide,
Or rot at anchor in reaches wide.
Robbers and murderers, half a score,
Are hung in chains on the lonely shore;
Where the sun seems only to lend his light,
To “fleer and mock” at the ghastly sight.
Are hung in chains on the lonely shore;
This tasteful and salutary practice is of ancient date, and would seem to have been originally founded on the idea that —(to use the quaint words of Mr. Justice Blackstone)—“it is a comfortable sight to the relations and friends of the deceased.”
Further to promote this “comfortable” frame of mind, it was also customary for the relations and friends aforesaid to drag the criminal by a long rope to the place of execution,— a process ingeniously and kindly devised to soothe their bereaved and excited feelings.
The description which old Plowden (in his barbarous law-French) cites from Bromely, is too curious to be omitted.
“.... quaunt le felon fuit troue culpable en appel de murder, que le auncyant usage fuyt, que touts ceux del sanke (sang) cesty que fuyt murder traheront le felon per longe corde al execution, quel use fuit foundue sur le perd q tout le sank auoit pur le murder del un de eux, et pur lour reuengement, et le amour que ils auoyent a luy tue, ceo fuit suit use.”
—II Henry 4, 12.Where the sun seems only to lend his light,
To “fleer and mock” at the ghastly sight.
But the earth was hoary with frost and snow,
When here, in a house that is long laid low,
On a winter night, in the century gone,
Jack Ketch sat over his fire alone.
Weary—for he had been hard at work—
I know not whether on Hare or Burke—
But the noose on each neck had been deftly twined,
And the bodies wavered in frost and wind.
When here, in a house that is long laid low,
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Jack Ketch sat over his fire alone.
Weary—for he had been hard at work—
I know not whether on Hare or Burke—
But the noose on each neck had been deftly twined,
And the bodies wavered in frost and wind.
The fire was low, the lamp burnt dim,
And the night seemed dreary, even to him.
For the storm was abroad in its wildest glee,
Rushing like mad over land and sea.
Shook each chimney and steeple high,
As the flap of its sullen wings flew by—
A sound ever followed by woe and wail,
Rending of roof and shivering of sail.
And the night seemed dreary, even to him.
For the storm was abroad in its wildest glee,
Rushing like mad over land and sea.
Shook each chimney and steeple high,
As the flap of its sullen wings flew by—
A sound ever followed by woe and wail,
Rending of roof and shivering of sail.
Lord! how it blew!—'twas a night as wild
As that, when a mother who bore her child
Starving and shivering amid the storm,
Had stolen a blanket to keep it warm.
'Twas a thought that well might his memory greet—
He had hanged her himself in Newgate-street!
As that, when a mother who bore her child
Starving and shivering amid the storm,
Had stolen a blanket to keep it warm.
'Twas a thought that well might his memory greet—
He had hanged her himself in Newgate-street!
He thinks of her—and he thinks of those
He has left without to the storms and snows:
Of the chains that creak where they swing on high,
And their rags that flap as the wind sweeps by.
He has left without to the storms and snows:
Of the chains that creak where they swing on high,
And their rags that flap as the wind sweeps by.
Was that a knock? no, 'tis but the blast,
That shakes his door as it hurries past.
For the winds, like urchins wild in their play,
Knock naughty “doubles,” and scamper away.
And the sleet and snow, and the hail and rain
Are tapping hard at his window-pane.
That shakes his door as it hurries past.
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Knock naughty “doubles,” and scamper away.
And the sleet and snow, and the hail and rain
Are tapping hard at his window-pane.
What ails the dog that he creeps aside
Moaning and seeking a place to hide?
He lifts his paws as if stepping on eggs,
And his tail is hanging between his legs!
Moaning and seeking a place to hide?
He lifts his paws as if stepping on eggs,
And his tail is hanging between his legs!
Again, a knocking! but, as I live,
'Twas a knock that a dead-man's hand might give!
'Twas a knock that a dead-man's hand might give!
The sound was hollow, and heavy, and hard
As the oaken panel whereon it jarred.
And hark! through the storm it cometh again,
Like the knob of some testy old gentleman's cane!
As the oaken panel whereon it jarred.
And hark! through the storm it cometh again,
Like the knob of some testy old gentleman's cane!
A hand without is trying the pin—
He growls in a surly tone “come in.”
The door on its hinges slowly creaks
Like a wheel that hath not been oiled for weeks.
It grates half open—a man comes through,
And the wind, and the rain, and the snow come too.
But the door behind him he closeth tight,
As one who knew 'twas a bitter night.
And like one that dreadeth the dark and damp,
Draws near to the fire, and the fading lamp.
He growls in a surly tone “come in.”
The door on its hinges slowly creaks
Like a wheel that hath not been oiled for weeks.
It grates half open—a man comes through,
And the wind, and the rain, and the snow come too.
But the door behind him he closeth tight,
As one who knew 'twas a bitter night.
And like one that dreadeth the dark and damp,
Draws near to the fire, and the fading lamp.
Oh Christ! can this be a thing of earth,
That cowers and shivers upon the hearth?
And over the wretched spark that lingers,
Spreads those frozen, skeleton fingers!
That cowers and shivers upon the hearth?
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Spreads those frozen, skeleton fingers!
With its hollow cheek, and its glassy eye,
All ghastly and withered, shrunken and dry!
Its ribs that hardly can hide the heart,
And its blue thin lips drawn wide apart!
So shrivelled, they cannot cover the teeth,
That grin like a starving dog's beneath—
And the arms all wasted and worn to the bone—
(Might move to pity a heart of stone.)
A few bleached rags on its limbs remain,
And rusted fragments of iron chain.
Crouching low o'er the dying brands,
It rubs and stretches its bony hands!
All ghastly and withered, shrunken and dry!
Its ribs that hardly can hide the heart,
And its blue thin lips drawn wide apart!
So shrivelled, they cannot cover the teeth,
That grin like a starving dog's beneath—
And the arms all wasted and worn to the bone—
(Might move to pity a heart of stone.)
A few bleached rags on its limbs remain,
And rusted fragments of iron chain.
Crouching low o'er the dying brands,
It rubs and stretches its bony hands!
Fain would he fly—but he sits there still—
Hand nor foot can move at his will.
Long o'er the ashes that shivering form
Strove its lean withered hands to warm—
But the air seemed death-like and icy chill,
And the storm waxed louder and colder still.
Hand nor foot can move at his will.
Long o'er the ashes that shivering form
Strove its lean withered hands to warm—
But the air seemed death-like and icy chill,
And the storm waxed louder and colder still.
The watch-dog moans, and the lamp burns blue,
And Jack on his brow feels a deadly dew.
But his heart grew chiller than Iceland snows,
When that fearful guest from the hearth arose,
And with faltering footsteps across the room,
Hath ta'en his way through the gathering gloom,
And stayed his steps at the wainscot, where
Jack's choicest gear was arrayed with care.
On a long row of pegs, in order strung,
The trophies and perquisites neatly hung,
Picked up in his pleasant official path—
For a goodly wardrobe our hangman hath!
And Jack on his brow feels a deadly dew.
But his heart grew chiller than Iceland snows,
When that fearful guest from the hearth arose,
And with faltering footsteps across the room,
Hath ta'en his way through the gathering gloom,
And stayed his steps at the wainscot, where
Jack's choicest gear was arrayed with care.
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The trophies and perquisites neatly hung,
Picked up in his pleasant official path—
For a goodly wardrobe our hangman hath!
There was many a garment great and small,
Surtout and jacket and over-all,
Kersey and beaver and fustian stout,
Waistcoat, breeches, and roundabout.
There was many a burly and bluff top-boot,
Drawn from a highwayman's sturdy foot:
And many a pump, thin-soled and spare,
That had danced at least when it “danced i'the air.”
Surtout and jacket and over-all,
Kersey and beaver and fustian stout,
Waistcoat, breeches, and roundabout.
There was many a burly and bluff top-boot,
Drawn from a highwayman's sturdy foot:
And many a pump, thin-soled and spare,
That had danced at least when it “danced i'the air.”
And the shivering wretch that gropes by the wall,
Its clammy grasp hath laid on them all.
One by one, they are fingered o'er,
Till it taketh the coat that once it wore.
It hath gotten its coat,—but there it stands
Fumbling and feeling with trembling hands:
Poking before and peeping behind—
“'Tis looking for summat it cannot find!”
Its clammy grasp hath laid on them all.
One by one, they are fingered o'er,
Till it taketh the coat that once it wore.
It hath gotten its coat,—but there it stands
Fumbling and feeling with trembling hands:
Poking before and peeping behind—
“'Tis looking for summat it cannot find!”
Why does the hangman start and stare
At the wasted knees, and the ankles bare?
He eyes those naked limbs with a groan—
The dead-man's small-clothes are on his own!
And the dead-man, or his skeleton ghost,
Turns a stony eye on his gasping host.
A bony foot at his side doth stand—
He feels the touch of a bony hand—
Cold as an icicle—nothing more—
For he fell in a fit on the old oak floor.
At the wasted knees, and the ankles bare?
He eyes those naked limbs with a groan—
The dead-man's small-clothes are on his own!
And the dead-man, or his skeleton ghost,
Turns a stony eye on his gasping host.
A bony foot at his side doth stand—
He feels the touch of a bony hand—
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For he fell in a fit on the old oak floor.
The morning broke over dale and hill;
The storm had passed, and the winds were still.
The sun was streaming the casement through,
And Jack, like a ship in a squall, “came to.”
Nipping and cold was the morning air—
The garment was gone, and his legs were bare!
The storm had passed, and the winds were still.
The sun was streaming the casement through,
And Jack, like a ship in a squall, “came to.”
Nipping and cold was the morning air—
The garment was gone, and his legs were bare!
Next day, where togs are offered to view,
As good as new, (if you'll trust the Jew,)
At the “Grand Emporium” in Monmouth-street,
A fine display might the passenger meet!
A goodly bargain hath Israel made—
Well hath he plenished his stock in trade.
As good as new, (if you'll trust the Jew,)
At the “Grand Emporium” in Monmouth-street,
A fine display might the passenger meet!
A goodly bargain hath Israel made—
Well hath he plenished his stock in trade.
In the Times, next morn, amid lands and rents,
Moneys, mortgages, Three per Cents—
Watches stolen—purses mislaid—
Children lost, and puppy-dogs strayed—
Wedding equipments—winding sheets—
Cradles and coffins, and juggler's feats—
'Mid Patent Pills—Insurance on lives—
Wives wanting husbands, and husbands, wives—
False teeth—false eyes—false bosoms—false hearts—
False heads—and other yet falser parts!
With similar items, was noted down
A “nice little residence, just out of town”—
“An airy location”—“convenient for trade”—
And a “pleasant neighborhood” too, 'twas said!
Just ere the Sheriff, in solemn state,
To his dinner that evening sate—
“Mr. Ketch,” said the footman tall,
“Vaits his vorship vithin the hall.”
A shocking bad hat is doffed to the ground,
And Jack bows low, as in duty bound;
And tenders in form a resignation
Of his useful, exalted—exalting station.
Moneys, mortgages, Three per Cents—
Watches stolen—purses mislaid—
Children lost, and puppy-dogs strayed—
Wedding equipments—winding sheets—
Cradles and coffins, and juggler's feats—
'Mid Patent Pills—Insurance on lives—
Wives wanting husbands, and husbands, wives—
False teeth—false eyes—false bosoms—false hearts—
False heads—and other yet falser parts!
With similar items, was noted down
A “nice little residence, just out of town”—
“An airy location”—“convenient for trade”—
And a “pleasant neighborhood” too, 'twas said!
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To his dinner that evening sate—
“Mr. Ketch,” said the footman tall,
“Vaits his vorship vithin the hall.”
A shocking bad hat is doffed to the ground,
And Jack bows low, as in duty bound;
And tenders in form a resignation
Of his useful, exalted—exalting station.
The Sheriff hears with a heavy heart,
Loth from his trusty friend to part,
Who had served him long, and with right good-will—
'Twas not that the office was hard to fill!
He yields the point, though with evil grace—
“There were gemmen enough who would like the place.”
And from that hour, on the Thames' foul shore,
Jack Ketch in his haunts was seen no more.
Loth from his trusty friend to part,
Who had served him long, and with right good-will—
'Twas not that the office was hard to fill!
He yields the point, though with evil grace—
“There were gemmen enough who would like the place.”
And from that hour, on the Thames' foul shore,
Jack Ketch in his haunts was seen no more.
And oh, if the wisdom so dearly bought
In the dark, dark lesson the past hath taught—
If the slighted counsels of Love and Worth,
And the tears of angels weeping for earth,
And the prayers of the just were not all in vain—
We ne'er should look on his like again!
In the dark, dark lesson the past hath taught—
If the slighted counsels of Love and Worth,
And the tears of angels weeping for earth,
And the prayers of the just were not all in vain—
We ne'er should look on his like again!
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