Grew like an Hostler’s lantern, at an Inn;
All the circumference was dirty horn,
And feebly blink’d the ray of warmth within.
In short, for one of his religious function,
His Conscience was both cowardly and callous;
No melting Cherub whisper’d to’t “Compunction!”
But grim Jack Ketch disturb’d it, crying “Gallows!”
And all his sorrow, for this deed abhorr’d,
Was nothing but antipathy to cord.
A padlock’d door stood in the garden wall,