1887.
Shall England consummate the crime
That binds the murderer’s hand, and leaves
No surety for the trust of thieves?
Time pleads against it—truth and time—
And pity frowns and grieves.
The hoary henchman of the gang,
Lifts hands that never dew nor rain
May cleanse from Gordon’s blood again,
Appealing: pity’s tenderest pang