 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
THE MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN.
Alone, within the felon's dock,
He waits the doom about to fall;
In look emotionless as rock,
He stands unmoved amid them all.
He waits the doom about to fall;
In look emotionless as rock,
He stands unmoved amid them all.
297
The white-haired judge is speaking now
The doom that isolates from men;
Nor shame nor terror cloud his brow;
His thoughts are with his youth again.
The doom that isolates from men;
Nor shame nor terror cloud his brow;
His thoughts are with his youth again.
His form is here, his soul is there
In yon rough land where he was bred;
The court-room vanishes in air—
The Past is living, Present dead.
In yon rough land where he was bred;
The court-room vanishes in air—
The Past is living, Present dead.
He sees the grand old granite hills,
In rude and jagged outline rise—
Their bushy slopes, their leaping rills,
Their misty tops, the steely skies.
In rude and jagged outline rise—
Their bushy slopes, their leaping rills,
Their misty tops, the steely skies.
There stands the farmhouse, roofed with moss;
Its door, half open, idly swings:
And, where the elms their great arms toss,
A robin sits and gaily sings.
Its door, half open, idly swings:
And, where the elms their great arms toss,
A robin sits and gaily sings.
The wilding flowers the meadows yield
Their blossoms one by one unfold;
And, sheeted o'er the pasture-field,
The daisies with their eyes of gold.
Their blossoms one by one unfold;
And, sheeted o'er the pasture-field,
The daisies with their eyes of gold.
The mowers busy with their math,
Upon the sultry summer-day;
And, as they toss the half-dried swath,
The odor of the new-mown hay.
Upon the sultry summer-day;
And, as they toss the half-dried swath,
The odor of the new-mown hay.
The sheep that browse amid the rocks,
The kine at rest beneath the trees;
And, playing gently with his locks,
The burning noontide's scanty breeze.
The kine at rest beneath the trees;
And, playing gently with his locks,
The burning noontide's scanty breeze.
298
And she, the farmer's daughter fair,
With eyes of blue and lips of red,
And wealth of wavy, golden hair,
That made a halo round her head.
With eyes of blue and lips of red,
And wealth of wavy, golden hair,
That made a halo round her head.
All these are things of long ago,
The memories of the early days,
Ere, seeking gold and finding wo,
He trod the city's crowded ways.
The memories of the early days,
Ere, seeking gold and finding wo,
He trod the city's crowded ways.
He might have led a farmer's life,
Devoid of care and want and dread;
He might have taken for his wife
Sweet Mirabel—but she is dead.
Devoid of care and want and dread;
He might have taken for his wife
Sweet Mirabel—but she is dead.
Dead! She is dead! But what is he?
Beside him in his shame and sin,
With finger pointed mockingly,
The spectre of the Might-have-been.
Beside him in his shame and sin,
With finger pointed mockingly,
The spectre of the Might-have-been.
“It might have been!” he cries, and falls.
The listeners stand in dumb amaze;
And then, despite the sheriff's calls,
They press upon the wretch to gaze.
The listeners stand in dumb amaze;
And then, despite the sheriff's calls,
They press upon the wretch to gaze.
Struck down by memory's fatal ban,
He passes from your thrall away;
You doomed to death a living man;
This is a form of lifeless clay.
He passes from your thrall away;
You doomed to death a living man;
This is a form of lifeless clay.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |