ALONE
Think'st thou the criminal in some dark retreat
To which from lowering justice he hath flown,
While die the echoes of pursuing feet,
Is left in peace, alone?
Think'st thou that undisturbed he stops to rest,
Forgetting the dark crime that lies behind?
Think'st thou that naught but triumph fills his breast,
That no iron bands his sense of freedom bind?
Not so; for though within a lone abode
His wicked heart of victory may boast,
The fears that crush his spirit like a load
Are far more frightful than a martialed host.
Stronger than chains that bind the helpless slave
Are the iron fetters of the imprisoned soul,
More horrible the boughs that o'er him wave
Than funeral knells that for the just man toll;
Darkness more dense than that of starless night
Falls like a sable curtain o'er his mind,
And o'er that darkness, dawns no morning light;
Who would in such a frame a refuge find?
A silence, like the stillness of the grave
Hangs o'er the beauty of the forest shrine
And chills the trembling coward, where the brave
Would notice but a solitude sublime.
A crackling in the underbrush—he starts—
"Tis but a fawn that seeks the grassy glade—
A rustle—through the trees a grey squirrel darts;
He jumps, and rises to his feet dismayed.
Each simple sound breaks on his guilty ear
Like some dread omen of a coming doom,
What wonder, in each rustle he can hear
The outward echo of an inward gloom;
And in the guilty horror of despair
Fears that the day might bring his deeds to light
And thinks to hide the blackened robes they wear
To which from lowering justice he hath flown,
While die the echoes of pursuing feet,
Is left in peace, alone?
Think'st thou that undisturbed he stops to rest,
Forgetting the dark crime that lies behind?
Think'st thou that naught but triumph fills his breast,
That no iron bands his sense of freedom bind?
Not so; for though within a lone abode
His wicked heart of victory may boast,
The fears that crush his spirit like a load
Are far more frightful than a martialed host.
Stronger than chains that bind the helpless slave
Are the iron fetters of the imprisoned soul,
More horrible the boughs that o'er him wave
Than funeral knells that for the just man toll;
Darkness more dense than that of starless night
Falls like a sable curtain o'er his mind,
And o'er that darkness, dawns no morning light;
Who would in such a frame a refuge find?
A silence, like the stillness of the grave
Hangs o'er the beauty of the forest shrine
And chills the trembling coward, where the brave
Would notice but a solitude sublime.
A crackling in the underbrush—he starts—
"Tis but a fawn that seeks the grassy glade—
A rustle—through the trees a grey squirrel darts;
He jumps, and rises to his feet dismayed.
Each simple sound breaks on his guilty ear
Like some dread omen of a coming doom,
What wonder, in each rustle he can hear
The outward echo of an inward gloom;
And in the guilty horror of despair
Fears that the day might bring his deeds to light
And thinks to hide the blackened robes they wear
[ 104 ]
