Modern Poets and Poetry of Spain/The Condemned to Die
THE CONDEMNED TO DIE.
His form upon the ground reclined,
With bitter anguish inward drawn,
Full of the coming day his mind,
That soon will sadly dawn,
The culprit waits, in silence laid,
The fatal moments hastening now,
In which his last sun's light display'd
Will shine upon his brow.
O'er crucifix and altar there,
The chapel cell in mourning hung,
From the dim candle's yellow glare
A funeral light is flung;
And by the wretched culprit's side,
His face with hood half covered o'er,
The friar, with trembling voice to guide,
Is heard his prayers implore.
His brow then raises he again,
And slowly lifts to heaven his eyes;
Perhaps a prayer for mercy fain
May in his grief arise.
A tear flows: whence had that release?
Was it from bitterness or fear?
Perhaps his sorrows to increase
Some thought to memory dear?
So young! and life, that he had dream'd
Was full of golden days to glide,
Is pass'd, when childhood's tears it seem'd
As scarcely yet were dried.
Then on him of his childhood burst
The thought, and of his mother's woe,
That he whom she so fondly nursed
Was doom'd that death to know.
And while that hopelessly he sees
His course already death arrest,
He feels his life's best energies
Beat strongly in his breast;
And sees that friar, who calmly now
Is laid, with sleep no more to strive,
With age so feehly doomed to bow,
Tomorrow will survive.
But hark! what noise the silence breaks
This hour unseasonably by?
Some one a gay guitar awakes
And mirthful songs reply;
And shouts are raised, and sounds are heard
Of bottles rattling, and perchance
Others, remember'd well, concurred
Of lovers in the dance.
And then he hears funereal roll,
Between each pause in accents high,
"Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul
Of him condemned to die."
And so combined the drunkard's shout,
The toast, the strifes, and fancies wild
Of all that Bacchanalian rout,
With wanton's songs defiled,
And bursts of idle laughter, reach
Distinct into the gloomy cell,
And seem far off ejected each
The very sounds of hell.
And then he hears, funereal roll
Between each pause, those accents high,
"Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul
Of him condemned to die."
He cursed them all, as one by one
The impious echo3 each expressed;
He cursed the mother as a son
Who nursed him at her breast:
The whole world round alike he cursed,
His evil destiny forlorn,
And the dark day and hour when first
That wretched he was born.
II.
The moon serene illumes the skies,
And earth in deepest stillness lies;
No sound is heard, the watchdog's mute,
And ev'n the lover's plaintive lute.
Madrid enveloped lies in sleep;
Repose o'er all its shade has cast,
And men of him no memory keep
Who soon will breathe his last.
Or if perchance one thinks to wake
At early dawn, no thoughts whatever
Rise for the wretched being's sake,
Who death is waiting there.
Unmoved by pity's kind control,
Men hear around the funeral cry,
"Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul
Of him condemn'd to die."
Sleeps in his bed the judge in peace;
And sleeps and dreams of how his store,
The executioner, to increase;
And pleased he counts it o'er.
Only the city's silence breaks,
And destined place of death portrays,
The harden'd workman who awakes
The scaffolding to raise.
III.
Confused and mad his heated mind,
With raving feverish dreams combined,
The culprit's soul exhaustion press'd,
His head sunk heavy on his breast.
And in his dreams he life and death
Confounds, remembers, and forgets;
And fearful struggling every breath,
And sigh he gives besets.
And in a world of darkness seems
As now to stray; feels fear and cold,
And in his horrid madness deems
The cord his neck infold:
And so much more, in desperate fight,
In anguish to escape his lot,
He strives, with so much more the might
He binds the fatal knot:
And voices hears, confused the whole,
Of people round, and then that cry,
"Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul
Of him condemned to die!"
Or fancies now that he is free;
And breathes the fresh pure air, and hears
Her sigh of love, the maid whom he
Had loved in happier years:
Beauteous and kind as e'er of old,
Sweet flower of spring-time's gay resort,
As could for love the meads behold,
Or gallant April court.
And joyful he to see her flies,
And seeks to reach her, but in vain;
For as with anxious hands he tries
His hoped-for bliss to gain,
The illusion suddenly to break,
He finds the dream deceitful fled!
A cold stiff corpse the shape to take,
And scaffold in its stead.
And hears the mournful funeral knoll,
And hollow voice resounding nigh,
"Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul
Of him condemn'd to die!"