Like phantoms weird of troubled dream,
In they come--a ceaseless stream--
The callow youth, the aged sire,
To reap the fruit of Satan's hire.
With pallid brow and rueful face
They view their garments of disgrace,
And oft in eyes unused to weep
Unbidden tears will slowly creep.
Be lenient with the blighted crowd;
Some come, perhaps, to greet a shroud;
Some, perhaps, will go outside
And yet become a nation's pride.
If by kindness you reclaim
A single soul from crime and shame,
God will reward the noble deed
And aid you in the hour of need.
_LAST NIGHT IN THE DUNGEON._
The darkness of Hades and a vile, deathly smell
Is all that I feel stealing over my senses,
As lingering alone in this cold dungeon cell,
Shut away from the world, where hearts' blood condenses.
I feel 'tis too much for slight, trivial offenses.
Shut away from the dear ones, the loved ones on earth,
I suffer the tortures that no man can tell
Till he's taken away from fireside and hearth
And sees the sad visions of a dungeon cell--
Then he feels that vile man can create a real hell.
As I sit here alone, my head throbbing and aching,
And listen to hear if the keeper is near,
My thoughts they roam back to little ones taking
Caresses so sweet from a mother so dear--
Then I'm prompted to ask, "Do they think of me here?"
But when in my heart I feel a slight flutter,
I know there is sympathy somewhere about;
I then to myself do silently mutter,
"They have love for me still, and there is no doubt:"
Aye, love for me still, and this I've found out.
Then, down on the damp and cold stony floor,
Without either pillow, or blanket, or gown,
I stretch my weak body right close to the door,
And there, in sweet sleep, my vision to drown--
Then, when I awake, I'm not so cast down.
There is nothing so sweet and perfectly soothing
To one who is placed in a cold dungeon cell,
As the thought that yet there are dear ones a-wooing
The one who's imprisoned in a dark, dreary dell--
I muttered, while sleeping, "'Tis well, ah, 'tis well."
Then, when I awoke and proceeded to think,
Cold, stiffened and hungry, with tongue parched from thirst,
I seek but in vain for food and for drink,
But bread and poor water, the same as at first--
Aye, dry bread and bad water, the same as at first.
Then my heart sank within me, so weak and so pale,
As I gazed on the keeper of dungeon and jail
And begged for a drink of pure Adams' ale,
As he held in his hand a full water pail--
But the answer came back, "Your plea it must fail."
Then, giving it up in pure desperation,
I try to surpass the curse of damnation
That springs to my lips ere I can but control
The blood that is boiled by such torturing droll--
Then I whisper, "Be still! Some one loves this poor soul."
Then, staid by the love of those dear ones at home,
I steady myself and go swimming along;
I brave the hard life of a dark dungeon cell
And I come out victorious, all perfect and well--
Then I meet them again and go home there to dwell.
'T is well! Ah, 't is well!
_HOPE._
BY SAM LAW.
The world may change from old to new,--
From new to old again,--
Yet Hope and Heaven, forever true,
Within man's heart remain.
The dreams that bless the weary soul,
The struggle of the strong,
Are steps toward some happy goal,
The story of Hope's song.
[Illustration]
_WOULD THEY KNOW?_
BY 25700.
If, amid these prison shadows,
These pale lips should breathe their last,
Would my friends regret the summons,
And forgive my guilty past?
Would they know the dire temptations
I had met and nobly braved
Ere the tears in guilty passion
My pale cheeks in torrents laved?
Would they know how oft and earnest
I had plead before the throne
For the place my crime made vacant
In the bosom of my own?
Would these hours of retribution
Prove sufficient for my sin?
Would the gates of glory open
To let this weary wanderer in?
Hear, Oh, hear! From yonder heaven
Speaks the Lamb once crucified;
"Look up, sad one; never falter;
For such sinners once I died."
[Illustration]
_GUILT'S QUERIES AND TRUTH'S REPLIES._
BY HARRISON.
GUILT.
Will the fountain of life, now bathed in tears,
Ebb and flow ten weary years?
Will the soul escape the horrible blight
That stalks in prison's gruesome night?
TRUTH.
Trust, weary one, alone in ME;
Living or dead, thou shalt be free
From prison blight and sin's alarms,
While closely nestling in my arms.
GUILT.
Will the absent ones I love the best
'Neath heaven's smile serenely rest?
Will every branch of the family tree
Still bud and bloom till I am free?
TRUTH.
If they lean upon my breast
I will give thy loved ones rest;
If death a single jewel steal
Heaven its presence it shall reveal.
GUILT.
While prayers ascend from sacred fane
Shall penitent tears be shed in vain?
Will Christ ascend to a prison cell
And deign in a convict heart to dwell?
TRUTH.
None will I spurn who pardon crave--
I came on earth the lost to save:
He loves the most whose debt is large--
That soul is heaven's peculiar charge.
GUILT.
If ever again I shall be free
Will the wreck of my life still haunted be?
Will the much loved friends in the days of yore
Spurn me from their open door?
TRUTH.
Those who bathe in Calvary's stream
Sin regard as a hideous dream;
My children clothed in white by me
A welcome meet where'er they be.
_A LETTER FROM HOME._
BY NO. 24138.
I am far from the land where my loved ones are dwelling;
Between rolls the sea, with its billows and foam;
Yet my heart with fondest emotions is swelling
As I read the dear letter they've sent me from home.
For I fancy I see the brown cottage again,
And the garden where sweetly the red roses blow;
I kneel by a grave in the shade of the glen,
Where slumbers the dear one I lost long ago.
And oft to my heart, when in solitude straying,
Fond memory recalls the bright days of yore,
And I sigh for the fields, where the children are playing,
The hills and the valley I may never see more.
Long years have I wandered, alone and a stranger,
And dark is the pathway o'er which I must roam,
But I know there is ONE who can shield me from danger,
And his blessing I ask on the dear ones at home.
_THE REFORMER._
BY SAM LAW.
All grim and soiled and brown with tan,
I saw a strong one in his wrath
Smiting the godless shrines of man
Along his path.
I looked: aside the dust cloud rolled--
The Master seemed the Builder too;
Upspringing from the ruined Old
I saw the New.
Through prison walls, like heaven-sent hope,
Fresh breezes blew and sunbeams strayed,
And with the idle gallows rope
The young child played.
Where the doomed victim in his cell
Had counted o'er the weary hours
Glad school girls, answering to the bell,
Came crowned with flowers.
_REFLECTIONS._
How pleasant it is to be at home,
Surrounded by those we love;
How sweet to list to words of cheer
That softly fall on the listening ear
Like the notes of a cooing dove.
How the soft caress of a loving hand
Can dry the eyes that weep!
How the mind is eased and the pulses thrill
As we feel the strength of a loving will
That rocks our grief to sleep.
How soft that hand has ever been
When sickness laid us low,
How its soft caress could summon rest
And bring relief to the laboring breast,
And cool the fever's glow.
How soft the light in love-lit eye,
That welcomes our safe return;
How the tender kiss and warm embrace
Can soothe the pain of late disgrace
When fate has been too stern.
God bless the home where love abides--
'Tis the dearest spot on earth!
Be it hovel or palace, or great or small,
It holds man's hope, his joy, his all,
And heaven gave it birth!
_THE PRISONER RELEASED._
BY COL. H. C. PARSONS.
I could stand and look at the stars all night--
Where tides run in wreaths to the rivers and rills,
Where the sea breezes play with the wind from the hills--
Where by land and by sea man can go where he wills--
I'm a free man again, and a free man of right.
I could stand and look at the stars all night,
For months that were years they have prisoned my stars;
My silver-veiled Venus and red-hooded Mars
Were fettered and framed by the merciless bars,
That shaded their glory or shivered their light.
I will stand and look at the stars all night;
I will wait in the shadow and lee of the tower
Till morning shall come, with his magical power--
Perhaps in the flame of that wonderful hour
The prison shall tremble and pass from my sight.
_PRISON PAINS._
BY HARRISON.
Oh! to be heart hungry,
To feel that never again
Shall the heart pulsate with rapture
To the music of love's strain!
To feel o'er the senses stealing
A grief for words too deep,
And know the heart's best instincts
Are locked in fathomless sleep.
To hear the piteous wailings
That rise from an empty heart,
While every breath is torture
And every thought a dart.
Oh, list to the wondrous music
As it floats from the world above:
"There is balm for the broken-hearted:
The gift of my Son is--love."
Aye, prayer to heaven ascending,
Tho' winged from a convict cell,
Shall find in heaven a welcome
No tongue can ever tell.
_THE UNDER DOG._
BY BARKER.
I know that the world--the great, big world,
From the peasant up to the king,
Has a different tale from the tale I tell
And a different song to sing.
But for me--and I care not a single fig
If they say I was wrong or am right--
I shall always go in for the weaker dog,
For the under dog in the fight.
I know that the world--the great, big world--
Will never a moment stop
To see which dog may be in the fault,
But will shout for the dog on top.
But for me--I never shall pause to ask
Which dog may be in the right--
For my own heart will beat, while it beats at all,
For the under dog in the fight.
_KINDNESS._
BY ROTH.
A kind word for the prisoner,
A smile to cheer his heart,
For he bears a grievous burden,
Tho' he bravely plays his part.
From the world he hides his sorrows,
Stifles the groan of distress
That struggles oft for utterance
Beneath his convict dress.
The alert night watch could tell
Of the burning sighs they hear
While making midnight rounds
Through corridors so drear.
Then cheer his lot with kindness,
E'en though he be depraved:
If, wakened from his blindness,
The worst one may be saved.
_THERE IS NO DEATH._
There is no death! The feeble body, slumbering,
Seems but to waste and fade away;
In future years that God is numbering
'Twill spring from slumber and decay.
And clothed with beauty everlasting,
With not a stain of earth to mar,
'Twill voice a music more entrancing
Than anthem of the morning star.
A thing of beauty is immortal;
Each line once lost to mortal sight,
Soars upward to heaven's august portal,
Glad to escape earth's cankering night.
Earth's best and brightest can not perish--
Death is decreed alone to strife.
The good we love and fondly cherish
God has endowed with endless life.
Grieve not for those now calmly sleeping,
Rocked by the slow, revolving earth:
Angelic hosts around them sweeping
Shall wake them to an endless birth.
In heaven above there is no seeming:
God feeds immortal souls on bliss;
On earth we linger, sadly dreaming,
Till death awakes us with a kiss.
Then fear thee not death's friendly slumbers:
Guardian angels watch thy rest;
Jehovah all thy days shall number
And do for thee whate'er is best.
_DREAMS._
Dreams are but glimpses of the power
Deep hidden in the human soul
That, like some enchanted flower,
Withers 'neath reason's stern control.
They come not as invited guests
To while away the tedious hours--
Are they not lights from heaven sent
To teach the soul its wondrous powers?
And best they love to lead us back
O'er scenes to memory doubly dear,
For those we, waking, love the most
In dreams will seem most near.
While reason sleeps the soul, awake,
Lives o'er each precious hour,
And woos us with a gentle strain
Of pathos and of power.
Dreams index to our waking thought
Plans on which the heart is set,
And he who heeds their warning voice
Has in life least to regret.
In waking hours we sow the seed,
In dreams we reap the grain:
Sometimes the harvest all is joy,
Sometimes, alas! 'tis pain.
What marvel then that sleep is sweet,
If dreams bring bliss to view--
Perhaps the afterglow of death
Will prove most dreams are not untrue.
_THE GREAT "O. P."_
"Forward, march!" the left foot first,
The heel down mighty hard,
Your head erect and turned to the left,
As you slyly watch the guard.
Tramp, tramp, three times each day,
Back and forth to our meals,
While the fellow behind, with his "State brogans,"
Scrapes the skin all off our heels.
The visitors in amaze at us gaze
As we march gayly by,
The ladies fair, with many a stare,
Will slyly say, "O my!"
Some "Hayseed" old, with a chronic cold,
Will suddenly say, "I swow!
There goes the man--do you see him Ann?--
What took our brindle cow!"
They say we are "cut-throats" and "robbers,"
And would be worse if we could;
But it's false--we're noble-hearted patriots,
Here for our country's good,
And the honor came to us, you know:
We didn't go to it--
In other words, we were forced here
To "do" our little "bit."
Uncle Sam's domain has been ransacked
For men with blue-blooded veins,
For we don't want any persons here
With any mortal stains.
We are all old sons of Irish lords--
Or at least we'd like to be--
But instead we are only "cons," you know,
Doing time in the great "O. P."
_COMING IN AND GOING OUT._
BY CARR.
Coming in to penal slavery,
Coming in from liberty;
Going out to joy and freedom,
Going out the world to see;
Coming in, oh, how unhappy!
Going out with many a doubt--
Endless stream of wretched mortals
Coming in and going out.
From the many charms of home life,
From beneath the humble cot,
To this penal institution
Where the felon mortal's brought
From some distant homes perhaps torn
Because grim justice took a fit--
Coming in with sighs and sadness,
A bondsman for his life or "bit."
Far his loving wife and children,
While their eyes with tears are wet;
Though his family needs him daily.
And there are bills that must be met,
To this convict world about us,
With its heartless woe and din,
Endless stream of restless mortals
Adding to its load of sin.
Time goes on so very slowly,
Though we try hard not to grieve
For the dear old family homestead
And for those we're forced to leave;
Weary are we very often,
Weary when we try to win
News of those who loved us dearly
Ere we took this step in sin.
Coming in, alas! to never
See the outside world again!
Some there are that have my pity:
Naught for them but toil and pain;
Doomed life's golden hours to fritter
Far from home and friends most dear--
God's pity on the poor full-termer
Coming in to die, we fear.
Coming in to serve our sentence,
Going out, we hope, to cheer;
Coming in to do hard labor,
Going out to family dear--
Careless stream of wretched mortals
From all stations 'long life's route--
Hovel, mansion and the hamlet--
Coming in and going out.
_SOUL SCULPTURE._
BY BISHOP DOANE.
Sculptures of life are we as we stand,
With our souls uncarved before us,
Waiting the hour when, at God's command,
Our life dream shall pass o'er us.
If we carve it, then, on the yielding stone
With many a sharp incision,
Its heavenly beauty shall be our own,
Our lives the angel vision.
[Illustration]
_WEIGHT AND IMMORTALITY OF WORDS._
Who knows how heavy his words may be,
Or watches, when he has set them free,
Their poising, their flight, their rise and fall
In the world of thought? We are careless all.
We fathom our own, not another's mind.
And are all near-sighted among our kind,
While words of ours and words of theirs
Are meeting and wrestling unawares.
Words are types of our moral trend,
The blooms of our daily lives, that lend
To others the fragrance of what we are--
The outward semblance that goes afar.
The part of ourselves that is not our own,
When set afloat in the vast unknown,
The something we give to the moving wheels
Of the mighty force that grows and feels.
No words are lost as they float away:
On some life ever they rest and weigh,
Unbound in public or depths obscure
Their immortality is secure.
Deep in our hearts we often find
Words lips long closed have left behind:
They live in the chambers of the brain,
The source of endless joy or pain.
Words may be soft as evening air
Or fierce as sultry noonday's glare,
But soft or fierce, be sure they rest
A curse or blessing in some one's breast.
How deep soever their meaning may lie,
Not every soul will pass them by!
No anger, nor passion, nor malice so great
But a match 'twill meet in a world of hate.
No love so deep, no word so kind
But lodges at last in a kindred mind,
No thought so vast, nor high nor low
But a parallel meets in a world of woe.
A heedless word a heart may break,
A thoughtful one a fortune make;
One, hurl a soul in endless night;
Another, lead to heaven's delight.
One word may nerve a murderer's arm,
Another still a raging storm--
One, sow the seeds of endless strife;
Another, sanctify a life.
Our words outline the feeble tongue
From which their outward being sprung,
Or, written on the stainless page,
They live to bless or curse an age.
How careful, then, ought we to be
Before we let such engines free!
Once free, no power can call them back,
Nor human genius trace their track.
We loose them 'mid the wide expanse
'Neath joyous spell or sorrow's trance,
But if their fruitage all could know
We would not deem them half so low.
[Illustration]
_WHICH LOVED HER BEST?_
Two votaries of love's maddening dream
At twilight sat beside a stream,
Each painting scenes of future bliss,
Dependent on their darling's kiss.
Both were young and both were fair,
With noble hearts and manly air,
And both were members of a band
Who bled to free his native land.
Each was bound both heart and soul
Beneath fair Nellie's sweet control,
Yet they were friends both true and tried,
If such ere lived, if such ere died.
Each loved her much, yet neither knew
How well each loved her, nor how true,
For each was dreaming of the hour
That _he_ would cull this priceless flower.
At last Ned turned and gayly said,
"Next Wednesday I and Nellie wed--
God knows I am the happiest man
In all this joyous Western land.
"I could not keep this back from you--
That would be unjust--untrue.
I feel whatever shall betide
That _you_ will e'er defend my bride."
Harvey turned aside his face,
Lest his friend should see some trace
Of the anguish and despair
The hopeless suffering mirrored there.
Each word had sunk within his heart
Like adder's tooth or poisoned dart;
Joyful love and hope had fled,
And left his withered heart--stone dead.
He raised his haggard face above
Until an angel mother's love
Sent comfort to her suffering child,
That made him calm and meek and mild.
By memories of the tented field
Where patriots died, but dared not yield,
He knew that Ned his arm had lent
To stop steel for his bosom meant,
And oft had watched beside his bed
When others in dismay had fled;
When he spoke, his voice was low
And soft as rippling streamlets flow:
"I wish you peace and joy, Ned;
You best deserve this queen to wed.
I only crave in future life
To serve you and your peerless wife."
The loyal look in Harvey's eyes
Was to Ned a new surprise;
And in a moment all was plain--
His friend's devotion and his pain.
They stood and wrung each others hand
To reinforce their friendship's band--
Their hearts were full, their eyes were wet,
Yet who can such a scene regret?
Their friendship stood the cruel test,
And sank triumphant into rest;
They parted, but to meet again
Where life was torture, memory pain.
One year passed, and war had swept
O'er the spot where these two wept,
While they, with Meig's galland band,
Were held by Santa Anna's hand.
Behind Satillo's gloomy walls,
Whose history stoutest heart appalls,
Here base deeds were hourly wrought
With hell's intensest malice fraught.
Two hundred patriots true and tried
To Santa Anna's shame here died
Simply because they leapt the wall
And strove to go beyond recall!
Ned and his comrades planned their flight
While careless sentries slept at night,
And in safety reached the distant plain
Where hope and life revived again.
Across the arid plain they sped,
Half clothed, half starved and almost dead;
Without a guide to lead them right
They toiled by day and prayed by night.
The blistering soil bold cactus bred
Till every toil-worn foot was bled,
And one by one the hapless band
Fell prostrate on the glittering sand.
Pursuing soldiers found them thus,
And drug and drove them to the "truss,"
There to await the "tortures grand"
That Santa Anna would command.
"Nine of ten shall now be shot;
Choose the guilty dogs by lot:
This law for ages now untold
Has defied both fraud and gold!"
_Nine black_ beans and _one_ snow _white_
Were placed within a box at night--
Every captive must draw one,
Blindfolded, ere the work begun.
If _white_, he lived, if black, he died--
Thus were the Texas patriots tried!
By sons of Gantimozin's race--
Man's caricature and heaven's disgrace!
Harvey drew one of faultless white,
Ned drew one as black as night.
"I'm lost--oh, God, my wife!" Ned gasped,
As Harvey sprang his hand to clasp.
"Not so," he cried, "your bean is white--
See, mine is _black_, thank God! 'tis right!"
E'er Ned could draw a conscious breath--
Harvey had met a hero's death!
Which loved her best, the man who _died_
Or he who _lived_ to cheer his bride?
Please answer me; O heart, awake--
Such liberty I dare not take.
_THE STORMS OF LIFE._
BY SAM LAW.
The oak strikes deeper as his boughs
By furious blasts are driven;
So life's vicissitudes the more
Have fixed my heart in heaven.
All gracious Lord, whate'er my lot
In other times may be,
I'll welcome still the heaviest grief
That brings me near to Thee.
[Illustration]
_LOVE'S VICTIM._
She was no dainty city belle,
Half art and half deceit,
And yet no fairer vision
The human eye could greet.
Naught knew she of city life
Or fashion's changing art--
Nature created her a belle
And blessed her with a heart.
Her eyes were large and soulful,
Her face divinely fair;
Her form was lithe and graceful
And a golden dream her hair.
Her voice was full of melody:
Each tone to listening ear
Seemed to awake such music
As angels delight to hear.
Beautiful, pure and guileless,
With the faith of a trusting child,
She worshiped the God of nature
With a spirit undefiled.
She lived with honest parents
In a home on the mountain side,
Where peace and plenty lingered
And love was true and tried.
Parental duress was unknown,
For love's restraints are mild:
A mother's love and father's hope
Were centered in this child.
The acknowledged belle of the mountain,
She spurned the coquette's art,
Determining never to promise
Her hand without her heart.
She could not love her suitors
With the love a wife should give,
And deemed it sin without such love
In wedlock's bonds to live.
The idol of many a noble heart,
None dared their suit to press:
Thus they wound the gentle spirit
That pitied, but could not bless.
Grateful for each friendly smile
That o'er her face would beam,
She reigned an empress absolute
In each fond lover's dream.
A petted child of fashion,
The heir to boundless wealth,
Came one day among them
To recruit his waning health.
These hospitable mountain people
Welcomed the haggard boy,
And strove to make his visit
One radiant scene of joy.
They bade their darling daughter
To be the stranger's guide,
And show him all the beauties
Of her loved mountain side.
Together they scaled the mountains,
With many a merry shout;
Together they garnered the flowers
Or angled the nimble trout.
He spake of his home in the city,
Of the wealth he soon would own;
Promised to make Lenora his wife
Ere the summer days had flown.
Lenora loved this stranger
With a soul-absorbing love,
And trembled 'neath his caresses
As helpless as a dove.
He was a master of the art
That robs the halls of Truth
To gain what passion courts,
Tho' it blasts the hopes of youth.
His honied words of flattery,
Uttered with seductive art,
Were music to the listening ear
And soon deceived the heart.
Lenora confided in his worth,
Receiving each promise as truth--
How could she doubt her only love
In the trustful hours of youth?
Assured of an early marriage,
She yielded to him one day
That priceless germ of innocence
And fell--to trust a prey.
She hoped this sacrifice would gain
Her lover's every thought;
This were a boon, if death could buy.
She deemed not dearly bought.
Little she dreamed that fatal hour
That love had sped the dart
That stamped her as an outcast,
With a withered, broken heart.
Eugene went to his city home,
Swearing to soon return
And claim as wife the girl he knew
His parents proud would spurn.