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.