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Leaves of Grass (1871-72)
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THE SINGER IN THE PRISON.
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| O sight of shame, and pain, and dole! |
| O fearful thought—a convict Soul! |
| RANG the refrain along the hall, the prison, |
| Rose to the roof, the vaults of heaven above, |
Pouring in floods of melody, in tones so pensive, sweet
and strong, the like whereof was never heard,
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Reaching the far-off sentry, and the armed guards, who
ceas'd their pacing,
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| Making the hearer's pulses stop for extasy and awe. |
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| O sight of pity, gloom, and dole! |
| O pardon me, a hapless Soul! |
| The sun was low in the west one winter day, |
When down a narrow aisle amid the thieves and out-
laws of the land,
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(There by the hundreds seated, sear-faced murderers,
wily counterfeiters,
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Gather'd to Sunday church in prison walls—the keep-
ers round,
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| Plenteous, well-arm'd, watching, with vigilant eyes,) |
Calmly a lady walk'd, holding a little innocent child
by either hand,
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Whom, seating on their stools beside her on the plat-
form,
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She, first preluding with the instrument, a low and
musical prelude,
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In voice surpassing all, sang forth a quaint old
hymn.
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3
THE HYMN.
| A Soul, confined by bars and bands, |
| Cries, Help! O help! and wrings her hands; |
| Blinded her eyes—bleeding her breast, |
| Nor pardon finds, nor balm of rest. |
| O sight of shame, and pain, and dole! |
| O fearful thought—a convict Soul! |
| Ceaseless, she paces to and fro; |
| O heart-sick days! O nights of wo! |
| Nor hand of friend, nor loving face; |
| Nor favor comes, nor word of grace, |
| O sight of pity, gloom, and dole! |
| O pardon me, a hapless Soul! |
| It was not I that sinn'd the sin, |
| The ruthless Body dragg'd me in; |
| Though long I strove courageously, |
| The Body was too much for me. |
| O Life! no life, but bitter dole! |
| O burning, beaten, baffled Soul! |
| (Dear prison'd soul, bear up a space, |
| For soon or late the certain grace; |
| To set thee free, and bear thee home, |
| The Heavenly Pardoner, Death shall come. |
| Convict no more—nor shame, nor dole! |
| Depart! A God-enfranchis'd Soul!) |
4
One glance swept from her clear, calm eyes, o'er all
those upturn'd faces;
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Strange sea of prison faces—a thousand varied, crafty,
brutal, seam'd and beauteous faces;
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Then rising, passing back along the narrow aisle be-
tween them,
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| While her gown touch'd them, rustling in the silence, |
| She vanish'd with her children in the dusk. |
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While upon all, convicts and armed keepers, ere they
stirr'd,
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| (Convict forgetting prison, keeper his loaded pistol,) |
| A hush and pause fell down, a wondrous minute, |
With deep, half-stifled sobs and sound of bad men
bow'd, and moved to weeping,
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| And youth's convulsive breathings, memories of home, |
The mother's voice in lullaby, the sister's care, the
happy childhood,
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| The long-pent spirit rous'd to reminiscence; |
—A wondrous minute then—But after, in the solitary
night, to many, many there,
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Years after—even in the hour of death—the sad refrain
—the tune, the voice, the words,
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| Resumed—the large, calm Lady walks the narrow aisle, |
The wailing melody again—the singer in the prison
sings:
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| O sight of shame, and pain, and dole! |
| O fearful thought—a convict Soul! |
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