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Title: Murder Will Out; or, The Power Of Conscience
Author: Thomas Cowherd [
More Titles by Cowherd]
A tale of Jealousy and Revenge, by Bernard Gray.
Turned into a Ballad and some new Scenes added.
[Footnote: I would not wish exactly to be held responsible for what the reader may deem unchristian-like language or statements in this ballad, as I have copied the original in such matters.]
Sullen sat in jealous mood,
A most brutal-looking man;
Purpose foul served him for food.
Against a maid he lately wooed
His dreadful purpose ran.
Long he sat with vacant stare,
Large his eyes, quite gray and full;
Fell in tangled locks his hair,
O'er his dirty forehead there,
Fit covering for such skull.
Stands in the room a crazy bed
And two wretched, worn-out chairs.
That had rested limbs and head,
These now served for that instead;
Thus ill the villain fares.
Heard he on that gloomy night
Demon foul to urge the deed?
Would he tremble at the sight
If some horrid goblin sprite
Came his strong wrath to feed?
He would welcome as his friend
Ev'n proud Satan, prince of Hell,
If he would assistance lend
So that he could gain his end
In crime--so very fell.
She who thus had roused his ire,
Lived a little distance off.
With his jealous soul on fire
Cudgel stout suits his desire;
He has one stout and tough.
Soon he reached her shabby home,
Rapped aloud upon the door.
"Yes, John Bristol, you may come,"
Said a voice within that room
So high on the third floor.
Near the window, very sad,
Sat she, deeply wrapped in thought
And appeared but thinly clad.
Brown her hair, blue eyes she had
As e'en with love were fraught!
She asked the man to take a seat.
He "preferred to stand awhile,
Had been sitting much of late."
Now, as if impelled by fate,
He has recourse to guile.
Says she, "Glad I am you've come
For I thought you took offense."
Little dreams she of the doom
Hanging o'er her in that room,
Or she would flee from thence.
He her conduct now reproves,
She replies in innocence.
Softly he behind her moves,
Right behind the girl he loves,
In cowardly pretence.
Ere suspicion could arise
In the hapless victim's mind,
Up the sturdy cudgel flies,
Downward on its aim it flies,
And strikes her as designed.
Right upon her temples fair,
Murder foul has done its part.
Eyes assume a strange, fixed stare,
Flows the blood among her hair,
No longer throbs the heart.
Now the villain lifts her arm,
Now he finds the pulse has fled;
He can do no further harm;
Conscience sounds a loud alarm,
For surely she is dead.
Now he flees in haste away;
Shifts the scene again to her:
She is found by friends next day
Stiff and gory as she lay,
And they create a stir.
Quickly gathers round a mob,
Fleetly flies the horrid news,
Making hearts more strongly throb;
Women shriek, and cry, and sob
As each the body views.
Come the officers of law;
Cries are heard to let them pass.
Through, the crowd they forward go,
To behold the scene of woe;
Suspense now holds the mass.
Shifts the scene unto the sea,
Nears a port a stately sail;
Joyful seems the crew to be,
Dream they not of misery
From an approaching gale.
Swiftly comes--a dreadful storm;
Fast the rigging's torn away;
Broken masts the ship deform,
All is terror and alarm
Amidst the dashing spray.
Angry roars the foaming deep;
Death now stares them in the face;
There is found no time to sleep,
Nor would it avail to weep
In such a woeful case.
Lift they up a prayer to God;
Does He heat them in distress?
See, He waves his righteous Rod,
For they've on his precepts trod;
His might they now confess.
Two alone survive the rest,
These are clinging to a spar.
One with secret in his breast
Is by sense of guilt oppressed,
Which keeps his mind ajar.
Can the reader guess his name?
"Bristol?" yes, he was the one;
He a sailor soon became,
Nor felt any sense of shame
Till life had nearly gone.
Now Hell's terrors seize his soul;
Now he sees the murdered maid
In her blood before him fall;
Hears her for God's vengeance call,
And ask why it's delayed.
Feels the elements at war
Nothing to the strife within,
Therefore to his brother tar
His locked heart he does unbar,
To ease him of his sin.
Tells him how some months ago
He a harmless maiden slew.
Jealousy had wrought his woe,
Made him give the fatal blow;
'Twas very wrong he knew.
"Speak her name!" the other cries;
"Mary Markham," Bristol screams.
Rage gleams from that other's eyes,
As he at John Bristol flies,
To end his mortal dreams.
Soon he's by the murderer's side,
Now he fiercely drags him down.
"Here thou shalt no longer bide;
Sink, fiend! sink into the tide,
And all thy baseness drown!"
Loud and louder roars the wind;
The new murderer is alone
And has lost his peace of mind.
Will he seek a port to find
And there his sin atone?
Fellow sinner, think not hard
Of the poor remaining one.
He from proper light debarred,
Thought it duty to reward
Bristol for that deed done.
Why? He to the murdered maid
Was a brother by his birth.
His love for her did not fade,
And this journey home he made
In hopes to yield her mirth.
Shifts the gloomy scene once more,
To a narrow, crooked street;
In a wretched liquor store
Sits a man we've seen before,
Musing on things not sweet.
He might seem to view intent
Watered spirits in a glass,
For his eyes on that are bent,
But his thoughts are wandering sent
Alter that murdered lass.
In this street--the very same,
That most shocking act was done;
It had nearly lost its fame,
Yet remembered was the name
Of that pool maiden lone.
When her name was spoke 'tis said
Chilling honor seized the soul
Of both high and lowly bred;
All who heard were filled with dread
Which they could scarce control.
Seems the man irresolute
About the drink before him placed.
Now, his gestures are not mute,
Showing feelings most acute,
And such as might be traced.
Bodingly he shakes his head,
Deep-drawn lengthy sigh then heaves
His broad chest, for her now dead!
Bitter tears are freely shed
As he for sister grieves.
In plain sailor's clothes he's dressed,
Anchor blue is on his hand.
A woman's eyes now on him rest,
Who, with babe upon her breast,
Speaks him in accents bland.
"Does the liquor suit your taste?
Is there nothing else you need?"
From his seat he rose with haste,
On the floor his feet he braced;
"I'm thinking of that deed!"
Quickly swallows he the drink,
Then asks, "Is not this the street?"
"What street? Come, yourself bethink!"
"I will; yet from it I shrink.
Sweet girl, we ne'er shall meet!"
"Tell, good woman, if you can,
Where she "--Once again a pause.
Turns she now afresh to scan
The face of that most wretched man.
So very full of woes.
Anxious to relieve his mind,
Stays she still within the room;
Then says, "Man, what would you find?
I to serve you am inclined."
"Where met that girl her doom?"
Now she needs no other clue;
Says, "You'll see the place from here.
Fouler deed I never knew;
Was she anything to you?
Come, tell me without fear."
"Was my sister, that was all;"
Soft he said, then paid his bill.
Something seemed on him to call;
Speedily away he stole,
But not with ready will.
Radiant Sol is sinking low,
And Night coming on apace;
Roofs in the setting sunbeams glow,
And his purple tints they show,
Till he has run his race.
At this time does Markham sit
In that lonely, dirty room;
Heeds not how the shadows flit,
Asks not if such place be fit
To drive away his gloom.
Felt he quite constrained to see
That house, where his sister dwelt,
And refresh his memory,
Thinking what she used to be,
When he so happy felt.
Now he tries to realize
Scenes that harrow up his soul.
While, successfully, he tries,
Fancies he can hear her cries!
This does his heart appal.
Thus engaged, he quickly hears
Soft steps coming to the door!
This does not arouse his fears;
Strong his nerves, it now appears,
As ere they were before.
Timid hand has lift the latch;
One more man is now within.
Very soon he strikes a match;
Candle's lit! Can Markham catch
Those features--dark with sin?
Soon. But what a sight to see;
Eyeballs from their sockets start!
Trembles he convulsively;
Should he try he could not flee;
He's struck, as by a dart!
Bristol locks the door inside,
And scans well the room around;
His grey eyes are opened wide--
Who's that on the other side?
Too soon the truth he found!
Markham springs now on his feet,
While his eyes with passion glow;
Bristol's these defying meet!
Firm they stand, nor seek retreat;
They well each other know!
First the brother silence broke;
"Villain! Come you here again?
Who did your light doom revoke?
Died on not from my just stroke
Upon the stormy Main?
"You've the impudence to come
To the place she occupied!
Your foul presence taints the room
Which to her was as a home,
Till, by your hands, she died!
"You hardened wretch! Take, quickly take
Your polluted soul from here!
Who, for you, Death's fetters brake?
Satan his own child forsake!
He'll have you, never fear!
"Monster! you're not fit to live,
Neither yet to die, at all?"
Bristol does no answer give;
The torments no one can conceive,
Endured by his vile soul!
Again the brother spoke in rage:
"Think you to escape your doom?
Other story, I engage
To read, ere you quit this stage.
Stern Vengeance now doth loom!
"If there be no other way,
Law I'll take in my own hands."
"This you've done"--did Bristol say--
"At the shipwreck yesterday;"
Now Markham shuddering stands.
Said he, "Yes, I did it then,
And you are sent back to me;
You will ne'er escape again;
Trial will be but in vain--
You're doomed to misery!
"Mary, my own sister dear!
When I last time saw your face,
Dreamt you not of cause to fear
Murderer's hand upon you here,
Within this very place!
"No stain was upon your name;
Lively, modest girl you were;
Would you ne'er had felt love's flame!
Yet you had no cause to shame,
But bore good character.
"If I live, your murderer's neck
Pays the forfeit of his crime!
Loss of time I will not reck--
Nothing shall my ardor check,
Should he seek other clime!"
Speaking thus, he placed his back
Firm against the outer door;
As he had of voice no lack,
Shouted, till his face grew black,
And stamped upon the floor!
Presently the neighbors come,
While poor Bristol trembling stands.
Now they are within the room,
And proceed to seal his doom
By binding fast his hands.
Shifts the scene into a Court,
Near to suffocation full;
Counsel unto lies resort,
And the jury loud exhort
To make proceedings null.
Bristol's friends had paid them gold,
And they do their best to show
Black is white: as, when of old,
Satan, without fee, lies told,
To work our Parents' woe.
Let them do their very best,
There's a witness all must hear!
It is in John Bristol's breast,
And it cannot, will not rest,
Till all the truth appear!
All his quivering lips observe,
While he now attempts to speak.
Conscience cries, "Come, muster nerve.
You must not from duty swerve;
You shall proceedings check!"
He speaks; all eyes quickly turn
On the wretched culprit's face.
"I my crime most deeply mourn!
Thoughts of it my vitals burn;
I dare not hope for grace!"
Verdict found, and sentence passed.
In three days condemned to die;
Thus he's caught by Law at last;
Fetters bind his limbs quite fast.
As he, in cell, doth lie.
Now the Devil steels his heart
To refuse religion's aid;
"In that thing he'll have no part,
It would but increase his smart--
Of death he's not afraid!"
Vainly strive God's messengers
To lead him to Jesus' blood;
"There's no need," he still avers,
And good victuals much prefers,
So asks, again, for food.
'Tis the night before he die;
Swiftly speed the hours away;
They, like seconds, seem to fly
To a Record, kept on high,
Against the Judgment Day!
Two--three--four--five! from the clock,
Sound like guns fired in distress.
Yet appear to give no shock
To that man, with heart of rock,
Though full of wretchedness!
Six! More dismal sounds are heard
Than the striking of the hour;
Workmen's blows loud echoes stirred,
Fixing scaffold--we inferred,
To rouse him has this power?
Not the least; it scarcely went
To the chambers of his brain;
Others thought it cried, "Repent,
Bristol, ere your life be spent!"
But yet the cry was vain!
Still he hardens his vile heart,
And hangs sullenly his head,
Seven--eight--nine--ten! Did he start?
No; but fiends from him depart,
And he will soon be dead.
Comes the Sheriff to his cell;
Puts the cord around his neck;
Now his feelings, who can tell?
Still he careth not for Hell--
But wait the Sheriff's beck.
Slow the dull procession moves
To the fatal gallows-tree;
There he sees no face he loves,
Though the people come in droves
His dying throes to see.
Now he hears the warrant read,
Bids adieu to all around;
Solemn prayer again is made,
And the cap's drawn o'er his head;
Signal's given; his soul has fled!
The body sinks to th' ground.
"I've followed him unto the end!"
Said a voice among the crowd.
Warning take! Young men, attend!
See the murderer's dreadful end!
It speaks like thunder loud.
1854
[The end]
Thomas Cowherd's poem: Murder Will Out; Or, The Power Of Conscience
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