To morrow I set sail again Not to the Negroe shore— Wretch that I am I will at least Commit that sin no more. O give me comfort if you can— Oh tell me where to fly— And bid me hope, if there be hope, For one so lost as I. Poor wretch, the stranger he replied, Put thou thy trust in heaven, And call on him for whose dear sake All sins shall be forgiven. This night at least is thine, go thou And seek the house of prayer, There shalt thou hear the word of God And he will help thee there! Jaspar The stories of the two following ballads are wholly imaginary. I may say of each as John Bunyan did of his _Pilgrim’s Progress_, _It came from mine own heart, so to my head, And thence into my fingers trickled; Then to my pen, from whence immediately On paper I did dribble it daintily._ Jaspar Jaspar was poor, and want and vice Had made his heart like stone, And Jaspar look’d with envious eyes On riches not his own. On plunder bent abroad he went Towards the close of day, And loitered on the lonely road Impatient for his prey. No traveller came, he loiter’d long And often look’d around, And paus’d and listen’d eagerly To catch some coming sound. He sat him down beside the stream That crossed the lonely way, So fair a scene might well have charm’d All evil thoughts away; He sat beneath a willow tree That cast a trembling shade, The gentle river full in front A little island made, Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone Upon the poplar trees, Whose shadow on the stream below Play’d slowly to the breeze. He listen’d—and he heard the wind That waved the willow tree; He heard the waters flow along And murmur quietly. He listen’d for the traveller’s tread, The nightingale sung sweet,— He started up, for now he heard The sound of coming feet; He started up and graspt a stake And waited for his prey; There came a lonely traveller And Jaspar crost his way. But Jaspar’s threats and curses fail’d The traveller to appal, He would not lightly yield the purse That held his little all. Awhile he struggled, but he strove With Jaspar’s strength in vain; Beneath his blows he fell and groan’d, And never spoke again. He lifted up the murdered man And plunged him in the flood, And in the running waters then He cleansed his hands from blood. The waters closed around the corpse And cleansed his hands from gore, The willow waved, the stream flowed on And murmured as before. There was no human eye had seen The blood the murderer spilt, And Jaspar’s conscience never knew The avenging goad of guilt. And soon the ruffian had consum’d The gold he gain’d so ill, And years of secret guilt pass’d on And he was needy still. One eve beside the alehouse fire He sat as it befell, When in there came a labouring man Whom Jaspar knew full well. He sat him down by Jaspar’s side A melancholy man, For spite of honest toil, the world Went hard with Jonathan.