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 uselses 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 journeys 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.
THERE was an old man breaking stones
To mend the turnpike way;
He sate him down beside a brook,
And out his bread and cheese he took,
For now it was mid-day.
He leant his back against a post,
His feet the brook ran by;
And there were water-cresses growing,
And pleasant was the water's flowing,
For he was hot and dry.
A soldier with his knapsack on
Came travelling o'er the down:
The sun was strong and he was tired;
And he of the old man inquired
How far to Bristol town.
"Half an hour's walk for a young man,
By lanes and fields and stiles;
But you the foot-path do not know,
And if along the road you go,
Why then 'tis three good miles."
The soldier took his knapsack off,
For he was hot and dry;
And out his bread and cheese he took,
And he sat down beside the brook
To dine in company.
"Old friend in faith," the soldier says,
"I envy you almost;
My shoulders have been sorely prest,
And I should like to sit and rest
My back against that post.
"In such a sweltering day as this
A knapsack is the devil!
And if on t'other side I sate,
It would not only spoil our chat,
But make me seem uncivil."
The old man laugh'd and moved-"I wish
It were a great-arm'd chair!
But this may help a man at need!
And yet it was a cursed deed
That ever brought it there.
"There's a poor girl lies buried here Beneath this very place.
The earth upon her corpse
The stake is driven into her breast,
And a stone is on her face."
The soldier had but just leant back,
And now he half rose up.
"There's sure no harm in dining here,
My friend and yet, to be sincere,
I should not like to sup."
"God rest her! she is still enough
Who sleeps beneath my feet!"
The old man cried. "No harm I trow
She ever did herself, though now
She lies where four roads meet.
"I have past by about that hour
When men are not most brave,
It did not make my heart to fail,
And I have heard the nightingale
Sing sweetly on her grave.
"I have past by about that hour
When ghosts their freedom have;
But there was nothing here to fright,
And I have seen the glow-worm's light
Shine on the poor girl's grave.
"There's one who like a Christian lies
Beneath the church-tree's shade;
I'd rather go a long mile round,
Than pass at evening through the ground
Wherein that man is laid.
"There's one who in the churchyard lies
For whom the bell did toll;
He lies in consecrated ground,
But for all the wealth in Bristol town
I would not be with his soul!
"Did'st see a house below the hill,
Which the winds and the rains destroy? "Twas then a farm where he did dwell, And I remember it full well
When I was a growing boy.
"And she was a poor parish girl,
Who came up from the west;
From service hard she ran away,
And at that house in evil day
Was taken in to rest.
"The man he was a wicked man,
And an evil life he led ;
Rage made his cheek grow deadly white,
And his gray eyes were large and light,
And in anger they grew red.
"The man was bad, the mother worse,
Bad fruit of a bad stem,
'Twould make your hair to stand on-end
If I should tell to you, my friend,
The things that were told of them!
"Did'st see an out-house standing by?
The walls alone remain;
It was a stable then, but now
Its mossy roof has fallen through,
All rotted by the rain.
"The poor girl she had serv'd with them
Some half-a-year, or more,
When she was found hung up one day,
Stiff as corpse and cold as clay,
Behind that stable door!
"It is a wild and lonesome place,
No hut or house is near;
Should one meet a murderer there alone 'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan Would never reach mortal ear.
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