The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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Ii.

He woke. At once on heart and brain
     The present Terror rushed again;
Clanked on his limbs the felon's chain!
     He woke, to hear the church-tower tell
Time's footfall on the conscious bell,
     And, shuddering, feel that clanging din
His life's last hour had ushered in;
     To see within his prison-yard,
Through the small window, iron barred,
     The gallows shadow rising dim
Between the sunrise heaven and him;
     A horror in God's blessed air;
A blackness in his morning light; [284]
     Like some foul devil-altar there
Built up by demon hands at night.
     And, maddened by that evil sight,
Dark, horrible, confused, and strange,
     A chaos of wild, weltering change,
All power of check and guidance gone,
     Dizzy and blind, his mind swept on.
In vain he strove to breathe a prayer,
     In vain he turned the Holy Book,
He only heard the gallows-stair
     Creak as the wind its timbers shook.
No dream for him of sin forgiven,
     While still that baleful spectre stood,
With its hoarse murmur, ‘Blood for Blood!’
     Between him and the pitying Heaven!