that I were in my grave For there all troubles cease. In vain I pray’d him to forbear Tho’ wealth enough has he— God be to him as merciless As he has been to me! When Jaspar saw the poor man’s soul On all his ills intent, He plied him with the heartening cup And with him forth he went. This landlord on his homeward road ’Twere easy now to meet. The road is lonesome—Jonathan, And vengeance, man! is sweet. He listen’d to the tempter’s voice The thought it made him start. His head was hot, and wretchedness Had hardened now his heart. Along the lonely road they went And waited for their prey, They sat them down beside the stream That crossed the lonely way. They sat them down beside the stream And never a word they said, They sat and listen’d silently To hear the traveller’s tread. The night was calm, the night was dark, No star was in the sky, The wind it waved the willow boughs, The stream flowed quietly. The night was calm, the air was still, Sweet sung the nightingale, The soul of Jonathan was sooth’d, His heart began to fail.  ’Tis weary waiting here, he cried, And now the hour is late,— Methinks he will not come to night, ’Tis useless more to wait. Have patience man! the ruffian said, A little we may wait, But longer shall his wife expect Her husband at the gate. Then Jonathan grew sick at heart, My conscience yet is clear, Jaspar—it is not yet too late— I will not linger here. How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought Thy conscience was asleep. No more such qualms, the night is dark, The river here is deep, What matters that, said Jonathan, Whose blood began to freeze, When there is one above whose eye The deeds of darkness sees? We are safe enough, said Jaspar then If that be all thy fear; Nor eye below, nor eye above Can pierce the darkness here. That instant as the murderer spake There came a sudden light; Strong as the mid-day sun it shone, Though all around was night. It hung upon the willow tree, It hung upon the flood, It gave to view the poplar isle And all the scene of blood. The traveller who journies there He surely has espied A madman who has made his home Upon the river’s side. His cheek is pale, his eye is wild, His look bespeaks despair; For Jaspar since that hour has made His home unshelter’d there. And fearful are his dreams at night And dread to him the day; He thinks upon his untold crime And never dares to pray. The summer suns, the winter storms, O’er him unheeded roll, For heavy is the weight of blood Upon the maniac’s soul. 

 

Lord William

 No eye beheld when William plunged Young Edmund in the stream, No human ear but William’s heard Young Edmund’s drowning scream.  

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