by Thomas Hood

“ A murder, in a dream!
“One that had never done me wrong—
A feeble man and old;
I led him to a lonely field,
The moon shone clear and cold:
Now here, said I, this man shall die,
And I will have his gold! ”

“ The world shall see his bones!
“Oh God! that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake!
Again—again, with dizzy brain,
The human life I take:
And my red right hand grows raging hot,
Like Cranmer's at the stake. ”

“ And flames about their brain:
For blood has left upon their souls
Its everlasting stain!
“And well,” quoth he, “I know for truth,
Their pangs must be extreme,—
Woe, woe, unutterable woe,—
Who spill life's sacred stream! ”