The Prisoner for Debt

Look on him! through his dungeon grate,Feebly and cold, the morning lightComes stealing round him, dim and late,As if it loathed the sight.Reclining on his strawy bed,His hand upholds his drooping head;His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard,Unshorn his gray, neglected beard;And o'er his bony fingers flowHis long, dishevelled locks of snow.No grateful fire before him glows,And yet the winter's breath is chill;And o'er his half-clad person goesThe frequent ague thrill!Silent, save ever and anon,A sound, half murmur and half groan,Forces apart the painful gripOf the old sufferer's bearded lip;Oh, sad and crushing is the fateOf old age chained and desolate!

Just God! why lies that old man there?A murderer shares his prison bed,Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair,Gleam on him, fierce and red;And the rude oath and heartless jeerFall ever on his loathing ear,And, or in wakefulness or sleep,Nerve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creepWhene'er that ruffian's tossing limb,Crimson with murder, touches him!

What has the gray-haired prisoner done?Has murder stained his hands with gore?Not so; his crime's a fouler one;God made the old man poor!For this he shares a felon's cell,The fittest earthly type of hellFor this, the boon for which he pouredHis young blood on the invader's sword,And counted light the fearful cost;His blood-gained liberty is lost!

And so, for such a place of rest,Old prisoner, dropped thy blood as rainOn Concord's field, and Bunker's crest,And Saratoga's plain?Look forth, thou man of many scars,Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars;It must be joy, in sooth, to seeYon monument upreared to thee;Piled granite and a prison cell,The land repays thy service well!

Go, ring the bells and fire the guns,And fling the starry banner out;Shout "Freedom!" till your lisping onesGive back their cradle-shout;Let boastful eloquence declaimOf honor, liberty, and fame;Still let the poet's strain be heard,With glory for each second word,And everything with breath agreeTo praise "our glorious liberty!"

But when the patron cannon jarsThat prison's cold and gloomy wall,And through its grates the stripes and starsRise on the wind, and fall,Think ye that prisoner's aged earRejoices in the general cheer?Think ye his dim and failing eyeIs kindled at your pageantry?Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb,What is your carnival to him?

Down with the law that binds him thus!Unworthy freemen, let it findNo refuge from the withering curseOf God and human-kindOpen the prison's living tomb,And usher from its brooding gloomThe victims of your savage codeTo the free sun and air of God;No longer dare as crime to brandThe chastening of the Almighty's hand.