University of Virginia Library

Outcast,—and bad,—I dare say you are right.
I am a villain, viler than you think.
I've done most things men say are wickedness,
And not much cared to set myself to square
With what you call commandments. I had strength,
And will and appetite,—a lusty man
Even from my youth,—could eat and could enjoy,
And never chose to give enjoyment up
For stupid sacrifice or love of God.
I loved my wenchings more, and plenty of meat,
And drink that made me almost like a god—
Even if it sometimes made a fool of me.
Commandments! I cared nothing for command;
But liked to live, and lived most as I liked.
I ate and drank. When I was short of food,
I stole it. Was not that my natural right?
And your rich folk had only stolen from me.
What is a man if he may not eat and drink,
And kiss his woman? O, when life was young
I had my time of it. Now I grow old,
I am no humbug to repent and whine.

But there are other things. Of course there are.
Trees grow, have higher branches and more leaves.
There's nought I'll take the trouble to deny.
Why should I? Shame and I have never met.
Shame is a decently dress'd and pretty maid,
Brought up in a Sunday School, and kept in-doors
By a good mistress, and not fed too high
For fear her parish cheeks get too much blood
And tempt some sinner as she crawls from church
In the summer evenings. I'd not watch for such.
I'd scarcely turn my head to look at her,
Even though I lay in the grass not half asleep
While she pass'd by with hymn-book under arm,
Looking demurely down upon her gloves.
There was no one like Shame I ever knew:
I kept no company with such as She.
Red cheeks with rich blood in them, full thick lips
That ask'd to be bitten, limbs as firm as mine:
I thought these better than your modesties.
We were wild beasts then, and we liked it well.

But there were other things—you said just now.
I am not for denial. I'm not shamed.
I have had blood upon my hands. What then?
I wash'd it off. The man had injured me.
I heard the other day a gentleman
Shot down his friend for something he had done,
Or something he had only said of him:
I mind not what. Why should not I the same?
A knife was handier, and a deal more sure.
Done in hot blood—your gentleman in cold!
I've done that too: but it was self-defence.
I had as good a right to fish as they;
Better, for I was hungry, well nigh starved.
I was not fond too of inside the jail.
So, when he laid his hand upon my wrist,
I put my other hand up to his throat,
Tripping him with a quick heel. 'Twas no use
To let him up again. I made an end,
And sent him down the stream to fish for himself.
I have kill'd others too that stood in my way,—
And got no medals for it, soldier-like.
They were my enemies: shall not I fight for myself
As well as for the State that casts me out?

Yes! I broke laws, a plenty. Some of you
Are paid for keeping them. If not, perhaps—
I don't much heed laws, and I never did.
I was not bred to the fashion. From a boy
I have been taught quite other sort of work.
Who makes your laws? I know not, but I know
They bite like wolves' teeth into my free will.
Why shonld I heed them? Tell you, I do not.
I'll drink, wench, poach, and steal, while I have strength;
And when that fails—then you may pray for me.
Much good may it do me when I've lost my teeth.

Still I am sorry for one thing I did:
When I play'd false to one who trusted me,
And who was true and more than kind, poor soul!
I saw some one I fancied more for the time.
She was a fool ever to find it out.
But what did it matter? She was none the worse.
I'd not have liked her though at the same game.
Perhaps she was no better than myself.
There's no good now in thinking over that.—
I tell you, Parson! I'm too stiff to kneel.

Who was Saint Simon? Stuck himself atop
Of a great pillar—so I have been told—
That men might see his utter filthiness.
I am a saint too, standing very high
On my own chosen perch of villainy.
But did I choose it? Say the Devil chose.
The Devil indeed! You parsons talk of him
Like an old friend. Your Devil is so like God
I don't know one from the other. Do I know
There's either? May be there is only one,—
“God” for you rich men, “Devil” for us poor.
Well then, the Devil or God, no matter which,
Has made a saint of me. Of a queer sort?
Not queerer than Saint Simon. Look you now!
Just see, my masters! I am as good as he:
May be almost as dirty, and full of sores
Inside and out, not more of sores than sins:
A thief, a lecher, and a murderer too;
And took my pleasures without caring where,
Or how, or who was worse for what I took.
Was I much worse than most of other men?
I have done just what a lusty fellow would:
Reap'd the world wide and eaten of the best,—
The best within my reach, at any rate.
How do I know but that the Lord mean'd this,
And I've been doing his work at his own wage?
Not too good pay for all I have gone through.
I've not been one of the prosperous of the earth,
Nor known much of fine linen, purple robes,
Lolling in carriages or on soft beds.
Yet I had appetites. I am a man.
Shall I have less than any beastly swine?
The Lord not liking, why did he make me so?
Besides, I mind me that you spoke but now
Of a people who were used to drench their slaves
So their mad pranks might warn the masters' sons
From drinking. May be I'm a saint for that:
A chosen vessel to put vileness in
That better folk may see the worst o' the bad
And so keep better,—for the flesh is weak.
Let me alone! What can you do with me?
Show me to naughty boys to make them good?
I'm a fine scarecrow. Tell you, I'm a saint:
Saint Simon,—or more like Saint Lazarus,
With sins for sores. You dumb dogs lick at them
As if you liked the job of curing me.
Another of your stories! How do you know
I am not set in the dirt to grow for heaven:
A flower for Abraham's bosom some fine day?

Here's your health, Parson! and more luck to you.

First sin, and then the Judgment. It is so.
Father and God! how came this man to sin?
How may I medicine his agony?
What shall I do to help the Impenitent?
Shall I condemn, or shall I speak of peace?
What peace for sin? what peace to the depraved?
What peace before the threatenings of thy wrath?

Are these Thy martyrs? God! Even at the stake,
Before the strangling smoke can ease his pains,
Or underneath the pile of crushing stones,
The Saint upraises his exultant hymn;
Upon the battle-field, too proud to flee,
Or in the last ditch of a long defeat,
Or on the scaffold drench'd with noblest blood,
The hero and the patriot smiling falls,
Passing to Thee with triumph on his brows,
Knowing the future harvest of his loss;
The good physician, the yet tenderer nurse,
Struck down beside the dying or the saved;—
All who for Truth or for the common weal
Have given or risk'd their lives, all these we know:
The glorious army of the Sacrificed,
Thy saints, Thy chosen, who shall reign with Thee,
Their glory as eternal as their worth.
The sufferer who has borne disease or grief—
A daily task from Thee—without complaint;
The beggar Thou translatest up to heaven,
For he was rich in patience; and the poor,
Who knew not, had not, and yet sinn'd not, good
In spite of ignorance: we know them too:
The kingdom of heaven is of such as these.
Surely they are not martyrs, all of whom
Pass crowned conquerors through the gates of love.
The sinning are Thy martyrs, Father! Thou
Seëst them too. Since not a sparrow falls
Unnoticed or unorder'd of Thy Will.

Thou dost not order sin. For is not sin
Itself disorder? Yet disease is Thine.
And vice is but disease of mind or will:
Poorness or imbecility of soul.
If Thou dost order it, it must be good:
And imbecility may be forgiven,
And poorness led to wealth, nor always left
Outside the porch of Thy benevolence.
Why then—the saint and sinner are alike
In Thy esteem: the righteous and the knave:
The rain of Thy compassion falls on both.
The cripple climbeth to the angel's place;
Thou liftest up the loathsome to Thy side,
Not reckoning as wrong what wrought Thy will.
And truly, if these wretches enter heaven,
Good deeds and faith have but an equal claim,
Our righteousness is but as filthy rags,
And saintly Dives sups with Lazarus.

Shall we then envy Wrong and doubt of Right?
Is Evil then all pleasant? and is Good
Only a travail, painful, and in vain?
Not so! not so! Although Thy heaven were not,
Evil and Good are their own sure reward.
Sin yet remaineth sin; and vice is vice,—
The parent of unhappiness and shame,
Weakness, and fear, and heathenish despair—
When not debased to very brutishness.
Right is even here the lord of higher joy
Than ever the voluptuary knew.
Take every pleasure sense and will exchange,
Even in the heyday of their hottest blood,
And one pure thought of duty fairly done—
Whatever be the cost to life or hope—
Outweighs it all. Is holiness so poor,
Or man's best heritage so little worth,
The prodigal is envied for his husks?
We thank Thee, God! we know that Thou art just.

And yet the piteous question cometh back:
How came this man to sin? Born, bred in it:
His parents evil livers like himself:
Lustful and lawless, vilely unrestrain'd,
All better impulses were so o'ergrown
And overshadow'd like good herbs by weeds
And poisonous trees, until the garden-ground
Became a wilderness weed-choked and cursed:
Cursed for his parents' sins as they for theirs;
Cursed for that Evil came into the world,—
Evil of weakness, of disease, of death,
Of all that hinders strength of healthy growth,—
Evil—the worm that dieth not. Alas!
So was he cursed: though God is merciful.

I travel round unto my grief again:
The sorrow of sorrows,—for that there is ill,—
Our ill, though all be very good with Thee,—
Ill—love is yet too weak to remedy,
Ill—which our hope dares hardly look upon,
Ill—that even faith can but behold through tears.

All-loving One! Thy Lazarus is dead:
Bound with the grave-cloths, laid within the tomb.
Forgive the impatience praying for Thy Word—
“Not dead, but sleeping: Lazarus! come forth.”