 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
THE NIGHT BEFORE.
I sneered when I heard the old priest complain,
That the doomed seemed voiceless and dull of brain;
For why should the felon be other than dumb
As he stands at the gate of the world to come?
Let them lock up his Reverence here in the cell,
Waiting the sound of the morning bell
That heralds his dying and tolls his knell,
And the tick-tock
Of the great jail clock
Will attract him more than the holiest prayer
That ever was mingled with dungeon air.
That the doomed seemed voiceless and dull of brain;
For why should the felon be other than dumb
As he stands at the gate of the world to come?
Let them lock up his Reverence here in the cell,
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That heralds his dying and tolls his knell,
And the tick-tock
Of the great jail clock
Will attract him more than the holiest prayer
That ever was mingled with dungeon air.
Will it never be morning—never arise
The great red sun in the cold grey skies,
Thrusting its rays in my iron-barred cell,
And lighting the city I know so well?
Is this horrible night forever to be—
The phantom I feel, though I cannot see—
Is that to be ever alone with me?
Will the tick-tock
Of the ceaseless clock
Beat forever through brain and heart
Till the tortured soul from the body part?
The great red sun in the cold grey skies,
Thrusting its rays in my iron-barred cell,
And lighting the city I know so well?
Is this horrible night forever to be—
The phantom I feel, though I cannot see—
Is that to be ever alone with me?
Will the tick-tock
Of the ceaseless clock
Beat forever through brain and heart
Till the tortured soul from the body part?
And now in the darkness surrounding me
A hundred figures I plainly see;
And there are my mother's pitying eyes—
Why does she from her grave arise?
And there, on the crowd's extremest rim—
Gashed of throat, and supple of limb—
Why, what do I want to-day with him?
To the tick-tock
Of the pitiless clock
His body is swaying, slowly and free,
While his shadowy finger points at me.
A hundred figures I plainly see;
And there are my mother's pitying eyes—
Why does she from her grave arise?
And there, on the crowd's extremest rim—
Gashed of throat, and supple of limb—
Why, what do I want to-day with him?
To the tick-tock
Of the pitiless clock
His body is swaying, slowly and free,
While his shadowy finger points at me.
Will it never be here—the dawn of the day,
When the law is to carry my life away;
And the gaping crowd, with their pitiless eyes,
Stand eager to see how the doomed one dies?
Nothing to scatter the terrible gloom
That fills up the arched and the grated room;
Nothing to herald the hour of doom
But the tick-tock
Of the weariless clock,
And the tread of the tired policeman's feet
As he steadily paces the echoing street?
When the law is to carry my life away;
And the gaping crowd, with their pitiless eyes,
Stand eager to see how the doomed one dies?
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That fills up the arched and the grated room;
Nothing to herald the hour of doom
But the tick-tock
Of the weariless clock,
And the tread of the tired policeman's feet
As he steadily paces the echoing street?
At last the deep darkness is melting away
At the corpse-like light on the face of the day;
I hear the prisoners move in their cells,
I hear the chiming of morning bells,
The rattle of carts in the streets once more,
The careful tread on the stony floor
Of the sheriff, who comes to the grated door,
And the tick-tock
Of the great jail clock,
And the whispered words of the keepers around,
And every whisper a thunder-sound.
At the corpse-like light on the face of the day;
I hear the prisoners move in their cells,
I hear the chiming of morning bells,
The rattle of carts in the streets once more,
The careful tread on the stony floor
Of the sheriff, who comes to the grated door,
And the tick-tock
Of the great jail clock,
And the whispered words of the keepers around,
And every whisper a thunder-sound.
What mocking is this in the formal demand,
In the mighty name of the law of the land,
For the body of him who is doomed to die
In the face of men, and beneath the sky?
I am safe in your thrall, but pinion me well;
I might be desperate—who can tell?—
As I march to the sound of the clanging bell,
The tick-tock
Of the great jail clock,
And the voice of the priest as he mumbles a prayer,
And the voices that murmur around me there.
In the mighty name of the law of the land,
For the body of him who is doomed to die
In the face of men, and beneath the sky?
I am safe in your thrall, but pinion me well;
I might be desperate—who can tell?—
As I march to the sound of the clanging bell,
The tick-tock
Of the great jail clock,
And the voice of the priest as he mumbles a prayer,
And the voices that murmur around me there.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |