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210

CONSUMPTION,

And giving a tinge to her icy lips,
Like the crimson rose's brightest tips,
As richly red, and as transient too
As the clouds in autumn's sky of blue,
That seem like a host of glory, met
To honour the sun at his golden set;

O then, when the spirit is taking wing,

How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling,
As if she would blend her soul with his
In a deep and long imprinted kiss;

So fondly the panting camel flies,

Where the glassy vapour cheats his eyes;
And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest,
And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast.
And though her dying voice be mute,
Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute,
And though the glow from her cheek be fled,
And her pale lips cold as the marble dead,
Her
eye s still beams unwonted fires,
With a woman's love, and a saint's desires,
And her last, fond, lingering look is given
To the love she leaves, and then to heaven,
As if she would bear that love away
To a purer world, and a brighter day,

:

THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Look on him-through his dungeon-grate,
Feebly and cold, the morning light
Comes stealing round him, dim and late,
As if it loathed the sight.
Reclining on his strawy bed,

His hand upholds his drooping head-
His bloodless cheek is seam'd and hard,
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard;
And o'er his bony fingers flow
His long, dishevel❜d locks of snow,

No grateful fire before him glows,—
And yet the winter's breath is chill:
And o'er his half-clad person goes
The frequent ague-thrill!
Silent-save ever and anon,

A sound half-murmur and half-groan,
Forces apart the painful grip
Of the old sufferer's bearded lip:
O, sad and crushing is the fate

Of old age chain'd and desolate!

Just GOD! why lies that old man there?
A murderer shares his prison-bed,
Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair,
Gleam on him fierce and red;

And the rude oath and heartless jeer
Fall ever on his loathing ear,

212

THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.

And, or in wakefulness or sleep,
Nerve, flesh, and fibre thrill and creep,
Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb,
Crimson'd with murder, touches him!

What has the gray-hair'd prisoner done?
Has murder stain'd his hands with gore?
Not so: his crime's a fouler one:

God made the old man poor!
For this he shares a felon's cell-
The fittest earthly type of hell!
For this the boon for which he pour'd
His young blood on the invader's sword,
And counted light the fearful cost-
His blood-gain'd liberty is lost!

And so, for such a place of rest,

Old prisoner, pour'd thy blood as rain
On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest,
And Saratoga's plain?

Look forth, thou man of many scars,
Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars!
It must be joy, in sooth, to see
Yon monument* uprear'd to thee—
Piled granite and a prison-cell-
The land repays thy service well!

Go ring the bells and fire the guns,
And fling the starry banner out;
Shout "Freedom!" till your lisping ones
Give back their cradle-shout:
Let boasted eloquence declaim
Of honour, liberty, and fame;

* Bunker Hill Monument,

THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.

Still let the poet's strain be heard,
With "glory" for each second word,
And everything with breath agree
To praise "our glorious liberty!"

And when the patriot cannon jars
That prison's cold and gloomy wall,
And through its grates the stripes and stars
Rise on the wind, and fall-
Think ye that prisoner's aged ear
Rejoices in the general cheer?

Think ye his dim and failing eye
Is kindled at your pageantry?
Sorrowing of soul, and chain'd of limb,

What is your carnival to him?

Down with the law that binds him thus !
Unworthy freemen, let it find
No refuge from the withering curse
Of God and human kind!
Open the prisoner's living tomb,
And usher from its brooding gloom
The victims of your savage code,
To the free sun and air of GOD!
No longer dare as crime to brand
The chastening of the Almighty's hand!

213

THE LYRE AND SWORD.

BY GEORGE LUNT.

THE freeman's glittering sword be blest,-
For ever blest the freeman's lyre,—

That rings upon the tyrant's crest;
This stirs the heart like living fire:
Well can he wield the shining brand,
Who battles for his native land;

But when his fingers sweep the chords,
That summon heroes to the fray,
They gather at the feast of swords,

Like mountain-eagles to their prey!

And mid the vales and swelling hills,
That sweetly bloom in Freedom's land,
A living spirit breathes and fills

The freeman's heart and nerves his hand;
For the bright soil that gave him birth,
The home of all he loves on earth,—
For this, when Freedom's trumpet calls,
He waves on high his sword of fire,—
For this, amidst his country's halls

For ever strikes the freeman's lyre!

His burning heart he may not lend

To serve a doting despot's sway,

A suppliant knee he will not bend,
Before these things of "brass and clay :"
When wrong and ruin call to war,
He knows the summons from afar;

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