James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
August 6The Dream of Eugene Aram
By Thomas Hood (1799–1845)
’T
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran and some that leap’d,
Like troutlets in a pool.
And souls untouch’d by sin;
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.
And shouted as they ran,
Turning to mirth all things or earth,
As only boyhood can;
But the Usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man!
To catch heaven’s blessed breeze;
For a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at ease:
So he lean’d his head on his hands, and read
The book between his knees.
Nor ever glanced aside,
For the peace of his soul he read that book
In the golden eventide:
Much study had made him very lean,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strain’d the dusky covers close,
And fix’d the brazen hasp:
“Oh, God! could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp!”
Some moody turns he took,—
Now up the mead, then down the mead,
And past a shady nook,—
And, lo! he saw a little boy
That por’d upon a book.
Romance or fairy fable?
Or is it some historic page,
Of kings and crowns unstable?”
The young boy gave an upward glance,—
“It is ‘The Death of Abel.’”
As smit with sudden pain,
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again;
And down he sat beside the lad,
And talk’d with him of Cain;
Whose deeds tradition saves;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves;
Shriek upward from the sod;
Aye, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts
Are seen in dreams from God!
Beneath the curse of Cain,
With crimson clouds before their eyes,
And flames about their brain:
For blood has left upon their souls
Its everlasting stain.
Their pangs must be extreme,—
Woe, woe, unutterable woe,—
Who spill life’s sacred stream!
For why? Methought, last night, I wrought
A murder, in a dream!
A feeble man and old:
I led him to a lonely field;
The moon shone clear and cold:
Now here, said I, this man shall die,
And I will have his gold!
And one with a heavy stone,
One hurried gash with a hasty knife,—
And then the deed was done;
There was nothing lying at my foot
But lifeless flesh and bone!
That could not do me ill;
And yet I fear’d him all the more,
For lying there so still:
There was a manhood in his look,
That murder could not kill.
Seem’d lit with ghastly flame;
Ten thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame:
I took the dead man by his hand,
And call’d upon his name!
Such sense within the slain!
But when I touch’d the lifeless clay,
The blood gush’d out amain!
For ever clot, a burning spot
Was scorching in my brain!
My heart as solid ice;
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,
Was at the Devil’s price;
A dozen times I groan’d: the dead
Had never groan’d but twice.
From the Heaven’s topmost height,
I heard a voice—the awful voice
Of the blood-avenging sprite:
‘Thou guilty man! take up thy dead
And hide it from my sight!’
And cast it in a stream,
A sluggish water, black as ink,
The depth was so extreme:—
My gentle Boy, remember this
Is nothing but a dream!
And vanish’d in the pool;
Anon I cleans’d my bloody hands,
And wash’d my forehead cool,
And sat among the urchins young,
That evening in the school.
And mine so black and grim!
I could not share in childish prayer
Nor join in Evening Hymn:
Like a Devil of the Pit I seem’d,
’Mid holy Cherubim!
And each calm pillow spread;
But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain
That lighted me to bed,
And drew my midnight curtains round,
With fingers bloody red!
In anguish dark and deep,
My fever’d eyes I dar’d not close,
But star’d aghast at Sleep:
For Sin had render’d unto her
The keys of hell to keep.
From weary chime to chime,
With one besetting horrid hint,
That rack’d me all the time;
A mighty yearning like the first
Fierce impulse unto crime;
All other thoughts its slave:
Stronger and stronger every pulse
Did that temptation crave,
Still urging me to go and see
The Dead Man in his grave!
As light was in the sky,
And sought the black accursed pool
With a wild misgiving eye:
And I saw the Dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry.
The dew-drop from its wing;
But I never mark’d its morning flight,
I never heard it sing,
For I was stooping once again
Under the horrid thing.
I took him up and ran;
There was no time to dig a grave
Before the day began:
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,
I hid the murder’d man.
But my thought was other where;
As soon as the mid-day task was done,
In secret I was there;
And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
And still the corse was bare!
And first began to weep,
For I knew my secret then was one
That earth refus’d to keep:
Or land or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep.
Till blood for blood atones!
Aye, though he ’s buried in a cave,
And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh,—
The world shall see his bones.
Besets me now awake!
Again—again, with dizzy brain,
The human life I take;
And my red right hand grows raging hot,
Like Cranmer’s at the stake.
Will have or mould allow;
The horrid thing pursues my soul,—
It stands before me now!”
The fearful Boy look’d up, and saw
Huge drops upon his brow.
The urchin eyelids kiss’d,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walk’d between,
With gyves upon his wrist.