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A coarse, rough robe of hair-cloth made him,
Which from that day unchanged he wore,
Then to the wooden tower he sped him,
To be the watchman of the tower.
And lo! his hand uplifted, seizeth
The bell-rope—and begins to toll—
No more the worm of conscience teazeth
His half emancipated soul.
No more the bell those awful noises
Pours—which so many hearts had riven;
It sounds like angels' silver voices,
When echoed through the courts of heaven.
One only vesper-knell was sounded,
The aged watchman toll'd no more:
Death came—and there with peace surrounded,
He sank upon the belfry floor:
The frown upon his brow departed—
Some gentle hand had chas'd the frown,
And there he slumber'd—peaceful-hearted,
All guilt forgiven the guilty one.