THE CONVICT.
And asks of me why I am here.
"But one, whose ?rst wish is the wish to be good,
That the weight can no longer be borne,
To his chamber the monarch is led,
Yet my fancy has pierced to his heart, and pourtrays
The silence of sorrow it seems to supply,
The wretch on his pallet should turn,
"And must we then part from a dwelling so fair?"
If, while a half-slumber his memory bed藏书网ims,
And the motion unsettles a tear;
His black matted head on his shoulder is bent,
"Poor victim! no idle intruder has stood
More terrible images there.
The thick-ribbed walls that oershadow the gate
"My care, if the arm of the mighty were mine,
And conscience her tortures appease,
Mid tumult and uproar this man must repose;
"At thy name though compassion her nat九-九-藏-书-网ure resign,
I pause; and at length, through the glimmering grate,
Still blackens and grows on his view.
And deep is the sigh of his breath,
Tis sorrow enough on that visage to gaze.
That body dismissd from his care;
Rang loud through the meadow and wood.
While the jail-mastiff howls at the dull clanking chain,
But if grief, self-consumed, in oblivion would doze,
"Though in vir九_九_藏_书_网tues proud mouth thy report be a stain,
To the cell where the convict is laid.
All soothers of sense their soft virtue shall yield,
But now he half-raises his deep-sunken eye,
From the roots of his hair there shall start
"With oerweening complacence our state to compare,
Resound; and the dungeons unfold:
The glory of evening was spread through the west;
On the fetters that link him to
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death.And his crime, through the pains that oerwhelm him, descried,
His bones are consumed, and his life-blood is dried,
When his fetters at night have so pressd on his limbs,
In the comfortless vault of disease.
That outcast of pity behold.
--On the slope of a mountain I stood;
And with a deep sadness I turned, to repair
When from the dark synod, or blood-reeking ?eld,
"Is come as a brohttp://www.99lib.netther thy sorrows to share.
With wishes the past to undo;
And terror shall leap at his heart.
While the joy that precedes the calm season of rest
In the pain of my spirit I said,
THE CONVICT.
"Would plant thee where yet thou mightst blossom again."
And with stedfast dejection his eyes are intent
And quietness pillow his head.
A thousand sharp punctures of cold-sweating pain,