'All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint, That rack'd me all the time-- A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime. 'One stern tyrannic thought that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave-- Still urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave. 'Heavily I rose up--as soon As light was in the sky-- And sought the black accursèd pool With a wild misgiving eye; And I saw the dead, in the river bed, For the faithless stream was dry! 'Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dew-drop from its wing; But I never mark'd its morning flight, I never heard it sing: For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing. 'With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran-- There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began: In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, I hid the murder'd man. 'And all that day I read in school, But my thought was otherwhere; As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there: And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare! 'Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep; For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep; Or land, or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep. 'So wills the fierce avenging sprite, Till blood for blood atones; Ay, though he's buried in a cave, And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted off his flesh-- The world shall see his bones. 'Oh me--that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake! Again, again, with a dizzy brain, The human life I take; And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake. 'And still no peace for the restless clay Will wave or mould allow; The horrid thing pursues my soul-- It stands before me now!' The fearful boy looked up and saw Huge drops upon his brow. That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin's eyelids kiss'd, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walk'd between, With gyves upon his wrist. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread-- Stitch--stitch--stitch In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the Song of the Shirt. 'Work--work--work While the cock is crowing aloof; And work--work--work Till the stars shine through the roof! It's O! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save If this is Christian work!