Баллада Редингской тюрьмы

Alas! it is a fearful thingTo feel another's guilt!For, right within, the sword of SinPierced to its poisoned hilt,And as molten lead were the tears we shedFor the blood we had not spilt.The Warders with their shoes of feltCrept by each padlocked door,And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,Grey figures on the floor,And wondered why men knelt to prayWho never prayed before.All through the night we knelt and prayed,Mad mourners of a corpse!The troubled plumes of midnight were

The plumes upon a hearse:And bitter wine upon a spongeWas the savour of Remorse.The cock crew, the red cock crew,But never came the day:And crooked shape of Terror crouched,In the corners where we lay:And each evil sprite that walks by nightBefore us seemed to play.They glided past, they glided fast,Like travellers through a mist:They mocked the moon in a rigadoonOf delicate turn and twist,And with formal pace and loathsome graceThe phantoms kept their tryst.With mop and mow, we saw them go,

Slim shadows hand in hand:About, about, in ghostly routThey trod a saraband:And the damned grotesques made arabesques,Like the wind upon the sand!With the pirouettes of marionettes,They tripped on pointed tread:But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,As their grisly masque they led,And loud they sang, and loud they sang,For they sang to wake the dead."Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide,But fettered limbs go lame!And once, or twice, to throw the diceIs a gentlemanly game,

But he does not win who plays with SinIn the secret House of Shame."No things of air these antics wereThat frolicked with such glee:To men whose lives were held in gyves,And whose feet might not go free,Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,Most terrible to see.Around, around, they waltzed and wound;Some wheeled in smirking pairs:With the mincing step of demirepSome sidled up the stairs:And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,Each helped us at our prayers.The morning wind began to moan,But still the night went on:

Through its giant loom the web of gloomCrept till each thread was spun:And, as we prayed, we grew afraidOf the Justice of the Sun.The moaning wind went wandering roundThe weeping prison-wall:Till like a wheel of turning-steelWe felt the minutes crawl:O moaning wind! what had we doneTo have such a seneschal?At last I saw the shadowed barsLike a lattice wrought in lead,Move right across the whitewashed wallThat faced my three-plank bed,And I knew that somewhere in the worldGod's dreadful dawn was red.

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