Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Robber's Deathbed

The Robber's Death-Bed.

Unknown, untended, and alone,Beneath the damp cave's dripping stone,On his low bed the robber lay,Watching the sun's departing ray,As slowly, faintly, faded allThe dim light on that cavern's wall.Alone—alone—and death was near,And that stern man, unused to fear,Whose shout had led the battle-strife,Whose arm had bared the bloody knife,Whose soul would neither spare nor yield.In secret way, or open field;That giant frame, of sineevy make,Why does each nerve and fibre quake?Why glares around that eagle-eye?Can he, the dauntless, fear to die?Yes: Fear, a stranger-guest, has comeTo fill that cave's mysterious gloomWith visions dire, and monsters fell,And some remembered—all too well,Dim pictures of the far-off past—All hideous now, and all defaced.What form is that advancing slow?His mother wipes his misty brow,He feels her breath, so gently warm,His head rests on her feeble arm,Kind words once more are heard, and felt,A mother's knee in prayer has knelt.'Tis all a dream! That form has gone,The friendless one remains alone,Yet something still sounds in his ear—'Tis not the ocean-waves, though near;It is the still small voice which speaks,When nought beside the silence breaks.That voice which neither wind nor waveNor aught can stifle but the grave;A still small voice—yet louder farTo him who hears, than din of war;And deep, and clear, the warning cry,When sickness comes, and death is nigh.At early morn there sought that cave,On high behest, two warriors brave;Commissioned by their prince to find,That lawless man—to guard and bind, At safety's risk, that iron hand,And from its terrors rid the land.Behold he sleeps!—the veriest childMight sport beside that ruffian wild,So still, so fixed, so moveless now,The marble of that fearful brow.No passion stirs his fluttering breath,He sleeps the long cold sleep of death.He sleeps; but who the tale shall tellOf that lone robber's last farewell?When earth, and sky, and sea, and air,And all they held of rich or fair;When all his greedy hand had gained,And all his hold would have retained,Were passing swiftly, surely by,And fading from his drooping eye;While nought but horror, guilt, and gloomRemained beside his opening tomb.Yes: then, even then, that holy book,With trembling hand the robber took,And such the lessons learned in youth,And such the force of heavenly truth,That while condemned the page he read,Some hope of mercy o'er it shedA ray more bright than earth could yield;And feeling, all too long concealed,Burst forth, o'ermastered by his fate.But, hark that call—"One moment wait."He drops the book—it is too late!