Published Works
Manuscripts
Biography & Correspondence
Criticism
Resources
Pictures & Sound
About the Archive
Poems in Periodicals
Poems
page image 1 |
cropped image |
[Written for the Saturday Evening Visitor.]
A CHRISTMAS INCIDENT.
———
BY WALT WHITMAN.
I.
O sight of shame, and pain, 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 ecstacy and
awed amazement.
II.
O sight of pity, gloom, and dole,
O pardon me, a hapless Soul!
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 counterfeiters,
All that dark, cankerous blotch, a nation's criminal
mass,
Gather'd to Christmas church in prison walls—the
keepers round,
Plenteous, well-arm'd, with watching, 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.
III.
Cries, Help! O help! and wrings her hands;
Blinded her eyes—bleeding her breast,
Nor pardon finds, nor balm of rest.
O sight of shame, and pain, and dole,
O fearful thought—a convict Soul!
Ceaseless, she paces to and fro;
O heart-sick days! O nights of wo!
Nor hand of friend, nor loving face;
Nor favor comes, nor word of grace.
O sight of pity, gloom, and dole!
O pardon me, a hapless Soul!
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
O Life! no life, but bitter dole!
O burning, beaten, baffled Soul!
Dear prison'd Soul, bear up a space,
For soon or late the certain grace;
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!
IV.
The singer ceased;
One glance swept from her clear, calm eyes, o'er
all those up-turn'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.
V.
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 wonderous 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 shame, and pain, and dole!
O fearful thought—a convict Soul!
THE SINGER IN THE PRISON.
———A CHRISTMAS INCIDENT.
———
BY WALT WHITMAN.
I.
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 ecstacy and
awed amazement.
II.
O pardon me, a hapless Soul!
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 counterfeiters,
All that dark, cankerous blotch, a nation's criminal
mass,
Gather'd to Christmas church in prison walls—the
keepers round,
Plenteous, well-arm'd, with watching, 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.
III.
The Hymn.
Cries, Help! O help! and wrings her hands;
Blinded her eyes—bleeding her breast,
Nor pardon finds, nor balm of rest.
O sight of shame, and pain, and dole,
O fearful thought—a convict Soul!
Ceaseless, she paces to and fro;
O heart-sick days! O nights of wo!
Nor hand of friend, nor loving face;
Nor favor comes, nor word of grace.
O sight of pity, gloom, and dole!
O pardon me, a hapless Soul!
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
O Life! no life, but bitter dole!
O burning, beaten, baffled Soul!
Dear prison'd Soul, bear up a space,
For soon or late the certain grace;
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!
IV.
One glance swept from her clear, calm eyes, o'er
all those up-turn'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.
V.
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 wonderous 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 shame, and pain, and dole!
O fearful thought—a convict Soul!
Publication Information
"The Singer in the Prison."
Saturday Evening Visitor
25 December 1869:
[4].
Reprinted in Passage to India (1871).
Whitman Archive ID
per.00079