The Lynching





His spirit in smoke ascended to high heaven.

His father, by the crudest way of pain,

Had bidden him to his bosom once again;

The awful sin remained still unforgiven.

All night a bright and solitary star

(Perchance the one that ever guided him,

Yet gave him up at last to Fate's wild whim)

Hung pitifully o'er the swinging char.

Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view

The ghastly body swaying in the sun:

The women thronged to look, but never a one

Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue;

And little lads, lynchers that were to be,

Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee.





The Lumbermen The Mantle Of St John De Matha A Legend Of "the Red, White, And Blue," A D 1154-1864 facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

Feedback