THE SACRILEGIOUS GAMESTERS

THE SACRILEGIOUS GAMESTERS
By Eliza Cook

This is an alleged legend that there happened in an English village about some gamblers who lived there.

A stranger journeyed through our town, 
One dark and wintry night; 
And, as he passed the ivied church, 
He marked a flitting light. 

It shed a restless waving gleam 
Through the Gothic window pane 
And now it vanished for a space, 
And now it came again. 

He stood, and thought it wondrous strange 
That such a scene should be; 
He stood, and now the pale red beam 
Shone strong and steadily. 

He looked around; all else was dark, 
Not e'en a star was left; 
The townsfolk slumbered, and he thought 
Of sacrilege and theft. 

He roused two sleepers from their beds, 
And told what he had seen; 
And they, like him, were curious 
To know what it should mean. 

They hied together to the church, 
And heard strange sounds within 
Of undistinguishable words, 
And laughter's noisy din! 

The window's high; a ladder, quick, 
Is placed with stealthy care, 
And one ascends — he looks below; 
Oh! what a sight is there! 

The white communion-cloth is spread 
With cards, and dice, and wine; 
The flaming wax-lights glare around, 
The gilded sconces shine. 

And three of earthly form have made 
The altar-rail their seat, 
With the Bible and the books of prayer 
As footstools for their feet. 

Three men, with flashing bloodshot eyes 
And burning fevered brows, 
Have met within those holy walls 
To gambol and carouse. 

But the darkest work is not yet told: 
Another guest is there, 
With the earth-worm trailing o'er his cheek 
To hide in his matted hair! 

He lifted not the foaming cup, 
He moved not in his place; 
There was slime upon his livid lips, 
And dust upon his face. 

The foldings of a winding-sheet 
His body wrapped around, 
And many a stain the vestment bore 
Of the clay from the charnel ground. 

A rent appeared, where his withered hands 
Fell out on the sacred board; 
And between those hands a goblet stood, 
In which bright wine was poured. 

Oh! he was not like the other three, 
But ghastly, foul, and cold; 
He was seated there a stiffened corpse 
All horrid to behold. 

He had been their mate for many a year, 
Their partner many a game; 
He had shared alike their ill-got gold 
And their deeply tarnished fame. 

He had died in the midst of his career, 
As the sinful ever die, 
Without one prayer from a good man's heart, 
One tear from a good man's eye! 

He had died a guilty one, unblessed, 
Unwept, unmourned by all; 
And scarce a footstep ever bent 
To his grave by the old church wall. 

The other three had met that night, 
And revelled in drunken glee, 
And talked of him who a month ago 
Formed one of their company. 

They quaffed another brimming glass, 
And a bitter oath they swore 
That he who had joined their game so oft 
Should join their game once more. 

And away they strode to the old church wall, 
Treading o'er skull and tomb, 
And dragged him out triumphantly, 
In the midnight murky gloom. 

They carry him down the chancel porch, 
And through the fretted aisle, 
And many a heartless, fiendish laugh 
Is heard to ring the while. 

They place him at the hallowed shrine, 
They call upon his name, 
They bid him wake to life again, 
And play his olden game. 

They deal the cards: — the ribald jest 
And pealing laugh ring on. 
A stroke — a start — the echoing clock 
Proclaims the hour of one! 

And two of the three laugh louder still, 
But the third stares wildly round: 
He drops the cards, as if his hand 
Were palsied at the sound! 

His cheeks have lost their deepened flush, 
His lips are of paler hue, 
And fear hath fallen on the heart 
Of the youngest of that crew! 

His soul is not yet firmly bound 
In the fetters of reckless sin! 
Depravity hath not yet wrought 
Its total work within! 

The strong potation of the night 
Drowned all that might remain 
Of feeling; and his hand shrunk not 
While madness fired his brain! 

But now the charm hath lost its spell, 
The heated fumes have passed; 
And banished reason to her throne, 
Usurped, advances fast. 

He rises — staggers — looks again 
Upon the shrouded dead! 
A shudder steals upon his frame: 
His vaunted strength is fled! 

He doubts — he dreams — can, can it be? 
A mist is o'er his eyes; 
He stands aghast. — " Oh! what is this? 
Where? where? " — he wildly cries. 

" Where am I? — see the altar-piece — 
The holy Bible: say — 
Is this the place where I was brought 
A tiny boy to pray? 

" The church — the church-yard too — I know 
I have been there to-night; 
For what? Ha! mercy! see that corpse! 
Oh, hide me from the light! 

" I have been deemed a profligate, 
A gamester, and a knave, 
But ne'er was known to scoff at God 
Or violate the grave! 

" I've long been what man should not be, 
But not what I am now. 
Oh help me! help! My tongue is parched! 
There's fire upon my brow! 

" Oh save me! hide me from myself! 
I feel my pulses start: 
The horror of this drunken crime 
Hath fixed upon my heart! 

" Again! I feel the rushing blood! 
I die! — the unforgiven! 
Again, it comes; all — all is dark — 
I choke — Oh! mercy, Heaven! " 

One struggling groan — he reels — he falls — 
On the altar-steps he lies; 
And the others gasp with fear, for now 
Two corpses meet their eyes! 

But, hark! swift footsteps echo round: 
Encircled now they stand: 
Surprised, detected, they are seized 
By many a grappling hand. 

And soon the dreadful tale is spread, 
And many a finger raised 
To point them out; while the listening one 
Looks fearfully amazed. 

They are shunned by all; the son, the sire, 
The heedless and the gay; 
Their old associates leave their side, 
And turn another way. 

Hate, shame, and scorn, have set a mark 
Upon them. One by one, 
Of all they knew, forsakes their path, 
Till they are left alone. 

And they have sought another land, 
And breathe another clime; 
Where men may deem them fellow-men, 
Nor hear their blasting crime! 

And gossips, in their native town, 
Even now are heard to tell 
Of the sacrilegious crew that turned 
The old church to a hell.