The Murderer Poem by Charlotte Dacre

Silent he stalk'd, and ever and anon
He shudder'd, and turn'd back, saying, 'Who follows?'
Horror had blanch'd his check; his writhing brow
Confess'd the inward struggles of his mind.
E'en in the distant, ever-varying clouds
His tortur'd fancy form'd a vengeful angel,
Pointing the sword of justice o'er his head;
And e'en the murm'ring zephyrs, rushing by,
Seem'd the low whisp'rings of the restless shade
His sanguinary steel had forc'd abroad.
With folded arms, and hesitating tread,
The guilty murd'rer shunn'd the beaten path,
And turn'd where trackless Desolation frown'd.
Now the last crimson tint of eve expir'd,
And fainter grew the vivid western clouds;
The mountains their gigantic shadows threw
Across the boundless plain outstretch'd below;
The blue mists gather'd on their low'ring heads,
And in the dusk delusive shapes uncouth
Cheated the wretched culprit's coward eye.
Vainly for refuge in himself he sought,
For dark remorse and shudd'ring guilt were there,
Despair, and doubts of heaven. Dark as his fate
Increasing night came on. The wand'rer sunk
Exhausted down, but sleep disdain'd her snowy plumes to soil
By hov'ring near the blood-stain'd murd'rer's couch,
And fled to 'lids of innocence and peace.'
In agony the prostrate wretch remain'd,
His eyes distended and by madness glaz'd;
Visions of horror shock'd his straining sight.
Now gliding slow he mark'd the angry spirit
Of his murder'd friend, which, as it pass'd
In mournful guise, its threat'ning finger shook.
Then came a form most hideous to behold,
Of sable hue, and eyes of sparkling fire.
It stopp'd and grinn'd a smile of triumph, such
As hell alone could shew, and th' arch fiend wear,
Elate, and glorying in the crimes of Man!
Thus harass'd and appall'd, the guilty soul
No hope of mercy chear'd. His bursting eyes,
On vacancy fierce stretch'd, seem'd wild to scan
Futurity, to him a dread abyss,
A darkly-yawning gulf, within whose womb
Horror-struck Fancy form'd chaotic scenes,
Where fiends malignant various racks prepar'd
To stretch his tortur'd frame, and, agoniz'd,
Wring from his heart, by torment exquisite,
The secret of his murder. Drop by drop
Forc'd from his swelling veins the blood he saw;
Ten thousand pangs assail'd him; while around
Terrific yells and laughter seem'd to ring,
With taunts such as the scoffing demons shout
O'er those whom they betray.—Visions so drear,
Compounded by remorseful fancy's sway,
What reason could sustain? Yet reason still
Maintain'd her seat—the more the murd'rer's woe.
Now from the shadowy gulf, emerging slow,
The King of Terrors rose. Awful he rose,
And wan as the pale moon-beam o'er the tomb.
Still, as he mov'd, his form gigantic grew;
Till pointing at the wretch's anguish'd heart
That dart which never errs, behold him breathe,
In wild despair, his last, yet curs'd with sense to feel
The dreadful visitations of his fate.
Murder, at once the foulest and the first
Of human crimes, the eldest-born of sin,
In vain would hope its glowing guilt to hide
From the Omnipotent's all-piercing eye.
Whether in vale sequester'd darkly done,
Or on the summit of the mountain steep—
Whether conceal'd beneath the sea green wave,
Or left a corse disfigur'd on the shore,
Th' avenging spirit still shall call on heaven!
Ne'er can the trace of blood be wash'd away.
Or could the arid earth its steam imbibe,
Or could the deed of death be veil'd in night,
Yet the lost wretch whose hands have once been stain'd
Bears in his forehead the accusing mark.
The haggard cheek, the darkly-scowling eye,
The frenzied glance, the guilty, frequent start—
Ah! these are witnesses no wealth can bribe.
The slaves of conscience are they evermore,
And wearing all the livery of murder.