THE ROPEWALK. In that building, long and low, Like the port-holes of a hulk, Backward down their threads so thin Dropping, each a hempen bulk. At the end, an open door; Squares of sunshine on the floor All its spokes are in my brain. As the spinners to the end Downward go and reascend, Gleam the long threads in the sun; While within this brain of mine Cobwebs brighter and more fine By the busy wheel are spun. Two fair maidens in a swing, Then a booth of mountebanks, With its smell of tan and planks, And a girl poised high in air On a cord, in spangled dress, With a faded loveliness, And a weary look of care. Then a homestead among farms, And a woman with bare arms Drawing water from a well; As the bucket mounts apace, Then an old man in a tower, Ringing loud the noontide hour, While the rope coils round and round Like a serpent at his feet, . And again, in swift retreat, Nearly lifts him from the ground. Then within a prison-yard, Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, Laughter and indecent mirth; Ah! it is the gallows-tree! Breath of Christian charity, Blow, and sweep it from the earth! Then a school-boy, with his kite And an eager, upward look; Steeds pursued through lane and field; And an angler by a brook. Ships rejoicing in the breeze, Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, Anchors dragged through faithless sand; Sea-fog drifting overhead, And, with lessening line and lead, All these scenes do I behold, In that building long and low; While the wheel goes round and round, With a drowsy, dreamy sound, · And the spinners backward go. |