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View Page 292
O sight of pity, shame and dole!
O fearful thought—a convict soul.
A soul confined by bars and bands,
Cries, help! O help! and wrings her hands,
Blinded her eyes, bleeding her breast,
Nor pardon finds, nor balm of rest.
Ceaseless she paces to and fro,
O heart-sick days! O nights of woe!
Nor hand of friend, nor loving face,
Nor favor comes, nor word of grace.
It was not I that sinn'd the sin,
The ruthless body dragg'd me in;
Though long I strove courageously,
The body was too much for me.
Dear prison'd soul bear up a space,
For soon or late the certain grace;
View Page 293
Convict no more, nor shame, nor dole!
Depart—a God-enfranchis'd soul!
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View Page 292
THE SINGER IN THE PRISON.
1
O sight of pity, shame and dole!
O fearful thought—a convict soul.
| RANG the refrain along the hall, the prison, |
| Rose to the roof, the vaults of heaven above, |
|
Pouring in floods of melody in tones so pensive sweet and strong
the like whereof was never heard, |
|
Reaching the far-off sentry and the armed guards, who ceas'd their
pacing, |
| Making the hearer's pulses stop for ecstasy and awe. |
2
| The sun was low in the west one winter day, |
|
When down a narrow aisle amid the thieves and outlaws of the
land, |
|
(There by the hundreds seated, sear-faced murderers, wily counter-
feiters, |
| Gather'd to Sunday church in prison walls, the keepers round, |
| Plenteous, well-armed, watching with vigilant eyes,) |
|
Calmly a lady walk'd holding a little innocent child by either
hand, |
| Whom seating on their stools beside her on the platform, |
| She, first preluding with the instrument a low and musical prelude, |
| In voice surpassing all, sang forth a quaint old hymn. |
A soul confined by bars and bands,
Cries, help! O help! and wrings her hands,
Blinded her eyes, bleeding her breast,
Nor pardon finds, nor balm of rest.
Ceaseless she paces to and fro,
O heart-sick days! O nights of woe!
Nor hand of friend, nor loving face,
Nor favor comes, nor word of grace.
It was not I that sinn'd the sin,
The ruthless body dragg'd me in;
Though long I strove courageously,
The body was too much for me.
Dear prison'd soul bear up a space,
For soon or late the certain grace;
View Page 293
| To set thee free and bear thee home, |
| The heavenly pardoner death shall come. |
Convict no more, nor shame, nor dole!
Depart—a God-enfranchis'd soul!
3
| The singer ceas'd, |
|
One glance swept from her clear calm eyes o'er all those upturn'd
faces, |
|
Strange sea of prison faces, a thousand varied, crafty, brutal,
seam'd and beauteous faces, |
| Then rising, passing back along the narrow aisle between them, |
| While her gown touch'd them rustling in the silence, |
| She vanish'd with her children in the dusk. |
| While upon all, convicts and armed keepers ere they stirr'd, |
| (Convict forgetting prison, keeper his loaded pistol,) |
| A hush and pause fell down a wondrous minute, |
|
With deep half-stifled sobs and sound of bad men bow'd and
moved to weeping, |
| And youth's convulsive breathings, memories of home, |
| The mother's voice in lullaby, the sister's care, the happy childhood, |
| The long-pent spirit rous'd to reminiscence; |
|
A wondrous minute then—but after in the solitary night, to many,
many there, |
|
Years after, even in the hour of death, the sad refrain, the tune,
the voice, the words, |
| Resumed, the large calm lady walks the narrow aisle, |
| The wailing melody again, the singer in the prison sings, |
| O sight of pity, shame and dole! |
| O fearful thought—a convict soul. |