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Robert Southey - Jaspar
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Jaspar was poor, and want and vice
    Had made his heart like stone,
  And Jaspar look`d with envious eyes
    On riches not his own.

  On plunder bent abroad he went
    Towards the close of day,
  And loitered on the lonely road
    Impatient for his prey.

  No traveller came, he loiter`d long
    And often look`d around,
  And paus`d and listen`d eagerly
    To catch some coming sound.

  He sat him down beside the stream
    That crossed the lonely way,
  So fair a scene might well have charm`d
    All evil thoughts away;

  He sat beneath a willow tree
    That cast a trembling shade,
  The gentle river full in front
    A little island made,

  Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone
    Upon the poplar trees,
  Whose shadow on the stream below
    Play`d slowly to the breeze.

  He listen`d--and he heard the wind
    That waved the willow tree;
  He heard the waters flow along
    And murmur quietly.

  He listen`d for the traveller`s tread,
    The nightingale sung sweet,--
  He started up, for now he heard
    The sound of coming feet;

  He started up and graspt a stake
    And waited for his prey;
  There came a lonely traveller
    And Jaspar crost his way.

  But Jaspar`s threats and curses fail`d
    The traveller to appal,
  He would not lightly yield the purse
    That held his little all.

  Awhile he struggled, but he strove
    With Jaspar`s strength in vain;
  Beneath his blows he fell and groan`d,
    And never spoke again.

  He lifted up the murdered man
    And plunged him in the flood,
  And in the running waters then
    He cleansed his hands from blood.

  The waters closed around the corpse
    And cleansed his hands from gore,
  The willow waved, the stream flowed on
    And murmured as before.

  There was no human eye had seen
    The blood the murderer spilt,
  And Jaspar`s conscience never knew
    The avenging goad of guilt.

  And soon the ruffian had consum`d
    The gold he gain`d so ill,
  And years of secret guilt pass`d on
    And he was needy still.

  One eve beside the alehouse fire
    He sat as it befell,
  When in there came a labouring man
    Whom Jaspar knew full well.

  He sat him down by Jaspar`s side
    A melancholy man,
  For spite of honest toil, the world
    Went hard with Jonathan.

  His toil a little earn`d, and he
    With little was content,
  But sickness on his wife had fallen
    And all he had was spent.

  Then with his wife and little ones
    He shared the scanty meal,
  And saw their looks of wretchedness,
    And felt what wretches feel.

  That very morn the Landlord`s power
    Had seized the little left,
  And now the sufferer found himself
    Of every thing bereft.

  He lent his head upon his hand,
    His elbow on his knee,
  And so by Jaspar`s side he sat
    And not a word said he.

  Nay--why so downcast? Jaspar cried,
    Come--cheer up Jonathan!
  Drink neighbour drink! `twill warm thy heart,
    Come! come! take courage man!

  He took the cup that Jaspar gave
    And down he drain`d it quick
  I have a wife, said Jonathan,
    And she is deadly sick.

  She has no bed to lie upon,
    I saw them take her bed.
  And I have children--would to God
    That they and I were dead!

  Our Landlord he goes home to night
    And he will sleep in peace.
  I would that I were in my grave
    For there all troubles cease.

  In vain I pray`d him to forbear
    Tho` wealth enough has he--
  God be to him as merciless
    As he has been to me!

  When Jaspar saw the poor man`s soul
    On all his ills intent,
  He plied him with the heartening cup
    And with him forth he went.

  This landlord on his homeward road
    `Twere easy now to meet.
  The road is lonesome--Jonathan,
    And vengeance, man! is sweet.

  He listen`d to the tempter`s voice
    The thought it made him start.
  His head was hot, and wretchedness
    Had hardened now his heart.

  Along the lonely road they went
    And waited for their prey,
  They sat them down beside the stream
    That crossed the lonely way.

  They sat them down beside the stream
    And never a word they said,
  They sat and listen`d silently
    To hear the traveller`s tread.

  The night was calm, the night was dark,
    No star was in the sky,
  The wind it waved the willow boughs,
    The stream flowed quietly.

  The night was calm, the air was still,
    Sweet sung the nightingale,
  The soul of Jonathan was sooth`d,
    His heart began to fail.

  `Tis weary waiting here, he cried,
    And now the hour is late,--
  Methinks he will not come to night,
    `Tis useless more to wait.

  Have patience man! the ruffian said,
    A little we may wait,
  But longer shall his wife expect
    Her husband at the gate.

  Then Jonathan grew sick at heart,
    My conscience yet is clear,
  Jaspar--it is not yet too late--
    I will not linger here.

  How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought
    Thy conscience was asleep.
  No more such qualms, the night is dark,
    The river here is deep,

  What matters that, said Jonathan,
    Whose blood began to freeze,
  When there is one above whose eye
    The deeds of darkness sees?

  We are safe enough, said Jaspar then
    If that be all thy fear;
  Nor eye below, nor eye above
    Can pierce the darkness here.

  That instant as the murderer spake
    There came a sudden light;
  Strong as the mid-day sun it shone,
    Though all around was night.

  It hung upon the willow tree,
    It hung upon the flood,
  It gave to view the poplar isle
    And all the scene of blood.

  The traveller who journies there
    He surely has espied
  A madman who has made his home
    Upon the river`s side.

  His cheek is pale, his eye is wild,
    His look bespeaks despair;
  For Jaspar since that hour has made
    His home unshelter`d there.

  And fearful are his dreams at night
    And dread to him the day;
  He thinks upon his untold crime
    And never dares to pray.

  The summer suns, the winter storms,
    O`er him unheeded roll,
  For heavy is the weight of blood
    Upon the maniac`s soul.
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