Part III

In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,And the dripping wall is high,So it was there he took the airBeneath the leaden sky,And by each side a warder walked,For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watchedHis anguish night and day;Who watched him when he rose to weep,And when he crouched to pray;Who watched him lest himself should robTheir scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong uponThe Regulations Act:The Doctor said that Death was butA scientific fact:And twice a day the Chaplain called,And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,And drank his quart of beer:His soul was resolute, and heldNo hiding-place for fear;He often said that he was gladThe hangman's day was near.

But why he said so strange a thingNo warder dared to ask:For he to whom a watcher's doomIs given as his task,Must set a lock upon his lips,And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and tryTo comfort or console:And what should Human Pity doPent up in Murderers' Hole?What word of grace in such a placeCould help a brother's soul?

With slouch and swing around the ringWe trod the Fools' Parade!We did not care: we knew we wereThe Devils' Own Brigade:And shaven head and feet of leadMake a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shredsWith blunt and bleeding nails;We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,And cleaned the shining rails:And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,We turned the dusty drill:We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,And sweated on the mill:But in the heart of every manTerror was lying still.

So still it lay that every dayCrawled like a weed-clogged wave:And we forgot the bitter lotThat waits for fool and knave,Till once, as we tramped in from work,We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the horrid holeGaped for a living thing;The very mud cried out for bloodTo the thirsty asphalte ring:And we knew that ere one dawn grew fairThe fellow had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intentOn Death and Dread and Doom:The hangman, with his little bag,Went shuffling through the gloom:And I trembled as I groped my wayInto my numbered tomb.

That night the empty corridorsWere full of forms of Fear,And up and down the iron townStole feet we could not hear,And through the bars that hide the starsWhite faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreamsIn a pleasant meadow-land,The watchers watched him as he slept,And could not understandHow one could sleep so sweet a sleepWith a hangman close at hand.

But there is no sleep when men must weepWho never yet have wept:So we- the fool, the fraud, the knave-That endless vigil kept,And through each brain on hands of painAnother's terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thingTo feel another's guilt!For, right within, the sword of SinPierced to its poisoned hilt,And as molten lead were the tears we shedFor the blood we had not spilt.

The warders with their shoes of feltCrept by each padlocked door,And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,Gray figures on the floor,And wondered why men knelt to prayWho never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,Mad mourners of a corse!The troubled plumes of midnight shookLike the plumes upon a hearse:And as bitter wine upon a spongeWas the savour of Remorse.

The gray cock crew, the red cock crew,But never came the day:And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,In the corners where we lay:And each evil sprite that walks by nightBefore us seemed to play.

They glided past, the glided fast,Like travellers through a mist:They mocked the moon in a rigadoonOf delicate turn and twist,And with formal pace and loathsome graceThe phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,Slim shadows hand in hand:About, about, in ghostly routThey trod a saraband:And the damned grotesques made arabesques,Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,They tripped on pointed tread:But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,As their grisly masque they led,And loud they sang, and long they sang,For they sang to wake the dead.

"Oho!" they cried, "the world is wide,But fettered limbs go lame!And once, or twice, to throw the diceIs a gentlemanly game,But he does not win who plays with SinIn the secret House of Shame."

No things of air these antics were,That frolicked with such glee:To men whose lives were held in gyves,And whose feet might not go free,Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound;Some wheeled in smirking pairs;With the mincing step of a demirepSome sidled up the stairs:And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan,But still the night went on:Through its giant loom the web of gloomCrept till each thread was spun:And, as we prayed, we grew afraidOf the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering roundThe weeping prison wall:Till like a wheel of turning steelWe felt the minutes crawl:O moaning wind! what had we doneTo have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars,Like a lattice wrought in lead,Move right across the whitewashed wallThat faced my three-plank bed,And I knew that somewhere in the worldGod's dreadful dawn was red.

At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,At seven all was still,But the sough and swing of a mighty wingThe prison seemed to fill,For the Lord of Death with icy breathHad entered in to kill.

He did not pass in purple pomp,Nor ride a moon-white steed.Three yards of cord and a sliding boardAre all the gallows' need:So with rope of shame the Herald cameTo do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fenOf filthy darkness grope:We did not dare to breathe a prayer,Or to give our anguish scope:Something was dead in each of us,And what was dead was Hope.

For Man's grim Justice goes its wayAnd will not swerve aside:It slays the weak, it slays the strong,It has a deadly stride:With iron heel it slays the strongThe monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:Each tongue was thick with thirst:For the stroke of eight is the stroke of FateThat makes a man accursed,And Fate will use a running nooseFor the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,Save to wait for the sign to come:So, like things of stone in a valley lone,Quiet we sat and dumb:But each man's heart beat thick and quick,Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clockSmote on the shivering air,And from all the gaol rose up a wailOf impotent despair,Like the sound the frightened marshes hearFrom some leper in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful thingsIn the crystal of a dream,We saw the greasy hempen ropeHooked to the blackened beam,And heard the prayer the hangman's snareStrangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him soThat he gave that bitter cry,And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,None knew so well as I:For he who lives more lives than oneMore deaths that one must die.