past and all of the present and all of the
    future,
All the brave actions of war and peace,
All help given to relatives, strangers, the poor, old, sorrowful,
     young children, widows, the sick, and to shunn'd
    persons,
All self-denial that stood steady and aloof on wrecks, and saw
     others fill the seats of the boats,
All offering of substance or life for the good old cause, or for
     a friend's sake, or opinion's sake,
All pains of enthusiasts scoff'd at by their neighbors,
All the limitless sweet love and precious suffering of mothers,
All honest men baffled in strifes recorded or unrecorded,
All the grandeur and good of ancient nations whose fragments
     we inherit,
All the good of the dozens of ancient nations unknown to us
    by name, date, location,
All that was ever manfully begun, whether it succeeded or no,
All suggestions of the divine mind of man or the divinity of
    his mouth, or the shaping of his great hands,
All that is well thought or said this day on any part of the globe,
    or on any of the wandering stars, or on any of the fix'd stars,
     by those there as we are here,
All that is henceforth to be thought or done by you whoever
     you are, or by any one,
These inure, have inured, shall inure, to the identities from
    which they sprang, or shall spring.
Did you guess any thing lived only its moment?
The world does not so exist, no parts palpable or impalpable
    so exist,
No consummation exists without being from some long previous
    consummation, and that from some other,
Without the farthest conceivable one coming a bit nearer the
    beginning than any.
Whatever satisfies souls is true;
Prudence entirely satisfies the craving and glut of souls,
Itself only finally satisfies the soul,
The soul has that measureless pride which revolts from every
    lesson but its own.
Now I breathe the word of the prudence that walks abreast
    with time, space, reality,
That answers the pride which refuses every lesson but its own.
What is prudence is indivisible,
Declines to separate one part of life from every part,
Divides not the righteous from the unrighteous or the living
    from the dead,
Matches every thought or act by its correlative,
Knows no possible forgiveness or deputed atonement,
Knows that the young man who composedly peril'd his life
    and lost it has done exceedingly well for
    himself without doubt,
That he who never peril'd his life, but retains it to old age in
    riches and ease, has probably achiev'd nothing for
    himself worth mentioning,
Knows that only that person has really learn'd who has
    learn'd to prefer results,
Who favors body and soul the same,
Who perceives the indirect assuredly following the direct,
Who in his spirit in any emergency whatever neither hurries
    nor avoids death.

1856 1881

THE SINGER IN THE PRISON

1

O sight of pity, shame 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,
Reaching the far-off sentry and the armed guards, who
    ceas'd their pacing,
Making the hearer's pulses stop for ecstasy and awe.

2

The sun was low in the west one winter day,
When down a narrow aisle amid the thieves and outlaws of
    the land,
(There by the hundreds seated, sear-faced murderers, wily
    counterfeiters,
Gather'd to Sunday church in prison walls, the keepers
    round,
Plenteous, well-armed, watching with vigilant eyes,)
Calmly a lady walk'd holding a little innocent child by either
    hand,
Whom seating on their stools beside her on the platform,
She, first preluding with the instrument a low and musical
    prelude,
In voice surpassing all, sang forth a quaint old 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.

Ceaseless she paces to and fro,
O heart-sick days! O nights of woe!
Nor hand of friend, nor loving face,
Nor favor comes, nor word of grace.

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.

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.