University of Virginia Library

Of crimes, empoison'd source of human woes,
Whence the black flood of shame and sorrow flows,
How best to check the venom's deadly force,
To stem its torrent, or direct its course,
To scan the merits of vindictive codes,
Nor pass the faults humanity explodes,
I sing—what theme more worthy to engage
The poet's song, the wisdom of the sage?
Ah! were I equal to the great design,
Were thy bold genius, blest Beccaria! mine,
Then should my work, ennobled as my aim,
Like thine, receive the meed of deathless fame.
O Jay! deserving of a purer age,
Pride of thy country, statesman, patriot, sage,
Beneath whose guardian care our laws assume
A milder form, and lose their gothic gloom,
Read with indulgent eyes, nor yet refuse
This humble tribute of an artless Muse.

Great is the question which the learn'd contest,
What grade, what mode of punishment is best;
In two fam'd soots the disputants decide,
These rang'd on Terror's, those on Reason's side;
Ancient as empire Terror's temple stood,
Capt with black clouds, and founded deep in blood;
Grim despots here their trembling honours paid,
And guilty offerings to their idol made:
The monarch led—a servile crowd ensued,
Their robes distain'd in gore, in gore embrued;
O'er mangled limbs they held infernal feast,
Moloch the god, and Draco's self the priest.
Mild Reason's sane in later ages rear'd,
With sun-beams crown'd, in attic grace appear'd;
In just proportion finish'd every part,
With the fine touches of enlighten'd art.
A thinking few, selected from the crowd,
At the fair shrine with filial rev'rence bow'd;
The sage of Milan led the virtuous choir,
To them sublime he strung the tuneful lyre:
Of laws, of crimes, and punishments he sung,
And on his glowing lips persuasion hung:
From Reason's source each inf'rence just he drew,
While truths fresh polish'd struck the mind as new:
Full in the front, in vestal robes array'd,
The holy form of Justice stood display'd:
Firm was her eye, not vengeful, though severe,
And e'er she frown'd she check'd the starting tear.
A sister form, of more benignant face,
Celestial Mercy, held the second place;
Her hands outspread, in suppliant guise she stood,
And oft with eloquence resistless sued;
But where 'twas impious e'en to deprecate,
She sigh'd assent, and wept the wretch's fate.

In savage times, fair Freedom yet unknown,
The despot, clad in vengeance, fill'd the throne;
His gloomy caprice scrawl'd the ambiguous code,
And dyed each page in characters of blood:
The laws trangress'd, the prince in judgment sat,
And Rage decided on the culprit's fate:
Nor stop'd he here, but skill'd in murd'rous art,
The scepter'd brute usurp'd the hangman's part;
With his own hands the trembling victim hew'd,
And basely wallow'd in a subject's blood.
Pleas'd with the fatal game, the royal mind
On modes of death and cruelty refin'd:
Hence the dank caverns of the cheerless mine,
Where, shut from light, the famish'd wretches pine;
The face divine in seams unsightly sear'd,
The eye-balls goug'd, the wheel with gore besmear'd,
The Russian knout, the suffocating flame,
And forms of torture wanting yet a name.
Nor was this rage to savage times confin'd,
It reach'd to later years and courts refin'd.
Blush, polish'd France, nor let the Muse relate
The tragic story of your Damien's fate;
The bed of steel, where long the assassin lay,
In the dark vault, secluded from the day;
The quiv'ring flesh which burning pincers tore,
The pitch, pour'd flaming in the recent sore;
His carcase, warm with life, convuls'd with pain,
By steeds dismember'd, drag'd along the plain.

As daring quacks, unskill'd in medic lore,
Prescrib'd the nostrums quacks prescrib'd before;
Careless of age or sex, whate'er befal,
The same dull recipe must serve for all:
Our Senates thus, with reverence be it said,
Have been too long by blind tradition led:
Our civil code, from feudal dross refin'd,
Proclaims the liberal and enlighten'd mind;
But till of late the penal statutes stood
In gothic rudeness, smear'd with civic blood;
What base memorials of a barb'rous age,
What monkish whimsies sullied every page!
The Clergy's benefit, a trifling brand,
Jest of the law, a holy sleight of hand:
Beneath this saintly cloak what crimes abhor'd,
Of sable dye, were shelter'd from the Lord;
While the poor starveling, who a cent purloin'd,
No reading sav'd, no juggling trick essoin'd;
His was the servile lash, a foul disgrace,
Through time transmitted to his hapless race;
The fort and dure, the traitor's motley doom,
Might blot the story of imperial Rome.
What late disgrac'd our laws yet stand to stain
The splendid annals of a George's reign.

Say, legislators, for what end design'd
This waste of lives, this havock of mankind?
Say, by what right (one case exempt alone),
Do ye prescribe that blood can crimes atone?
If when our fortunes frown, and dangers press,
To act the Roman's part be to transgress;
For man the use of life alone commands,
The fee residing in the grantor's hands.
Could man, what time the social pact he seal'd,
Cede to the state a right he never held?
For all the powers which in the state reside,
Result from compact, actual or implied.
Too well the savage policy we trace
To times remote, Humanity's disgrace;
E'en while I ask the trite response recurs,
Example warns, severity deters.
No milder means can keep the vile in awe,
And state necessity compels the law.
But let Experience speak, she claims our trust;
The data false, the inf'rence is unjust.
Ills at a distance men but slightly fear;
Delusive fancy never thinks them near:
With stronger force than fear temptations draw,
And Cunning thinks to parry with the law.
My brother swung, poor novice in his art,
He blindly stumbled on a hangman's cart;
But wiser I, assuming every shape,
As Proteus erst, am certain to escape.
The knave, thus jeering, on his skill relies,
For never villain deem'd himself unwise.
When earth convulsive heav'd, and, yawning wide,
Engulph'd in night fair Lisbon's spiry pride,
At that dread hour of ruin and dismay,
'Tis famed the harden'd felon prowl'd for prey;
Nor tumbling earth, nor thunders could restrain
His daring feet, which trod the sinking fane;
Whence, while the fabric to its basis shook,
By impious stealth the hallow'd vase he took.
What time the gaping vulgar throngs to see
Some wretch expire on Tyburn's fatal tree;
Fast by the crowd the luckier villain clings,
And pilfers while the hapless culprit swings.
If then the knave can view, with careless eyes,
The bolt of vengeance darting from the skies,
If Death, with all the pomp of Justice join'd,
Scarce strikes a panic in the guilty mind,
What can we hope, though every penal code,
As Draco's once, were stamp'd in civic blood?

The blinded wretch, whose mind is bent on ill,
Would laugh at threats, and sport with halters still;
Temptations gain more vigour as they throng,
Crime fosters crime, and wrong engenders wrong;
Fondly he hopes the threaten'd fate to shim,
Nor sees his fatal error till undone,
Wise is the law, and godlike is its aim,
Which frowns to mend, and chastens to reclaim,
Which seeks the storms of passion to controul,
And wake the latent virtues of the soul;
For all, perhaps, the vilest of the race;
Bear in their breast some smother'd sparks of grace;
Nor vain the hope, nor mad th' attempt to raise
Those smother'd sparks to Virtue's purer blaze.
When on the cross accurs'd, the robber writh'd,
The parting prayer of penitence he breath'd;
Cheer'd by the Saviour's smile, to grace restor'd,
He died distinguish'd with his suffering Lord.
As seeds long steril in a poisonous soil,
If nurs'd by culture and assiduous toil,
May wake to life and vegetative power,
Protrude the germ and yield a fragrant flower:
E'en thus may man, rapacious and unjust,
The slave of sin, the prey of lawless lust,
In the drear prison's gloomy round confin'd,
To awful solitude and toil consign'd;
Debarr'd from social intercourse, nor less
From the vain world's seductions and caress,
With late and trembling steps he measures back
Life's narrow road, a long abandon'd track;
By Conscience rous'd, and left to keen Remorse,
The mind at length acquires its pristine force:
Then pard'ning Mercy, with cherubic smile,
Dispels the gloom, and smooths the brow of Toil,
Till friendly Death, full oft implor'd in vain,
Shall burst the pond'rous bar and loose the chain;
Fraught with fresh life, an offering meet for God,
The rescued spirit leaves the dread abode.

Nor yet can laws, though Solon's self should frame,
Each shade of guilt discriminate and name;
For Senates well their sacred trust fulfil,
Who general cures provide for general ill.
Much must by his direction be supplied,
In whom the laws the pard'ning power confide;
He best can measure every varying grade ...
Of guilt, and mark the bounds of light and shade;
Weigh each essoign, each incident review,
And yield to Mercy where she claims her due;
And wise it were so to extend his trust,
With power to mitigate—when 'twere unjust
Full amnesty to give—for though so dear
The name of Mercy to a mortal's ear,
Yet should the chief, to human weakness steel'd,
Rarely indeed to suits for pardon yield;
For neither laws nor pardons can efface
The sense of guilt and memory of disgrace.
Say, can the man whom Justice doom'd to shame,
With front erect his country's honours claim?
Can he with cheek unblushing join the crowd,
Claim equal rights, and have his claim allow'd?
What though he mourn, a penitent sincere,
Though every dawn be usher'd with a tear,
The world, more prone to censure than forgive,
Quick to suspect, and tardy to believe,
Will still the hapless penitent despise,
And watch his conduct with invidious eyes:
But the chief end of justice once atchiev'd,
The public weal secur'd, a soul repriev'd,
'Twere wise in laws, 'twere generous to provide
Some place where blushing penitence might hide;
Yes, 'twere humane, 'twere godlike to protect
Returning virtue from the world's neglect,
And taunting scorn, which pierce with keener pains,
The feeling mind, than dungeons, racks and chains:
Enlarge their bounds—admit a purer air,
Dismiss the servile badge and scanty fare;
The stint of labour lessen or suspend,
Admit at times the sympathising friend.
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Repentance courts the shade; alone she roves
By ruin'd towers and night-embrowning groves;
Or midst dark vaults, by Melancholy led,
She holds ideal converse with the dead:
Lost to the world and each profaner joy,
Her solace tears, and prayer her best employ.
So in the gloomy rounds of Pareclete
The grief-worn lover sought his last retreat;
Mid holy monks a rigid life he spent,
With sackcloth weeds and meagre fare content,
Seeking by penitence sincere t' evade
The bolt of vengeance hovering o'er his head:
So to Vauclusia's solitude resign'd,
Dejected Petrarch for his Laura pin'd;
To shun the haunts of man, with eager feet,
O'er rocks and wilds he urg'd his swift retreat,
There, to re-echoing rocks and whispering groves,
He sung the tale of ill-requited loves.