Classic Poem

From ocean's wave a Wanderer came,
With visage tanned and dun:
His Mother, when he told his name,
Scarce knew her long-lost son;
So altered was his face and frame
By the ill course he had run.

There was hot fever in his blood,
And dark thoughts in his brain;
And oh! to turn his heart to good
That Mother strove in vain,
For fierce and fearful was his mood,
Racked by remorse and pain.

And if, at times, a gleam more mild
Would o'er his features stray,
When knelt the Widow near her Child,
And he tried with her to pray,
It lasted not — for visions wild
Still scared good thoughts away.

" There's blood upon my hands!" he said,
" Which water cannot wash;
It was not shed where warriors bled —
It dropped from the gory lash,
As I whirled it o'er and o'er my head,
And with each stroke left a gash.

" With every stroke I left a gash,
While Negro blood sprang high;
And now all ocean cannot wash
My soul from murder's dye;
Nor e'en thy prayer, dear Mother, quash
That Woman's wild death-cry!

" Her cry is ever in my ear,
And it will not let me pray;
Her look I see — her voice I hear —
As when in death she lay,
And said, " With me thou must appear
On God's great Judgment-day! " "

" Now, Christ from frenzy keep my son!"
The woeful Widow cried;
" Such murder foul thou ne'er hast done —
Some fiend thy soul belied!" —
" — Nay, Mother! the Avenging One
Was witness when she died!

" The writhing wretch with furious heel
I crushed — no mortal nigh;
But that same hour her dread appeal
Was registered on high;
And now with God I have to deal,
And dare not meet His eye!"