THE CONVICT.

The glory of evening was spread through the west;

--On the slope of a mountain I stood;

While the joy that precedes the calm season of rest

Rang loud through the meadow and wood.

"And must we then part from a dwelling so fair?"

In the pain of my spirit I said,

And with a deep sadness I turned, to repair

To the cell where the convict is laid.

The thick-ribbed walls that oershadow the gate

Resound; and the dungeons unfold:

I pause; and at length, through the glimmering grate,

That outcast of pity behold.

His black matted head on his shoulder is bent,

And deep is the sigh of his breath,

And with stedfast dejection his eyes are intent

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