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 Then all is hushed—as if asleep. The jailer stands—moves not—undone. Large tears beneath his eyelids run And eyes and heart with sorrow weep. Long stands he, helpless to decide, Till as a beast prepared to leap, He leaves the cell with one long stride. Long as he lived—his lips kept sealed The secret he had heard revealed, And ne'er again he wore with grace A smile upon his furrowed face.

The jailer left—the shadow'd spell Fills once again the prison cell. Through night profound—the drops of slime Again, in falling, measure time.

There where the bleak stone table stands, The captive kneels—leans on his hands, His haggard face—a frightful sight. Motionless eyes that now appear Fixed on some boundless, timeless sphere. Tears, sweat and blood on cheeks alight, And endlessly the drops of slime Again, in falling, measure time. The song of drops, the winds of night, Foretell the unrelenting doom Of him, whose failing reasons fled. From far an owl hoots in dread, At midnight, when the church-bells boom.