 | The Outcast, and other poems |  |
148
THE CONVICT.
'Tis the midnight hour: in the prisoner's cell
No sound is heard, save the grinding chain,
And a thobbing pulse, whose beatings tell
Of an aching heart, and a troubled brain.
No sound is heard, save the grinding chain,
And a thobbing pulse, whose beatings tell
Of an aching heart, and a troubled brain.
The raven gloom in that narrow den,
No shadowy form to the eye reveals;
But a ray like the gleam of a tiger's ken,
In his lair at night, through the blackness steals.
No shadowy form to the eye reveals;
But a ray like the gleam of a tiger's ken,
In his lair at night, through the blackness steals.
Yet it is not fear of the morrow's doom,
Of the muffled drum, and the death-array,
That chases sleep from the pirate's room,
And fills his eye with the lightning's play—
Of the muffled drum, and the death-array,
That chases sleep from the pirate's room,
And fills his eye with the lightning's play—
For he hath closed in the dark sea-fight,
And smiled on the corses all gashed and grim,
As they rose to view by the pale moonlight,
And glared through the glassy wave on him.
And smiled on the corses all gashed and grim,
As they rose to view by the pale moonlight,
And glared through the glassy wave on him.
149
Aye, he hath smiled with a scoffer's lip,
And laughed at death when the blast was high,
When the sea-bird sunk on the staggering ship,
And the billows howled o'er the breakers nigh—
And laughed at death when the blast was high,
When the sea-bird sunk on the staggering ship,
And the billows howled o'er the breakers nigh—
He hath laughed at these in the midnight gloom,
And trolled his song on the whirlwind's wing,
And he careth not for the morrow's doom,
Or the fatal clasp of the strangling string.
And trolled his song on the whirlwind's wing,
And he careth not for the morrow's doom,
Or the fatal clasp of the strangling string.
Why heaves he then like the troubled wave,
When lashed by the tempests that o'er it sweep?
It is, that the hush of the sullen grave,
Cannot lull the soul in its lasting sleep.
When lashed by the tempests that o'er it sweep?
It is, that the hush of the sullen grave,
Cannot lull the soul in its lasting sleep.
His days are told, and the midnight pall,
O'er life's cheating pageant its shadow flings,
And the restless spirit now bursting its thrall,
Waves startled and buoyant its quickened wings.
O'er life's cheating pageant its shadow flings,
And the restless spirit now bursting its thrall,
Waves startled and buoyant its quickened wings.
Time's gathered mist from his mind is hurled,
And the lightning flashes of truth reveal
To his shrinking vision, that spirit world,
Which the clouds of earth from the sight conceal.
And the lightning flashes of truth reveal
To his shrinking vision, that spirit world,
Which the clouds of earth from the sight conceal.
150
As the vessel that catches with fluttering sail,
The freshening tempest and flies before—
So he in his bosom doth feel the gale,
That drives him a wreck on eternity's shore.
The freshening tempest and flies before—
So he in his bosom doth feel the gale,
That drives him a wreck on eternity's shore.
As the rock mounted eagle, that oft hath defied
The stroke of the gale, and the bolt of the blast,
Now bleeding and torn, from his ærie of pride,
To the doom of the vale by the whirlwind is cast—
The stroke of the gale, and the bolt of the blast,
Now bleeding and torn, from his ærie of pride,
To the doom of the vale by the whirlwind is cast—
So he in that prison doth feel a rush,
O'er his cowering spirit he cannot stay—
As the eagle's wing on the tempest-gush,
He is struggling borne to his doom away.
O'er his cowering spirit he cannot stay—
As the eagle's wing on the tempest-gush,
He is struggling borne to his doom away.
| The Outcast, and other poems | |