C.T.W.

    Sometime Trooper of

    The Royal Horse Guards.

    Obiit H.M. Prison， Reading， Berkshire，

    July 7th， 1896

    I.

    He did not wear his scarlet coat，

    For blood and wine are red，

    And blood and wine were on his hands

    When they found him with the dead，

    The poor dead woman whom he loved，

    And murdered in her bed.

    He walked amongst the Trial Men

    In a suit of shabby grey；

    A cricket cap was on his head，

    And his step seemed light and gay；

    But I never saw a man who looked

    So wistfully at the day.

    I never saw a man who looked

    With such a wistful eye

    Upon that little tent of blue

    Which prisoners call the sky，

    And at every drifting cloud that went

    With sails of silver by.

    I walked， with other souls in pain，

    Within another ring，

    And was wondering if the man had done

    A great or little thing，

    When a voice behind me whispered low，

    "That fellow's got to swing."

    Dear Christ！ the very prison walls

    Suddenly seemed to reel，

    And the sky above my head became

    Like a casque of scorching steel；

    And， though I was a soul in pain，

    My pain I could not feel.

    I only knew what hunted thought

    Quickened his step， and why

    He looked upon the garish day

    With such a wistful eye；

    The man had killed the thing he loved

    And so he had to die.

    Yet each man kills the thing he loves

    By each let this be heard，

    Some do it with a bitter look，

    Some with a flattering word，

    The coward does it with a kiss，

    The brave man with a sword！

    Some kill their love when they are young，

    And some when they are old；

    Some strangle with the hands of Lust，

    Some with the hands of Gold：

    The kindest use a knife， because

    The dead so soon grow cold.

    Some love too little， some too long，

    Some sell， and others buy；

    Some do the deed with many tears，

    And some without a sigh：

    For each man kills the thing he loves，

    Yet each man does not die.

    He does not die a death of shame

    On a day of dark disgrace，

    Nor have a noose about his neck，

    Nor a cloth upon his face，

    Nor drop feet foremost through the floor

    Into an empty place

    He does not sit with silent men

    Who watch him night and day；

    Who watch him when he tries to weep，

    And when he tries to pray；

    Who watch him lest himself should rob

    The prison of its prey.

    He does not wake at dawn to see

    Dread figures throng his room，

    The shivering Chaplain robed in white，

    The Sheriff stern with gloom，

    And the Governor all in shiny black，

    With the yellow face of Doom.

    He does not rise in piteous haste

    To put on convict-clothes，

    While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats， and notes

    Each new and nerve-twitched pose，

    Fingering a watch whose little ticks

    Are like horrible hammer- blows.

    He does not know that sickening thirst

    That sands one's throat， before

    The hangman with his gardener's gloves

    Slips through the padded door，

    And binds one with three leathern thongs，

    That the throat may thirst no more.

    He does not bend his head to hear

    The Burial Office read，

    Nor， while the terror of his soul

    Tells him he is not dead，

    Cross his own coffin， as he moves

    Into the hideous shed.

    He does not stare upon the air

    Through a little roof of glass；

    He does not pray with lips of clay

    For his agony to pass；

    Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek

    The kiss of Caiaphas.