lonely road Impatient for his prey. No traveller came, he loiter’d long And often look’d around, And paus’d and listen’d eagerly To catch some coming sound. He sat him down beside the stream That crossed the lonely way, So fair a scene might well have charm’d All evil thoughts away; He sat beneath a willow tree That cast a trembling shade, The gentle river full in front A little island made, Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone Upon the poplar trees, Whose shadow on the stream below Play’d slowly to the breeze. He listen’d—and he heard the wind That waved the willow tree; He heard the waters flow along And murmur quietly. He listen’d for the traveller’s tread, The nightingale sung sweet,— He started up, for now he heard The sound of coming feet; He started up and graspt a stake And waited for his prey; There came a lonely traveller And Jaspar crost his way. But Jaspar’s threats and curses fail’d The traveller to appal, He would not lightly yield the purse That held his little all. Awhile he struggled, but he strove With Jaspar’s strength in vain; Beneath his blows he fell and groan’d, And never spoke again. He lifted up the murdered man And plunged him in the flood, And in the running waters then He cleansed his hands from blood. The waters closed around the corpse And cleansed his hands from gore, The willow waved, the stream flowed on And murmured as before.  There was no human eye had seen The blood the murderer spilt, And Jaspar’s conscience never knew The avenging goad of guilt. And soon the ruffian had consum’d The gold he gain’d so ill, And years of secret guilt pass’d on And he was needy still. One eve beside the alehouse fire He sat as it befell, When in there came a labouring man Whom Jaspar knew full well. He sat him down by Jaspar’s side A melancholy man, For spite of honest toil, the world Went hard with Jonathan. His toil a little earn’d, and he With little was content, But sickness on his wife had fallen And all he had was spent. Then with his wife and little ones He shared the scanty meal, And saw their looks of wretchedness, And felt what wretches feel. That very morn the Landlord’s power Had seized the little left, And now the sufferer found himself Of every thing bereft. He lent his head upon his hand, His elbow on his knee, And so by Jaspar’s side he sat And not a word said he. Nay—why so downcast? Jaspar cried, Come—cheer up Jonathan! Drink neighbour drink! ’twill warm thy heart, Come! come! take courage man! He took the cup that Jaspar gave And down he drain’d it *quic I have a wife, said Jonathan, And she is deadly sick. She has no bed to lie upon, I saw them take her bed. And I have children—would to God That they and I were dead! Our Landlord he goes home to night And he will sleep in peace. I would 

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