 | Songs of two centuries |  |
153
THE CONVICT AND THE STARS.
'Twas a cold clear winter evening, with the snow-wreaths drifted deep,
And a man whose hair was snow-white lay upon his couch asleep;
Lay in slumber sad and restless, as in talk with some one near
He could only see in glimpses, and could seldom feel or hear.
Not on down-upholstered pillows, or 'neath broidered counterpane,
Such as often grace the evening of a life of toil and gain;
Not mid walls of pictured splendor with the brush's memory rife;
Not mid textures from the fingers of a daughter or a wife;
But within a cell's close borders to be portioned, was his lot;
And the couch on which he rested was a dingy prison-cot.
And a man whose hair was snow-white lay upon his couch asleep;
Lay in slumber sad and restless, as in talk with some one near
He could only see in glimpses, and could seldom feel or hear.
Not on down-upholstered pillows, or 'neath broidered counterpane,
Such as often grace the evening of a life of toil and gain;
Not mid walls of pictured splendor with the brush's memory rife;
Not mid textures from the fingers of a daughter or a wife;
But within a cell's close borders to be portioned, was his lot;
And the couch on which he rested was a dingy prison-cot.
Comes the clanging of a key-bolt—swings the door more grim than wide;
And the prison-surgeon marches to the wakened sufferer's side.
“You are ailing, they have told me. 'Tis the convict's usual song.”
“I am ailing,” said the old man, “but will not be, very long.
Will you listen to my story?” Then the calloused surgeon said:
“Of such matters I am weary; let me feel your pulse instead.”
“I am innocent.”—“Yes, maybe; that is e'er the pris'ner's creed;
I have never talked with convict, but some other did the deed.”
“Nay, but listen! I have just heard one whose days were full of strife,
On his death-bed own the murder that has murdered all my life!
Yes, the law forbore to hang me, but it crucified instead;
It has nailed me to this prison, as it will till I am dead.
And tomorrow comes a ‘pardon’; 'tis a way the statutes run,
That the Governor can forgive me for a crime I n'er have done.
Yes, tomorrow comes the ‘pardon’; but 'twill enter over-late;
Long before 'tis here to seek me, I'll have passed the prison-gate.”
And the prison-surgeon marches to the wakened sufferer's side.
“You are ailing, they have told me. 'Tis the convict's usual song.”
“I am ailing,” said the old man, “but will not be, very long.
Will you listen to my story?” Then the calloused surgeon said:
“Of such matters I am weary; let me feel your pulse instead.”
“I am innocent.”—“Yes, maybe; that is e'er the pris'ner's creed;
I have never talked with convict, but some other did the deed.”
“Nay, but listen! I have just heard one whose days were full of strife,
On his death-bed own the murder that has murdered all my life!
Yes, the law forbore to hang me, but it crucified instead;
It has nailed me to this prison, as it will till I am dead.
And tomorrow comes a ‘pardon’; 'tis a way the statutes run,
That the Governor can forgive me for a crime I n'er have done.
Yes, tomorrow comes the ‘pardon’; but 'twill enter over-late;
Long before 'tis here to seek me, I'll have passed the prison-gate.”
Then the callous-hearted surgeon, holding still the prisoner's hand,
Said, “How you foretell this pardon, I can never understand.
How you know what now is passing at a bedside out of view,
Is a question; but I somehow feel the vision may be true!”
Then the convict said, “Pray, listen; I've a wife and children three;
They have passed the mystic bound'ries; they have gone ahead of me.
No great wonder that the villain who condemned me, I condemn;
For the sentence ere it killed me, used its power to murder them.
Sometimes, now, I see them plainly—then the darkness steps between;
And I doubt that I have viewed them, and my sorrow grows more keen.
Surgeon, may I ask a favor?—'tis the last I seek of you:
I would find a southern window, where the best stars are in view—
Those bright stars my wife and children conned with me, and loved so well—
Stars I have not seen for long years—from my grated prison-cell.
I have known such rank injustice—such perversions of God's right,
That I almost fear that God's stars have been blotted from the sight!”
Said, “How you foretell this pardon, I can never understand.
How you know what now is passing at a bedside out of view,
Is a question; but I somehow feel the vision may be true!”
Then the convict said, “Pray, listen; I've a wife and children three;
154
No great wonder that the villain who condemned me, I condemn;
For the sentence ere it killed me, used its power to murder them.
Sometimes, now, I see them plainly—then the darkness steps between;
And I doubt that I have viewed them, and my sorrow grows more keen.
Surgeon, may I ask a favor?—'tis the last I seek of you:
I would find a southern window, where the best stars are in view—
Those bright stars my wife and children conned with me, and loved so well—
Stars I have not seen for long years—from my grated prison-cell.
I have known such rank injustice—such perversions of God's right,
That I almost fear that God's stars have been blotted from the sight!”
“Take him to a southern chamber!”—stalwart men in stripes obeyed;
By a large and lofty window carefully the couch was laid.
“They are there!” he loudly shouted as they streamed into his sight;
And the prisoner in his gladness rose within the bed upright.
“There the evening star is gleaming, as it was serene and true,
When upon her father's doorstone oft we watched it out of view;
There the Pleiades are shining, as, when days of toil were done,
We oft wondered if God's palace was within that brightest one.
There Aldebaran is burning; oft my children used to cry,
‘He is driving his gold harrow through the blue fields of the sky!’
Still the mighty wheels of Heaven draw the universe's cars;
Still I see the great Orion—mighty hunter—man of stars;
And the orb of orbs, proud Sirius, struggles up the hollow sky,
As he did when we were watching in the sweet days long gone by.
God is good! his laws are changeless; though oft hidden from our view,
Yet when bars and clouds have vanished, they flash out and gleam anew!
By a large and lofty window carefully the couch was laid.
“They are there!” he loudly shouted as they streamed into his sight;
And the prisoner in his gladness rose within the bed upright.
“There the evening star is gleaming, as it was serene and true,
When upon her father's doorstone oft we watched it out of view;
There the Pleiades are shining, as, when days of toil were done,
We oft wondered if God's palace was within that brightest one.
There Aldebaran is burning; oft my children used to cry,
‘He is driving his gold harrow through the blue fields of the sky!’
Still the mighty wheels of Heaven draw the universe's cars;
Still I see the great Orion—mighty hunter—man of stars;
And the orb of orbs, proud Sirius, struggles up the hollow sky,
As he did when we were watching in the sweet days long gone by.
God is good! his laws are changeless; though oft hidden from our view,
Yet when bars and clouds have vanished, they flash out and gleam anew!
“Who are these that stand beside me?—who are these I feel and see?—
Wife and children, you are with me—you have come at last for me!
Farewell sorrow, pain, and misery; farewell bolts and prison-bars:
I am ready to go with you on your pathway 'mongst the stars!”
Wife and children, you are with me—you have come at last for me!
Farewell sorrow, pain, and misery; farewell bolts and prison-bars:
I am ready to go with you on your pathway 'mongst the stars!”
Stalwart men in stripes with reverence bore a body through the door;
On the morrow came the “pardon”; but release had come before.
On the morrow came the “pardon”; but release had come before.
| Songs of two centuries | |