At last the miser cries his pain,--
A shrill, wild cry, as if a grave
Just ope'd its stony lips and gave
One sentence forth, then closed again.
"'Twas twenty years last night, last night!"
His lips still moved, but not to speak;
His outstretched hands so trembling weak
Were beggar's hands in sorry plight.
His face upturned to hers, his lips
Kept talking on, but gave no sound;
His feet were cloven to the ground;
Like iron hooks his finger-tips.
"Ay, twenty years," she sadly sighed:
"I promised mother every year
That I would pray for father here,
As she had prayed, the night she died:
"To pray as she prayed, fervidly;
As she had promised she would pray
The sad night of her marriage day,
For him, wherever he might be."
Then she was still; then sudden she
Let fall her eyes, and so outspake
As if her very heart would break,
Her proud lips trembling piteously:
"And whether he come soon or late
To kneel beside this nameless grave,
May God forgive my father's hate
As I forgive, as she forgave!"
He saw the stone; he understood
With that quick knowledge that will come
Most quick when men are made most dumb
With terror that stops still the blood.
And then a blindness slowly fell
On soul and body; but his hands
Held tight his bags, two iron bands,
As if to bear them into hell.
He sank upon the nameless stone
With oh such sad, such piteous moan
As never man might seek to know
From man's most unforgiving foe.
He sighed at last, so long, so deep,
As one heart breaking in one's sleep,--
One long, last, weary, willing sigh,
As if it were a grace to die.
And then his hands, like loosened bands,
Hung down, hung down on either side;
His hands hung down and opened wide:
He rested in the orange lands.
University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.