Who toss the bubble-cup of mirth,
Or grasp ambition's storm-wreath'd crest:
Who early rise, and late take rest,
In Mammon's mine, the care-worn slave,
Who find each phantom-race unblest,
Yet shrink reluctant from the grave.
THE BIBLE CLASS IN THE CONNECTICUT STATE PRISON.
I saw them bending o'er that holy page,
Whose breath is immortality. There seemed
No sadness on their features; to their limbs
No fetters clung; and they whose early years
Had told dark tales of wretchedness and shame,
Lifted a calm, clear eye.
Amazed, I asked,
Is this a prison? and are these the men
Whom Justice from the world's sweet fellowship
Hath sternly severed?
But a voice replied,
God's spirit hath been here. Serene it came
Into the cells where guilt and punishment
Rivet their chains, making the victim's life
A hated burden, and his hope despair!
It came! Rebellion laid his weapons down;
The flinty breast grew soft: the rugged brow
Gave channels for the tear of penitence;
And souls, which sin had blotted from their race
