III.
In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
And the dripping wall is high.
So it was there he took the air
Beneath the leaden sky...
And by each side a warder walked,
For fear the man might die.
Or else he sat with those who watched
His anguish night and day;
Who watched him when he rose to weep,
And when he crouched to pray;
Who watched him lest himself should rob
Their scaffold of its prey.
With slouch and swing around the ring
We trod the Fools' Parade!
We did not care: we knew we were
The Devils' Own Brigade:
And shaven head and feet of lead
Make a merry masquerade.
But there is no sleep when men must weep
Who never yet have wept;
So we ... the fool, the fraud, the knave ...
That endless vigil kept,
And through each brain on hands of pain
Another's terror crept.
Alas! It is a fearful thing
To feel another's guilt!
And right within, the sword of Sin
Pierced to its poisoned hilt;
As molten lead were the tears we shed
For the blood we had not spilt.
With sudden shock the prison-clock
Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
Of impotent despair,
Like the sound the frightened marshes hear
From some leper in his lair.
That night the empty corridors
Were full of forms of Fear,
And up and down the iron town
Stole feet we could not hear,
And through the bars that hide the stars
White faces seemed to peer.
