Part 3

What mighty solons fill your halls of state! (Poor gibbering parrots with an empty pate), Who deem all prisons of but little use Not founded on starvation and abuse. They lock poor pris'ners in a loathsome cell, While lash and pistol drives them on to hell; They crush his manhood and his soul debase, Blot out ambition and his name disgrace, Yet wonder greatly that such humane plan Makes not an angel of each convict man. These truthful samples of your legal page Condemn your judgment and disgrace your age-- Too oft repeated, who will dare to say To what dark horrors they may pave the way? Pause! ere the records that now strew your path Invite the vengeance of Jehovah's wrath; Relearn the lesson early taught mankind, "To God give reverence and to man be kind." Be this your motto, and each setting sun Will kiss the feature of a work begun; Time cannot tarnish and no heart can blame Your noble effort to deserve a name; Heaven will applaud you, and the smile Of happiness the hours beguile, Why pay such homage to mere human laws? Dread you man's censure or admire applause? Are you forgetful that the crown of fame Is purchased torture and expiring shame? Think you man's plaudits or his causeless hate Can either ope or close the pearly gate? Who ever placed in man implicit trust, Nor saw his idol, soon or late, in dust? Why thus pursue an ever fading wraith? 'Tis God, and God alone, deserves your faith. Survey all things with comprehensive view, Admire all beauty and enthrone the true; Know every mortal, tho' a separate soul, Is but a fragment of the mighty whole That fills a niche in God's eternal plan, All for the welfare of ungrateful man; Learn that in many a loathsome cell A prisoned genius or a saint may dwell, Whose power, developed by an act of love, May lead a million to the Courts above. Shall it be yours to touch that vibrant chord And share the honor of the great reward? What heaven endorses that alone can stand; All else is stubble, built on shifting sand, That shall vanish 'mid the fire and flood Like tiny snowflakes in a sea of blood. Oh, could my Muse, by some exalted flight, Portray her knowledge of Eternal Right-- Breathe in soft accents to the listening ear The melting music which my soul can hear, Some would declare my reason half dethroned Before my fancy to such heights had flown; Yet could such see as I have seen the scroll Where God has written "Destiny of Soul," They much would wonder how my Muse Could dare suppress such glorious news. What pen can picture or what brush can paint The endless rapture of a raptured saint? Words are too feeble; they but tell in part The truthful language of a human heart; But, Oh, when spirit from its cumbering clay Shall rise triumphant to the realms of day, What strains seraphic from our lips shall break Till all creation shall to bliss awake! O bliss supernal! when our lips shall meet-- The lips long buried--and our souls shall greet The loved and cherished of those earlier years. Ere pain had turned each quivering chord to tears, And life was smiling in her morning hours And love was conscious of her magic powers. Oh, sweet reunion on the crystal strand! When we shall fondly clasp the waiting hand Of buried jewels distance hides from view, And all the plighted vows of life renew, Then shall we learn the truthfulness of love, When hearts like ours, renewed in youth, above All passion and the cloying cares of earth Shall wake to rapture with a Second Birth!

O hearts estranged, forgive and be forgiven! Your cruel coldness has already driven The angel sweetness from your speaking eye, And suffered everything, save pride, to die. O cradle, in the lap of everlasting sleep The dark, fierce passions that now rudely sweep The sounding chambers of the suffering soul, Where Hate's tumultuous torrents hourly roll, And blacken what was once so white and fair, When spotless Innocence was centered there! Oh, keep no kisses for my cold, dead brow-- I am so lonely--let me feel them now. When dreamless sleep is mine I never more can need The tenderness for which tonight I plead; My wayworn spirit and my thorn-pierced feet The piteous pleadings of my lips repeat. Oh, shall I plead and plead with you in vain To bring love's sunlight to my soul again? Shall acts repented, bred of undue haste, Lay all my stock of future pleasures waste? Bid me to draw a servile, galling chain, Nor wish to murmur, nor murmur to complain? Will you deprive my hungry soul of love, Nor leave one spark of happiness above? Oh, what base deed has these my fingers wrought To wake a malice with each vengeance fraught? If I have sinned and disobeyed your laws, Discarded fashion and despised applause, Have I not suffered all a man can know, And drank the bitterest dregs of human woe? Think you my proud and haughty soul to cower With scorpion lashes of tempestuous power? Go scourge the ocean with puny lash, Or raze a mountain with a feather's crash! Why thus torment my swift declining age With useless torture of unreasoning rage? 'Twere best to sound the caverns of my soul And learn the being whom you dare control! 'Twill teach you wisdom in a single hour And rob your malice of its wasting power! For heaven has writ upon each poet soul "DEAL GENTLY WITH HIM AND HIS ALL CONTROL."

_INFLUENCE._

BY SAM LAW.

When e'er a noble deed is wrought, When e'er is spoke a noble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise.

The sleeping purpose wakes in us, Arousing power or genius, And from their exercise Is born good enterprise.

Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our prison needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low.

_PERFECT PEACE._

["Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace."--Isaiah xxvi, 3.]

Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin, The blood of Jesus whispers peace within; Peace, perfect peace, for loved ones far away; In Jesus' keeping we are safe and they. Peace, perfect peace, with sorrows surging 'round, On Jesus' bosom naught but calm is found; Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown; Jesus we know, and He is on the throne. Peace, perfect peace, death shadowing us and ours; Jesus has vanquished death and all its powers. It is enough, earth's struggles soon shall cease, And Jesus calls to Heaven's own perfect peace.

_BE LENIENT TO THE ERRANT ONE._

BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.

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.

_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."

_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.

_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.