A Convict.
’Twixt level meadows the road winds
onward—1
A dusty road and white,2
And but one figure is faring sunward3
Black ’gainst the dying light.4
Kind night, be swift with your wings to cover5
A hunted creature’s flight !6
Freedom or death ! Life shall be over7
If he be taken to-night.8
A convict broken away from prison9
Against the sky shows black ;10
Long ere that sinking sun had risen11
The bloodhounds were on his track.12
On through the day’s heat hastening, hiding13
When travellers passed that way,14
Lurking by hedgerows, creeping, gliding,15
Gray by the willows gray.16
On, ever on, with his forehead burning,17
And feet too tired for pain ;18
On, on, no tiring, no returning19
To the prison-hell again !20
On, on—one step more—fearing, flying,21
Fasting—his brain reels, sick,22
He falls by a wood where pines are sighing,23
And dead red leaves lie thick.24
And round him is nought but the leaves’ soft rustle25
And whisper of dry grass,26
As down the road, with hurry and hustle,27
His foiled pursuers pass.28
The gray soft night cloaks the red sunsetting,29
And there he lies asleep30
Under free stars, free and forgetting31
What tears man’s heart can weep.32
The still pure night of summer is waning,33
The east grows pale and bright,34
The wood-pigeon’s low-voiced complaining35
Wails for the dying night.36
He wakes to see the dawn smile lightly ;37
Still half-asleep perceives38
A red-roofed cottage showing brightly39
Through gray-green alder leaves.40
The wood-smoke from the chimney curling,41
The quietness of dawn,42
The dewy close-shut daisies, sleeping43
Upon the little lawn—44
The look of home : these stir within him45
Old hopes. Is all joy done ?46
He still has life, and may life not win him47
What other men have won ?48
The past shall not reign in his life forever !49
He has borne long penance and pain :50
He will sow the seed of a brave endeavour,51
And life shall blossom again !52
’Mid the crisp curled leaves he lies and watches53
The little house, and sees54
The kitchen garden, the gate, the thatches55
That roof the bench of bees.56
He sees life wake, he hears life stirring57
Far down the village street ;58
He hears the mill-wheel’s drowsy whirring,59
The sound of distant feet.60
The cottage door show’d glimpses—scrappy61
Pictures that go and come ;62
A man and woman—busy, happy,63
With little cares of home.64
Then fieldward both fared forth light-hearted—65
She went her way, he his :66
In his dry ditch the felon smarted67
To see their parting kiss.68
So he too might have loved and cherished—69
Been loved. Oh ! angry pain !70
Oh ! for the chances lost and perished71
That never come again !72
He lay there, silent, lonely, knowing73
All day he must lie there.74
He watched the sunrise growing, glowing,75
And drank the clear, cool air.76
When night had fallen, one more endeavour77
Would bring him to the sea ;78
He could cross over the world, and never79
Be otherwise than free.80
That little house—the sunrise glory81
Made fair the little place,82
Shone on its red-tiled upper storey,83
Its black-beamed plaster face.84
Still the sky pales, the cottage brightens,85
The blazing sun mounts higher.86
Is it sunshine those windows lightens,87
Or but the cottage fire ?88
The window reddens dully, and, turning,89
The sullen smoke-wreaths rise—90
On fire ! on fire !— the house is burning91
Before his very eyes !92
(So much for joy ! Those—loved and lover—93
Who kissed and went forth free,94
To-night no roof their heads will cover—95
Homeless are they, as he !)96
The flames leap out ; they gleam up palely97
Against the clear, pale sky.98
He sees the smoke curl grimly, grayly ;99
He——What was that—a cry ?100
No, ’twas some lamb in a quiet meadow,101
Or some wild woodland bird.102
Not a child’s cry ! As he shrank in the shadow,103
It was not that he heard.104
Ah ! others see the fire, none nears it !105
Far off their cries ring wild.106
He listens, and through their cries he hears it—107
It is the cry of a child !108
A crowd on the hill—and those who sought him109
Perhaps were with the crowd—110
And still the child’s voice pursued, besought him,111
More pitiful, less loud.112
How dare he answer that weak appealing ?113
How dare he not reply ?114
His prison dress there is no concealing115
Save where the dead leaves lie.116
But the child moans on, the flames rise higher,117
And the crowd two fields away !118
If the child be snatched from the hands of the fire,119
’Tis he must do it, not they.120
He leaps from the ditch where he is lying,121
The dead leaves flutter and fall,122
And he springs to answer the baby’s crying,123
Full in the sight of all—124
Folk from the village and men from the prison,125
Those who were seeking him,126
Good-bye, new hope, so late re-risen,127
Already setting and dim !128
But he gave his freedom as coward gave never,129
And the mother’s thanks will be130
A music to sing in his ears for ever,131
Though he shall never be free !132
The mother springs from the hand that would hold her133
To bless the hero’s name.134
She lays her arm upon his shoulder,135
Hot from the kiss of the flame.136
Her eyes’ true love and thanks full-hearted137
Strove to explain, express ;138
Her white lips moved—then she stopped and started,139
She saw his prison dress.140
She snatched the child from contamination,141
And pillowed its downy head142
On a breast that quivered with indignation—143
‘ A convict ! ’ was all she said.144