Poems (Hornblower)/Solitary Imprisonment
SOLITARY IMPRISONMENT.
Amid a gloom more terrible than darkness,A cold, and still, and solitary gloom,That with a feeble glimmering only makesThe wretchedness around just visible,The friendless prisoner sits. He does not weep;Nor from the depths of his dim solitudePom- one complaining tone—the warm, blest fountOf human tears is thy, the sympathiesThat bound him to a world of hopes and fears,And joys and sorrows, yes,the holy tiesWhich made Mm man among his fellow-men,Are broken by despair. He cannot weep,With head bowed mournfully upon his breast,And aimless eye,and arms hung lifeless down,He sits in desperation. On his soulThere dawns no hope; there comes no blessed gleamOf human kindness, rising like salvationAmid the pangs of death. How can he raiseUnto the awful power above, those eyes Which never more must gaze on human kind?How can lie crave for mercy from the GodHe has offended, when from fellow-beings,Frail, passionate, and suffering, like himself,He hath been cast forth thus? Upon his sinHe muses in distraction, till his anguishSwells in wild agony, and 'mid the wavesOf fear, and shame, and terror, comes the doubt,The overwhelming doubt, that reason will forsake him,Amid the utter wreck of all beside.Then starting from the cold earth, high he spreadsDespairing arms—and with pale, quivering lips,And outstretched head, and eyes that seem to craveThe sight of human face, as the lost marinerLooks to the shore in sinking, still he stands,And mute as death, to listen for a voice!The very wind that howls against his gratingIs music to Mm, and his heart throbs quickerTo catch another, and a human sound!No; the faint heavings of his own thin breath,The slight convulsive movements of his heart,Come chill upon him, and, with sickening ear,He feels there is no other: the flushed cheek,That had a moment warmed with mortal hope,Fades to a damper paleness, and he sinksSubmissive on his stone; while his weak pulse Flutters and falters, like a dying child's.So day by day, and year by year, he sits,The victim of his own and others' crimes;A living monument! till, life itselfBecome a lengthened curse, he trusts to die,By spurning the scant food which only makesThat life a living death; he turns awayDisgusted from the offering; and though wornAlmost to frightfulness, a spectral form,Rejects the proffered scrap, and calls on death,As he would call a friend of youth, to save him!O! wretched being! famine will not stayTo parley with despair; she urges himAgain, with double fierceness, to his food,And the weak pulse revives, again to beatThe melancholy hours; and thus he dragsThe remnant of bis being: no one seesOr pities him; his varying agony,Shut from the public view, disturbs no smileUpon a happier cheek; no father cravesA blessing on his broken-hearted son;No mother bends for him; no sister poursHer young fond tears; no brother round the walls,That bold the playmate of his infancy,Walks in his manlier sorrow, wistfullyTo gaze upon his cell; the busy world, With all the tumult and the stir of life,Pursues its wonted course; on pleasure some,And some on commerce and ambition bent,And all on happiness; while each one lovesOne little spot, in which his heart unfoldsWith nature's holiest feelings,—one sweet spot,—And calls it home. If there is sorrow there,It runs through many bosoms, and a smileLights up in eyes around a kindred smile;And if disease intrudes, the sufferer findsRest on the breast beloved. Outcast of all,He sickens and he dies; and, having finishedThe expiatory pangs, and drank his cupOf mortal suffering, is denied a grave,And this is mercy—this is human mercy!O! truly did he read the heart's deep folds,And the dark hues of its hypocrisy,Who cried in bitterness, Alas! for man,Whose tender mercies in themselves are cruel!