 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
THE ESCAPED CONVICT.
I
He trod his native land,The bright land of the free;
His forehead wore a seared brand—
Impress of infamy!
His brow—where youth and beauty met—
Yes, there the seal of guilt was set.
II
He gaz'd upon the vale,Where spring-tide flow'rets slept,
Rock'd by the whispers of the gale;
He saw it—and he wept:
Like drops which page a storm they came,
Tears born in agony and shame.
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III
Morn sat upon the hills,But she look'd cold and dim,
Clouds, like a pall which death conceals,
Hung frowning there on him:
All, e'en his lov'd, his mother land,
Scowl'd on his forehead and the brand.
IV
My sire! my sire! he groan'd;My home! my lovely one!
What sire? he hath his child disown'd—
What home? I—I have none:
I hear all curse—I see all shun:
Yet curse not thou—not thou—thy son!
V
I saw her struck, whose cheekDid myriad sweets disclose;
Whose eyes, whose form—but wherefore speak—
I saw!—my heart-blood rose:—
She loved me, she was sworn my bride—
I stabb'd the striker, and he died!—
VI
For this—the record liesFest'ring upon my brow;
For this—the rabble mock'd my cries;
For this—shame haunts me now;
For this—half rotted I must be,
Ere my dead brow from stain is free.
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VII
My own, my beauteous land,Land of the brave—the high;
I ask'd but this of fate's stern hand—
To see thee—and to die!—
O! yes, my country, let me be
In my last hour—in death—with thee.
VIII
The moon look'd on the vale,Wearing her starry wreath,
And soft display'd a form, that, pale
Lay there alone—with death:
The zephyrs drew a length'ned sigh,
And slow the convict's corse pass'd by.
IX
'Twas said that lovely nightA spirit youth was seen
Gliding among the flow'rets bright,
The trees, and meadows green;
And chiefly by a cot, and there
It wept, and melted into air.
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