Jaspar

Jaspar was poor, and want and vice         Had made his heart like stone,         And Jaspar look'd with envious eyes         On riches not his own.         On plunder bent abroad he went         Towards the close of day,         And loitered on the lonely road         Impatient for his prey.         No traveller came, he loiter'd long         And often look'd around,         And paus'd and listen'd eagerly         To catch some coming sound.         He sat him down beside the stream         That crossed the lonely way,         So fair a scene might well have charm'd         All evil thoughts away;         He sat beneath a willow tree         That cast a trembling shade,         The gentle river full in front         A little island made,         Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone         Upon the poplar trees,         Whose shadow on the stream below         Play'd slowly to the breeze.         He listen'd--and he heard the wind         That waved the willow tree;         He heard the waters flow along         And murmur quietly.         He listen'd for the traveller's tread,         The nightingale sung sweet,--         He started up, for now he heard         The sound of coming feet;         He started up and graspt a stake         And waited for his prey;         There came a lonely traveller         And Jaspar crost his way.         But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd         The traveller to appal,         He would not lightly yield the purse         That held his little all.         Awhile he struggled, but he strove         With Jaspar's strength in vain;         Beneath his blows he fell and groan'd,         And never spoke again.         He lifted up the murdered man         And plunged him in the flood,         And in the running waters then         He cleansed his hands from blood.         The waters closed around the corpse         And cleansed his hands from gore,         The willow waved, the stream flowed on         And murmured as before.         There was no human eye had seen         The blood the murderer spilt,         And Jaspar's conscience never knew         The avenging goad of guilt.         And soon the ruffian had consum'd         The gold he gain'd so ill,         And years of secret guilt pass'd on         And he was needy still.         One eve beside the alehouse fire         He sat as it befell,         When in there came a labouring man         Whom Jaspar knew full well.         He sat him down by Jaspar's side         A melancholy man,         For spite of honest toil, the world         Went hard with Jonathan.         His toil a little earn'd, and he         With little was content,         But sickness on his wife had fallen         And all he had was spent.         Then with his wife and little ones         He shared the scanty meal,         And saw their looks of wretchedness,         And felt what wretches feel.         That very morn the Landlord's power         Had seized the little left,         And now the sufferer found himself         Of every thing bereft.         He lent his head upon his hand,         His elbow on his knee,         And so by Jaspar's side he sat         And not a word said he.         Nay--why so downcast? Jaspar cried,         Come--cheer up Jonathan!         Drink neighbour drink! 'twill warm thy heart,         Come! come! take courage man!         He took the cup that Jaspar gave         And down he drain'd it quick         I have a wife, said Jonathan,         And she is deadly sick.         She has no bed to lie upon,         I saw them take her bed.         And I have children--would to God         That they and I were dead!         Our Landlord he goes home to night         And he will sleep in peace.         I would that I were in my grave         For there all troubles cease.         In vain I pray'd him to forbear         Tho' wealth enough has he--         God be to him as merciless         As he has been to me!         When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul         On all his ills intent,         He plied him with the heartening cup         And with him forth he went.         This landlord on his homeward road         'Twere easy now to meet.         The road is lonesome--Jonathan,         And vengeance, man! is sweet.         He listen'd to the tempter's voice         The thought it made him start.         His head was hot, and wretchedness         Had hardened now his heart.         Along the lonely road they went         And waited for their prey,         They sat them down beside the stream         That crossed the lonely way.         They sat them down beside the stream         And never a word they said,         They sat and listen'd silently         To hear the traveller's tread.         The night was calm, the night was dark,         No star was in the sky,         The wind it waved the willow boughs,         The stream flowed quietly.         The night was calm, the air was still,         Sweet sung the nightingale,         The soul of Jonathan was sooth'd,         His heart began to fail.         'Tis weary waiting here, he cried,         And now the hour is late,--         Methinks he will not come to night,         'Tis useless more to wait.         Have patience man! the ruffian said,         A little we may wait,         But longer shall his wife expect         Her husband at the gate.         Then Jonathan grew sick at heart,         My conscience yet is clear,         Jaspar--it is not yet too late--         I will not linger here.         How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought         Thy conscience was asleep.         No more such qualms, the night is dark,         The river here is deep,         What matters that, said Jonathan,         Whose blood began to freeze,         When there is one above whose eye         The deeds of darkness sees?         We are safe enough, said Jaspar then         If that be all thy fear;         Nor eye below, nor eye above         Can pierce the darkness here.         That instant as the murderer spake         There came a sudden light;         Strong as the mid-day sun it shone,         Though all around was night.         It hung upon the willow tree,         It hung upon the flood,         It gave to view the poplar isle         And all the scene of blood.         The traveller who journies there         He surely has espied         A madman who has made his home         Upon the river's side.         His cheek is pale, his eye is wild,         His look bespeaks despair;         For Jaspar since that hour has made         His home unshelter'd there.         And fearful are his dreams at night         And dread to him the day;         He thinks upon his untold crime         And never dares to pray.         The summer suns, the winter storms,         O'er him unheeded roll,         For heavy is the weight of blood         Upon the maniac's soul.