Classic Poem

Oh man! whose felon hand, hath shaken,
The last sands in this glass of life,
In thy domomac fury taken
Pure, precious blood, with the red knife;
If e'er remorse for wicked deed
Can make thy wolfish nature bleed,
If guilt hath power to appal,
And turn thy coward heart to gall;
Then Conscience shall avenge the guilt,
Avenge the blood, like water, spilt.
That awful stain, upon thy hand,
Upon thy soul that crimson blot,
Shall make this world, to thee, a land
Without one pleasant spot!
And fearfully this deed shall make
Thy parting spirit quake.
Dark! dark to thee this earth!
A world of torture, guilt and gloom,
No gleam of joy! no look of mirth!
A rayless, living tomb!
To thee, yon silver moon, that smiles
So placidly, in Heaven's blue hall,
And all the stars, that in those aisles
Of the deep Night, hold festival,
Shall ever to thy startled sight
Shine with a baleful, blood-red light!
Those clouds—the colored beings of the air,
Shall flash upon thine eye, a ghastly glare,
And the green earth, and verdant tree,
Be only red, blood-red to thee,
And the green billows of the main,
Take, like thine hand, a guilty stain,
For thus unto the murderer's eye
All objects take the murderer's dye.