Part 2
If women are not treated with respect, and made to exercise an influence over the social world, the standard of private virtue and public opinion will be lowered, and the morals of men will suffer.
_FORGET? NO, NEVER!_
There are things we'll not remember, And much will be forgot, As in the bleak December When our coffee was not hot; When the butter was much younger, When the bread was sour and dry; When are felt the pangs of hunger, With regrets and many a sigh. How the memory used to vex us As 'twould o'er our senses steal; How we wished they might "annex" us, So we'd get one good square meal. Other things may be forgot In this busy, hustling age, But one thing we ne'er can blot From off our memory's page, That we never can forget In a hundred months of Junes; It will long our memories fret-- _Those prunes--those rotten, wormy prunes_.
_MOTHER._
BY OVERSTREET.
Who is it, in this life so drear, That pines for the wandering boy, And ever ready with words of cheer To turn sad thoughts to joy? Mother.
Who is it, when all others do forsake And leave us to our grief, That will for long hours lie awake And pray for our relief? Mother.
Who is it, when the world laughs on And gives our sighs no thought, That thinks of the boy who looks upon This life that's come to naught? Mother.
Who is it, when from prison freed-- The boy goes forth so sadly-- That receives him in his hour of need With tears of joy--yea, gladly? Mother.
Who is it, when the end has come, Looks fondly on her child, And prays to God for a happy home For the boy that's been so wild? Mother.
_A PRISONER'S THANKSGIVING._
What if the gold of the corn lands Is faded to somber grey? And what if the down of the thistle Is ripened and scattered away? There's a crowning golden harvest, There's turkey the heart to cheer, There's a basket from home with plenty of "pone," Tho' 'tis bathed in a mother's tear.
What 'f our friends are far from us And they know not where we are? What if those who are dearest Live ever away so far? There's room for us by th' fireside, Where in childhood days we'd play; 'Tis comfort to think, tho' we stand on the brink, That we will be there some day.
What if our hearts are lonely As we toil in our enemy's hand? What if our sad looks betray us As we take a true manly stand? There's a coming golden harvest, There's a time when we all'll meet, When prison locks and iron bars Will fail to ther pris'n'r keep.
What care we for the pang at heart? 'Twill all be gone some day; And then tho' our enemies'ld crush us, They'll be scattered far away. Tho' this is a sad Thanksgiving, A better one's coming our way, When we'll all be home to share in the "pone" And hear our angeled sister pray.
What if the gold of the corn lands Is faded to somber grey? And what if the down of the thistle Is ripened and scattered away?
Away to the east in a far off land There's turkey the heart to cheer. Where the dear ones are partaking And thinking of one that's here; There's father and mother and sister and brother, all so far away. There's a blessed time a-coming-- The prisoner's Thanksgiving day.
_HOPE--ETERNITY._
The heart bowed down with silent grief. Despair its portals soon assails. Oh! let such moments be but brief When spirit lost o'er man prevails; Think not of friend who, false, betrayed. Nor sweetheart's change, nor colder wife-- Recall those oaths when passion prayed For vengeance and for foeman's life.
We pass dear friends but once this way: Our judge, accusers and our foe. If false to God and man they play. Not thou, but they, shall suffer woe. All stay is short; the longest span Counts less than raindrops in the sea. Arouse thee, then, despairing man. And hail with hope--Eternity!
Glows in thy cell a fragrant bloom, Plucked from thy guardian angel's wreath. Do thou but nurture it with prayer And water it with tears of faith. To humble hearts its petals ope, Revealing bliss to streaming eye-- Immortal blooms this rose of hope, God's flower of life--Eternity.
_THE PRISONER'S MOTHER._
BY MRS. S. E. WIRICK.
To be a prisoner's mother Is to feel a piercing dart That sets the mind a-whirling And almost cleaves the heart.
To be a prisoner's mother Is, upon a holiday, To visit him in prison, Then part and go away.
To be a prisoner's mother 'Tis, inside the lonely wall, To say, "Farewell, my darling"-- Oh, I almost faint and fall.
No resting place but heaven, No happy morn that dawns; Our home so drear and lonely Because our boy is gone.
An empty bed, a missing plate, A grief that inward burns; No balm on earth to heal our hearts Until our boy returns.
"Honor and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honor lies."
_HOW TO BE HAPPY IN PRISON._
BY NO. 22700
Do what is right, and day by day Teach yourself that work is play Of brain and muscle, rightly used-- And hurtful only when abused; Deep interest take in all you do; 'Twill others please, as well as you.
Relieve a fellow prisoner's need; Righteous counsel always heed; Be not suspicious or unjust-- Few men betray a perfect trust; He trusts the most whose heart is pure, And generous thought will malice cure.
Brood not o'er the ills of life; Give no cause for needless strife; Tomb the past with all its sin; Purify yourself within; Rear your standard, be a MAN, And do whatever good you can.
Some, perhaps, will misconstrue All you say and all you do, But when conscience is at rest Happiness will fill the breast-- 'Twill be a sweet red-letter day When we all shall act that way.
_IN PRISON._
BY HARRISON.
That which the world miscals a jail A private closet is to me; Whilst a good conscience is my bail, And innocence my liberty: Locks, bars and solitude together met Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.
I, whilst I wisht to be retired, Into this private room was turned, As if their wisdoms had conspired The salamander should be burned; Or, like those sophists that would drown a fish, I am constrained to suffer what I wish.
These manacles upon my arm I as my mistress' favors wear; And for to keep my ankles warm I have some iron shackles there; These walls are but my garrison; this cell, Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.
I'm in the cabinet lockt up, Like some high-prized margarite, Or, like the Great Mogul or Pope, Am cloistered up from public sight: Retiredness is a piece of majesty, And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee.
_ERRATIC MUSINGS OF UNFETTERED THOUGHT._
[BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.]
Is living thought, proud condor of the mind, By walls of rock and iron bars confined, Innate divinity by human courts enslaved, And right eternal by a dust-worm braved? Think you the spirit's rapid flight to mar With dungeon torture and by iron bar? Can rock-ribbed walls and bars of steel Deprive man of the power to feel? Can you the stream of Lethe roll In maddening torrents o'er the soul, Pluck from my brow love's garland fair And brand me "Victim of despair?" No! weakling son of vengeful fate, God grants to none a power so great. My body is your lawful prey, Poor lump of spirit-crumbling clay; Seize, chain and manacle each part, Aye, even starve my bleeding heart, But know that for Creative Thought All fetters by one's self is wrought. Mind, glorious Mind--Jehovah's sleepless breath, Can know no bondage and can feel no death. In yon fair regions of unreached repose Eternal Beauty's flower-chalice glows, Filled to the brim with satisfying wine, Ambrosial nectar of the Tuneful Nine. My muse can reach it on external wings And drink till all the heart within me sings! I scale the lofty heights, by virtue shown, And from Eternal Wisdom seek my own. There, far above the struggling world of fate, I greet true freedom and am wisely great. 'Tis mine in bright elysian fields to roam, Pluck jeweled treasure from the sleeping gnome; Bid ocean deeps their mysteries reveal, Or, soaring far above the world of space, Gain raptured visions of the Holy Place; Admire and measure every glittering throne, Count heavenly treasure as my own, Make august angels bow beneath my rod, And even dare to mould the mind of God; O radiant fields of pure, untrammeled Thought, With what sweet incense are thy zephyrs fraught; How clear the view, from thy exalted height, Of human errors and unerring right; 'Tis thou alone my laboring Muse can teach The perfect measure of her powers to reach; She cons these fragments of a Truth sublime, And art stands ready with appropriate rhyme To trim each sentence and each word to place In melting numbers of seductive grace; Since first Jehovah, bending low to earth, Breathed in man's nostrils an eternal birth, The rain drop falling, from the heavy cloud, In waiting dust, finds ready shroud, And there commingling fills each separate cell, Yet still remains as pure as when it fell: To man appearing but a dampened clod, 'Tis chambered favor of a gracious God; And serves his purpose till He calls above This liquid semblance of Immortal Love, There _not_ to perish, but return again To deck the forest and adorn the plain; All nature feels its fructifying power In laughing streamlets and in nodding flower; The rain drop typifies the Pure Indwelling God, That permeates our being, to animate a clod; Give birth to all emotion, consistent with His plan, And with unmeasured tenderness weep the fall of man. From every nodding flower, from every whispering breeze From mountain's lofty height, from towering trees, From softly twinkling star, from lightning's giddy flash, From the softest twitter of a bird and thunder's awful crash, From hills the ants may call their own, From crested elders 'round their throne, From babbling brook, from storm-lashed wave, From nature smiling, nature grave, From earth and air, from sky and sea, There comes the self same voice to me, Like softest note of cooing dove, And sweetly whispers, "GOD IS LOVE." All nature is obedient to heaven's august plan, And none will dare rebellion, save ever-erring man. He, of a dual nature--purity and lust-- Defies his Great Creator and thus betrays his trust. Thrones within his being the hydra-headed sin, All his joy to murder and create _hell within_; Self-conscienceness completes the triple blow While memories of happier years augments his hapless woe. Whatever then of pleasure his wounded spirit knows From the fountain of bitter repentance it onward, onward flows, His own environment, be it either fair or fell, Must _now_ embower his heaven, or will create his hell. Contentment, peace, or pleasure he must create anew By sowing seeds of virtue where vice so lately grew. He learns he must not do whatever man can do, But recognize the limits of the just and true. Law is his _Alma mater_, the measure of his right, The barrier Jehovah set to curb irreverent flight; He has the truest liberty who recognizes law; 'Tis made to shield his virtues and on his vices war; He who denies humanity lives for himself alone All history to hush, all culture to disown; And quickly he relapses into a barbarous state, Where only force and prowess can make the unit great. None so lost to _virtue_, none so devoid of art, As he who fails to capture the _empire of a heart_; He who knows not sympathy feels no fellow's woe, Will never feel the rapture of happiness below; God planted seeds of pity in every human breast, And he who loses most of woe secures most of rest: Love is man's _all_, his conqueror, his cordial and wine, The measure of his inner life that stamps him as divine. How circumscribed the circle God allots to man, His home is but an acre, his life is but a span; And yet within that circle his influence is so great He wakes the cooing notes of _love_ or feeds the fires of hate; His influence is potential within a circle small, But beyond the limit of the same he does no good at all; All thought, all power with which our being teems, Is action predicated on events or on dreams. All we have seen or heard, all we now can feel, Leaves an imprint on the heart that the future must reveal: The vain are truly lonely, they long to be admired, One wishes to be understood, another well attired, This hushed by useless longings or fashion's changing art, That sweetest of all poems, _the music of the heart_. But he who solves life's mystery is never quite alone, All ages is his playground and solitude his throne; He walks in subtle converse with all the mighty dead, Gathering priceless jewels their wit or wisdom bred. The watchtowers of his thought o'erlooks the struggling mass, While events both past and present before his vision pass. He sees the weary captive tugging at his chain; The weather-beaten sailor plough the raging main; The swarthy burden bearer in forest, mine and field; The merchant's soiled ledgers, the soldier's brazen shield; The child with glittering toy, the maiden at her glass; The ruler of an empire, the leader of the mass; The student in his study, the priest on bended knee; The teacher with his ferrule, the aged human tree, All fondly dream of freedom, yet all beneath the ban, Each in a separate prison presided o'er by _man_; Sees _nature_ and _morality_ are ever waging war, The first as god of freedom, the latter lord of law. Sees culture raise her barriers between polite and rude, And hears _Religion_ thunder, "Cover up the nude!" Knows man in every station to be a willing slave, The football of his passion, the dupe of every knave. Yet hears him boast his freedom, laud his reasoning power; Rule all he can with iron hand, and _finite_ judgment shower; Sees all the devious, hidden paths by sinful mortals trod Where _human_ law and custom dare ostracise a god; Yet knows a germ of goodness, deep in the human breast, Is living in the worst of men however much depressed. Knows life is but the unit of God's Eternal Plan, And learns to _pity_, not to blame, poor ever-erring man! In each created atom sees faultless beauty glow And God's Eternal purpose in onward sequence flow. Views all souls as living harps, whose seeming dissonance Is but apparent and not real; and believes, perchance, God will mend each shattered chord, tune the quivering lyre, And from out each soul shall bring a music sweeter, higher Than earthly ears have ever heard or earthly lips essayed; Such music as the ransomed sing in innocence arrayed; While all the universe entranced shall wondering inquire: "Is this the fruitage of _His_ woe? Is this his soul's desire? Is this the harp so late unstrung? Is this poor fallen man? Ah! can it be that all was wrought obedient to God's plan"?
Nature will o'er matter bear imperial sway, And all not immortal must in time decay; Man's tenement is mortal, but himself divine; Which should he most cherish, the jewel or its shrine? Yet when vice allures him with seductive ray, Gives he not to passion undisputed sway? Dreams he not of beauty who, with open arms, Calls for lust to enter and revel 'mid her charms? Is his eye not captive? Do not his senses thrill? What is left the tempted one save his feeble will? If that will prove recreant to Jehovah's trust, Pays he not the penalty in self-consuming lust? Must his spirit suffer through unending years For the shame he purchased with agonizing tears? Life is but a shoe-broom, Nature is God's book And he's the aptest scholar who all her laws can brook! If love of right was constant man could well defy All of sin's allurements and unspotted die! _One_ such man has lived who, with a faith sublime, Crucified the temple where he dwelt in time, And entered heaven victorious without the aid of grace, The marvel of all centuries, the Savior of the race; But had His will but weakened, Jesus, too, had fell, And man without Redemption sank tottering into hell; All would be good did not true goodness claim Such earnest noble effort from a will so tame; _Crime_ is but a sequence of misguided will Inherent moral defect and _surrounding_ ill. Man's innate love of beauty and his dread of pain, His ever raging thirst for power and his greed for gain Alternately do sway him with resistless power, The spotless blossoms of the soul, until he only yearns For the ever hideous lust that blackens as it burns. Guilt comes not, thundering on the wings of time, With vice-distorted feature and the leer of crime, But like enchanting vision from a pagan dream, Or softly echoed cadence of a whispering stream, She steals upon us gently, with ever-changing art, And usurps an empire--the waiting human heart! Her outward form is beauty, her voice with Passion tense, She only craves the privilege to gratify each sense; All apparent pleasures 'round her path are spread, But, alas! you seize the flower to find its fragrance fled; But still pursuing, row with bated breath, You clasp her to your bosom and--embrace a death! Then, conscience stricken, you the wreck survey, And with shuddering sorrow--humbly kneel to pray; While the pitying angels on their pinions bear The ever sacred burden of repentant prayer, And almighty love descending reasserts control, And mercy in the guise of grace has won a human _soul_; But contrast a moment, with this heavenly plan, The awful brutal conduct of exacting MAN. See yon martial champion riding on the flood Of a frightful carnage and a sea of blood; His path is strewn with many a ghastly sight, Dead and dismembered bodies and defenseless fright! Yet all the people with a loud acclaim Pronounce _him_ "_Hero_," and accord him Fame! True, he butchers thousands in a cruel war, Yet you deem him _guiltless_, he obeyed _your_ law. But if your angered brother slay a single man, _Him_ you brand a "Murderer," worthy of your ban; And with zeal unbounded you wage relentless war Until he falls, a victim to rage-created law. As if a useless _murderer_, sanctioned by the state, Was less the fruitage of revenge than one new-born of hate; Perchance in some fair aiden, some far distant sphere Your poor hapless victim these just words may hear: "Thou art now forgiven, poor misguided son! "Tho' tranced with dire passion thou hast slain but one. "Thou hast made atonement, breathed a fiery breath "Of a deep repentance and an awful death! "Place on him the raiment--whiter far than snow, "And teach his untried lips to sing the song the angels know. "But as to yonder soldier who for the bauble fame "Led unbattled thousands without fear or shame; "And with banners flying to the bugle's chime "Hurled obedient legions into conscious crime-- "All the tears he showed, _all_ the blood he shed, "Now in molten fire shall circle 'round his head, "And all shall learn the lesson, that horror-breeding war "Will _never_ meet the sanction of Jehovah's law!" This is no fancy picture, nor idle dream of youth, But, if I know the laws of God, it is the solemn truth".
Behold a homeless wanderer, poor and thinly clad, To biting cold a victim, with hunger almost mad, Entering yonder mansion, dares to boldly steal What none should e'er deny a dog--the pittance of a meal! See the greedy sleuth-hounds of the outraged law Wage against this robber an unrelenting war; While _Christian_ judge and jury, with ready wit, declare His crime an awful outrage, that merits prison fare! But he who rears his costly domes O'er wreck and ruin of human homes, Plants in the breast a raging thirst And leaves his victims doubly cursed, Can roll in luxury, loll in pride And, with _the law_, his gain divide! Tho' every dime he pays the state A thousand cost in wakened hate!
A simple youth by passion lured, And of but little wisdom steward, Meets with a maid of witching grace And dalliance ends in dire disgrace! In prison stripes you teach the fool That he must _love_ by _human_ rule! Yet you rear great, costly piles Where soiled doves may ply their wiles And lead to an unhallowed bed The lustful brute you lately wed. If passion will assert her power None shall dare a maid deflower Unless so _licensed_ by the state In wedlock's bonds his lust to sate! And, if marriage prove a bane, _Divorce_, for cash, will ease his pain! Then to your haunts of sin he hies And laws of God and man defies By casting, in a barren sea, The germ of _life_ that is to be! 'Tis true this evil you decry-- And raise your taxes mountain high! As if the more the state shall gain The less will virtue feel the strain!-- You legalize _divorce_ and _fraud_, And each _successful_ scoundrel laud, Unmindful tho' he gain his wealth By open plunder or by stealth. In vain his hapless victims cry, His _gold_ can legal silence buy! But if through stress of penury's strife One makes a shipwreck of his life, You prisons build and place within This fruitage of a law-made sin, To linger till the cowering slave Shall fill--unwept--a pauper's grave. And scarce a line of obscure print At this dark tragedy will hint; But if your millioned puppy dies What wailings rend the astonished skies! What sabled hue and lengthened train Attest your deep regret and pain! How yon cathedral's vaulted arch Will echo with his funeral march; What flowers will deck his costly tomb; What tapers rob the grave of gloom; While columns, nay, whole papers tell How _great_ a man today has fell. Deluded mortals! raise your eyes To yon fair regions of the skies, Where _justice_ sits, each cause to try Beneath Omniscience's searching eye; Your "_convict_," on low bended knee, Pleads "guilty"--and they set him free; And angels crown, with loud acclaim, The man you deemed a living shame! Your _Croesus_, with uplifted eye, (Still conscious of his station high) Deigns to repeat, with growing stress, How from defeat he wrung success; Tells, with a proudly swelling heart, Of millions spent on sculptured art; And millions more on lordly hall, The eye and heart of man to thrall; Tells how a church and college new From _his_ donation quickly grew; Tells how--in cushioned pew--he knelt And begged God other hearts to melt, Until each child of man should be, Like his dear self, from error free; All this they hear your idol tell-- And cast him headlong into hell! While heaven bows her head with awe In sanction of Jehovah's law.