Alas, poor Wallace, how I pity thee!-- But let him go--'tis better him than me; Yes, let him harbour in some convent there, And fleas monastic bite him till he swear; But, friar, have you patience for the rest? Half my transgressions are not yet confest. _Friar_ Not half!--you are a harmless man, I'm told-- Pray, cut them short--the supper will be cold. _Gage_ Some devil, regardless of exalted station, In evil hour assail'd me with temptation, To issue forth a damned proclamation, What prince, what king, from Belzebub is free, He tempted Judas, and has tempted me! This, this, O friar, was a deadly flaw, This for the civil founded martial law,[118] This crime will Gage to Lucifer consign, And purgatory must for this be mine. Next--and for this I breathe my deepest sigh, Ah cruel, flinty, hard, remorseless I!-- How could I crowd my dungeons dark and low With wounded captives of our injur'd foe? How could my heart, more hard than hardened steel, Laugh at the pangs that mangled captives feel? Why sneer'd I at my fellow men distrest, Why banished pity from this iron breast! O friar, could heaven approve my acting so, Heaven still to mercy swift, to vengeance slow?-- O no--you say, then cease your soothing chat, Cowards are cruel, I can instance that.-- But hold! why did I, when the fact was done, Deny it all to gallant Washington? Why did I stuff the epistolary page With vile invectives only worthy Gage?[119] Come, friar, help--shall I recant and say I writ my letter on a drunken day? How will it sound, if men should chance to tell A drunken hero can compose so well? _Friar_ Your fears are groundless, give me all the blame, I writ the letter, you but sign'd your name, Nor let the proclamation cloud your mind, 'Twas I compos'd it and you only sign'd.-- I, Friar Francis--papist tho' I be, You private papists can't but value me; Your sins in Lethe shall be swallowed up, I'll clear you, if you please, before we sup. _Gage_ Nay, clear me not--tho' I should cross the brine, And pay my vows in distant Palestine, Or land in Spain, a stranger poor and bare, And rove on foot a wretched pilgrim there, And let my eyes in streams perpetual flow, Where great Messiah dy'd so long ago, And wash his sacred footsteps with my tears, And pay for masses fifty thousand years, All would not do--my monarch I've obey'd, And now go home, perhaps to lose my head;-- Pride sent me here, pride blasted in the bud, Which, if it can, will build its throne in blood, With slaughter'd millions glut its tearless eyes, And make all nature fall that it may rise;-- Come, let's embark, your holy whining cease, Come, let's away, I'll hang myself for peace: So Pontius Pilate for his murder'd Lord In his own bosom sheath'd the deadly sword-- Tho' he confess'd and wash'd his hands beside, His heart condemn'd him and the monster dy'd.