I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he went

out to die.

"They dared me to do it," he said, and he never has told me a lie.

I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he was but a child

"The farmer dared me to do it," he said; he was always so wild

And idle-and could n't be idle-my Willy—

he never could rest.

The King should have made him a soldier, he would have been one of his best.

28

But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never would let him be good;

They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he swore that he would;

And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when all was done

He flung it among his fellows-"I'll none of it," said my son.

I came into court to the Judge and the lawyers. I told them my tale,

God's own truth-but they kill'd him, they

kill'd him for robbing the mail.

32

They hang'd him in chains for a show-we had always borne a good name—

To be hang'd for a thief-and then put away— is n't that enough shame?

Dust to dust-low down-let us hide! but they set him so high

That all the ships of the world could stare at him, passing by.

God 'll pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls of the air,

But not the black heart of the lawyer who

kill'd him and hang'd him there.

40

And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him

my last good bye;

They had fasten'd the door of his cell.

mother!" I heard him cry.

I could n't get back tho' I tried, he had something further to say,

And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced me away.

44

Then since I could n't but hear that cry of my boy that was dead,

They seized me and shut me up: they fasten'd me down on my bed.

"Mother, O mother!"-he call'd in the dark to me year after year

They beat me for that, they beat me-you know

that I could n't but hear;

And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid and still

They let me abroad again-but the creatures

had worked their will.

Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my

bone was left

I stole them all from the lawyers-and you, will you call it a theft?—

50

My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, the bones that had laugh'd and had cried— Theirs? O, no! they are mine-not theirsthey had moved in my side.

Do you think I was scared by the bones? I kiss'd 'em, I buried 'em all

54

I can't dig deep, I am old-in the night by the churchyard wall.

My Willy 'll rise up whole when the trumpet of judgment 'll sound;

But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy ground.

They would scratch him up-they would hang him again on the cursed tree.

Sin? O yes, we are sinners, I know-let all

that be,

58

And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's goodwill toward men

"Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord”—let me hear it again;

"Full of compassion and mercy-long-suffering." Yes, O yes!

For the lawyer is born but to murder-the
Saviour lives but to bless.

He'll never put on the black cap except for the worst of the worst,

And the first may be last-I have heard it in church-and the last may be first.

Suffering-O, long-suffering-yes, as the Lord must know,

Year after year in the mist and the wind and the shower and the snow.

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Heard, have you? what? they have told you he never repented his sin.

How do they know it? are they his mother? are you of his kin?

Heard! have you ever heard, when the storm on the downs began,

The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the sea that 'ill moan like a man?

Election, Election, and Reprobation—it's all

very well.

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But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him in Hell.

For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has look'd into my care,

And He means me I'm sure to be happy with Willy, I know not where.

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And if he be lost-but to save my soul, that is all your desire—

Do you think that I care for my soul if my boy be gone to the fire?

I have been with God in the dark-go, go, you may leave me alone

You never have borne a child—you are just as hard as a stone.

80

Madam, I beg your pardon! I think that you mean to be kind,

But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's voice is in the wind

The snow and the sky so bright-he used but to call in the dark,

And he calls to me now from the church and

not from the gibbet—for hark!

Nay-you can hear it yourself—it is coming— shaking the walls

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

""T is some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;

Only this, and nothing more."