Peter's Unsung Spheres

THE CONVICT

 

" These are words that we should read like warnings, 

Meekly, as fearing, if we had been tried, 

We might have done the same, and thankfully 

That such temptation fell not to our lot : 

The human heart is evil in itself, 

And, like a child, requires restraint and care ; 

Restraint to keep from wrong, and care to soothe 

Its wilder beatings into peace and love." 

 

The light of two or three pale stars 

Is dimly shining through the bars 

Of my lone cell, and the cool air 

Seems as it loath'd to enter there. 

Now are those wan and gloomy hours, 

When Night and Day, like struggling powers, 

Make the sky cheerless with their strife, 

Then most resembling human life : 

It suits with me ! — ill could I brook 

Upon a cloudless heaven to look ; 

The calm blue air, the clear sunshine, 

Were mockery to gaze like mine ; 

To watch the sun look bright on me, 

Although the last that I shall see. 

— Ah ! even while I speak, the light 

Is breaking beautiful through night. 

’Tis all the same ! the earth, the sky, 

Nothing with me has sympathy ! 

 

— The clouds are breaking fast away — 

Oh ! why art thou so lovely, Day ? 

Oh ! for a morn of clouds and rain, 

To shroud and soothe my last of pain. 

No — faster the glad sunbeams break — 

They will not sorrow for my sake ! 

— It has been — it will be my fate — 

I've lived — I shall die desolate ! 

— Oh ! take your rosary away, 

For what are prayers of mine to pray ? 

For pardon ? — if the burning tears 

That fed upon my earlier years — 

If blasted hopes and ruin'd name, 

And all the venom Love lends Shame — 

The violent death, and rabble eye, 

To look upon its agony ; 

If these are not enough to win 

A pardon for Earth's deadliest sin, 

Words will not, cannot! — never dare 

Tell me it may be won by prayer ! 

The coward prayer, the coward tear, 

Not from remorse wrung, but from fear! 

—Here still — then, yield my last relief — 

My woman's solace — hear my grief. 

Come nearer — thou a judge shalt be 

Between my misery and me ! 

 

" I grew up a neglected child : 

The meanest floweret of the wild

Has far more culture and more care 

From summer sun and summer air. 

— My mother, she was laid to rest 

Within the green earth's quiet breast ; 

My father had another bride, 

And other children grew beside 

The orphan one — his love could be 

So much for them — 'twas nought for me. 

I never mingled in their mirth, 

I saw their smiles, but shared them not ; 

And in the circle round the hearth 

My very being seem'd forgot. 

They call'd me sullen, said my heart 

In natural fondness had no part ; 

For that I sate apart from all, 

With cold cheek turn'd to the dark wall. 

I hid my face — I could not bear 

It should be seen, while tears were there. 

 

" I had a haunt, 'twas by the shade 

Wherein my mother's grave was made : 

It was a church-yard, small and lone, 

Without a monumental stone ; 

But flowers were planted by each grave, 

Sweet, like the thoughts they seem'd to save 

From Time's forgetfulness — but one, 

One only, mid the sods had none — 

Grown with tall weeds, as if the wind 

Were the sole mourner it could find,

And in its careless course had brought 

Whatever seeds its wild wings caught. 

And marvel you I had no pride 

To make that tomb like those beside ? 

— Methought if there my hand should bring 

The sunny treasures of the spring, 

It would reproach my father's eye, 

That long had pass'd it careless by. 

 

" My melancholy childhood gone, 

Youth, with its dreamy time, came on ; 

Affections long repress'd and chill'd, 

Days with their own vain fancies fill'd, 

Which haunt the heart — what soil was here 

For Love's wild growth of hope and fear ? 

— It matters not my early tale, 

My heart was won, my will was frail ; 

I knew I was not Evelyn's bride, — 

But what to me the world beside ? 

One only voice was in my ear, 

I only sought to meet one eye — 

And if to me they ever changed, 

I knew that I could only die !  

 

" Terrible city! — London, thou 

Who liftest like a queen thy brow ; 

Stern, cold, and proud the night when first 

Thy mighty world upon me burst ; 

Houses, yet none of them my home ; 

Faces, of which I knew not one ;

I felt more than I ever felt — 

A stranger — utterly alone ; 

My very heart within me died, 

And close I crouch'd to Evelyn's side ; 

His soothing words were soft and low, 

Such as Love's lip alone can know. 

He loved me — ay, loved is the word ! 

So lightly said, so vainly heard — 

But I — the light of heaven was dim 

To eyes that only look'd on him ; 

I listen'd — 'twas to hear his voice ; 

I spoke — it was to win his ear ; 

I watch'd — it was to meet his eye ; 

I only lived when he was near ; 

His absence seem'd a void as deep, 

As dark as is a dreamless sleep. 

And was I happy? — no ; still dread 

Hung like the sword above my head ; 

My thoughts to other hopes would roam — 

I knew his home was not my home ; 

I knew his name was not my name, 

And I felt insecure through shame. 

 

" Still less it recks how, day by day, 

I saw the life of love decay ; 

The absent look, the careless word, 

The anger by a trifle stirr'd, 

And found that Evelyn's brow could be 

Harsh, though that brow was bent on me. 

— Brief be my tale, as was his love — 

He, who had call'd on heaven above 

To witness every vow he spoke — 

May it record the vow he broke ! 

He loved another — calm and cold, 

He wrote farewell ! — and sent me gold. 

He came not — perhaps he could not bear 

To view what he had wrought — despair ! 

 

" I thought that I would see his face — 

Secret I sought his dwelling-place, 

A villa, where the river strays — 

I had been there in happier days : 

There was one room, whose windows led 

To where the turf its carpet spread, 

And shrubs and flowers a labyrinth wrought 

Of bud and leaf— that room I sought : 

’Twas late — I scarce could find my path 

By the dim ray the starlight hath : 

A lamp was burning in the room, 

So faint it scarcely lit the gloom ; 

Yet lovely seem'd the light — it fell 

Upon the face I loved so well. 

He'd flung him on a couch to sleep — 

Ah ! how unequal seem'd our share, 

For I was left to watch and weep, 

And he lay calmly slumbering there. 

How beautiful ! — the open brow 

Like morning, or like mountain snow;

I leant mine, pale and cold, beside, 

And felt as if I could have died 

To save that sleeper from one pang — 

Ay, though the arch-fiend's summons rang. 

A murmur from his closed lip came ; 

I listen'd — it was not my name : 

Around his neck a ribbon clung, 

Close to his heart a picture hung : 

I saw the face — it was not mine ; 

I saw, too, a small dagger shine, 

A curious toy — you know the rest." 

 

— Her forehead with her hand she press'd, 

As if to still the burning pain 

That throbb'd in every beating vein. 

He took the cross, that holy man, 

And kind and gentle words began ; 

She fiercely raised to his her eye, 

As if such soothing to defy. 

" I tell thee, father, 'tis in vain, 

His life, mine own is not so dear, 

Yet would I do that deed again, 

And be again a prisoner here, 

Rather than know that he could be 

Loving and loved, yet not by me. 

Begun in guilt and closed in gloom, 

Our love's fit altar is the tomb ! " 

 

She died as few can dare to die, 

With soul unquail'd and tearless eye : 

None soothed the culprit as she pass'd, 

With look grown kind, because the last, 

Or with affection's desperate tone — 

She died, unpitied and alone ! 

And never told that priest her tale, 

But lip grew cold and cheek grew pale. 

The guilt of blood on one so young, 

Such haughty brow, such daring tongue, 

And such wild love ; and some would weep, 

Some bear the image to their sleep, 

And start from feverish dream to see 

The moonlight close their phantasie, 

And eager count their beads, and pray  

To keep such evil from their way ; 

Then while the warning in them wrought, 

Finding it food for serious thought, 

And marking how wild passions lead 

To wasted life and fearful deed, 

Pray, ere they sank to sleep again, 

Such tale might not be told in vain.

 

The New Monthly Magazine, 1831