The New era. [volume] ([Portsmouth, Va.]) 1845-1847, 1846-02-28
FROM the Albany Argus.
THE PRISON CONVICT
By ALBERT TRACY


BIZ TRACY.
RHvME to weave a rhyme for one
By tho world forgotten long,
noble rhyme of the son OF Crime,
And his prison keep strong.
And weave it well, that all may list
And troll il loud and high,
with manacl lie link and gyve to clink
In glorious symphony!
The convict wight, with his crown all cropt,
And his garb so quaint TO see,
merry life, in his fastliness
With his doughty freres hath he:
Burglar and thief, and he whose hand
Hath fadeless stain of blood,
On. these they fain to be
vi his chosen brotherhood.
From dawn till dusk, the livelong day,
~, How cheeriy up doth come
The busy moil of the trade he plies,
So speechless all and dumb.
On bench, or loom, or the sounding forge,
lie may choose whichever he degn;
nor lack OF time, n practice good
And a skill in his craft to gain.
skill! ay, the keepers do but heed,
And yon gaudy sentinel,
Lest, seized of wood, sedge, or blade,
He handled for once too we'll.
Day in, day out-and he strives but more,
With the hum of the outer crowd,
The roll OF wheels, and the laugh that como
On his toll SO clear and loud
Or say if he chance to faint sometimes.
Or to do his task seem 10th,
The lash, the lash. tits a wondrous thing.
And quickeneth we'll his sioth:
And blood though it stream, and his lip shed foam
His masters still kind,
So soothing tits, the bullet they give,
In his rage to champ and grind.
Who teleth of night and his silent cell,
And the shapes that haunt him there?
lie may howl, may he not, and fright them forth
Nor yet need the keeper care;
Nor HIMSELF nor the guard need fear for him,
IT is time they we'll should know
Those links, less strong, those CRATES less firm,
He hath rent them long ago.
Week after week-but mcrriest vet
At Silly Sabbath fall,
Are the tales to list from the Chapel Priest
OF mercy and love for all
He heareth them out, as ne need must choose,
But he warns with inward glee-
Who ever heard of mercy yet,
Or love for such as he
The squalid child, with hunger wild,
Who e'er for him hath heed?
He got his fin, as he best might do,
Or, lied, or stole at need.
The lady. perchance, that gave him pence,
"Be honest, now" quoth she;
How he jeered. in his haunts at that stranger word
And marvellcd what it might be.
Fit school for him to learn of love,
The goal of his after day;
When yet had he wrought with will like that
He bore from it's walls away?
To rob, stab, or the flame to light
No thousand men should qucll-
He did but look to get hher at last,
But he earned his guerdon well.
And the iron gate, and the wall of stone.
And the scourge piled we'll and oft,
With the bands that caous his limbs of bone,
Shall they render his heart more soft !?
They are merry, theu-ay, blithest of all,
The ia les of that baden sage;
And he gains not his cell, but he spits good lack
For mirth, on his Bible page.
When AvariCe ceaseth to rob the first,
When Virtue of Scorn is less,
When any but come in his earlier time
With half such saintliness-
Then less shall they need Of prison or priest
Or the judge to read his pan,
And the wight shall tame, that knew nor hope
Nor faith in his fellow man.
Year after year. from the world away,
The toll, and the whipman's thong;
Oh, merry time for the son of Crime
In his prison keep strong.
Troll high the burden bid dun geon deep
And cell him forth reply,
While manace link and gyve shall clink
In glorious symphony
Buffalo, Feb. 9, 1916.