Brand Whitlock sped from Hell through space,
To be remanded never—
For having such a saintly face,
Set free forever,
With due apology. He came
To a world so base and bestial
No tongue infernal spake its name—
No tongue celestial.
So foul it was that even He
Had cast it off Who made it:
Adrift in space, as on a sea,
No mooring stayed it.
That orb unclean, denied the aid
Of gravitation’s tether,
For centuries had blindly strayed—
Lost altogether!
The sun disdainfully declined
To light the villain planet,
And the whole universe combined
To curse and ban it.
The Thief Impenitent, his grim
Recusance unabated,
Was its sole occupant: for him
It was created.
For when the wretch was newly dead
’Twas thought Hell had not ample
Restraints to check the local spread
Of his example,
Nor apparatus that insured
A proper pang; though lately
The woes that he at first endured
Had softened greatly.
But still one fierce, vain longing he
Suffered, nor could o’ercome it—
The wish to sit in reverie
On Calvary’s summit.
Beneath that orb’s unjoyous sky
Brand Whitlock found the sinner.
Affinity!—the outer eye
Lit by the inner.
Said Whitlock: “Here my stay is brief;
Take, brother, ere we sever,
Thy pardon. Be a better thief
Henceforth forever.
“God gives me power to condone
All scalawags’ offending,
For the sweet faith that I have shown
In their amending.”
When so he’d said with solemn grace,
As was that good soul’s habit,
The Thief directly into space
Sprang like a rabbit!
(He might have left at any time
Had freedom been his passion,
For God had long forgot his crime.
Crime was the fashion.)
The Saint, resuming soon his flight,
Met him through chaos floating.
Three stolen post-holes that poor wight
Was gaily toting.