Convict no more, nor shame, nor dole!
Depart — a God-enfranchis'd soul!

3

The singer ceas'd,
One glance swept from her clear calm eyes o'er all those
    upturn'd faces,
Strange sea of prison faces, a thousand varied, crafty, brutal,
    seam'd and beauteous faces,
Then rising, passing back along the narrow aisle between
    them,
While her gown touch'd them rustling in the silence,
She vanish'd with her children in the dusk.
While upon all, convicts and armed keepers ere they
    stirr'd,
(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,
And youth's convulsive breathings, memories of home,
The mother's voice in lullaby, the sister's care, the happy
    childhood,
The long-pent spirit rous'd to reminiscence;
A wondrous minute then — but after in the solitary night, to
    many, many there,
Years after, even in the hour of death, the sad refrain, the
    tune, the voice, the words,
Resumed, the large calm lady walks the narrow aisle,
The wailing melody again, the singer in the prison sings,
O sight of pity, shame and dole!
O fearful thought — a convict soul.

1869 1881

WARBLE FOR LILAC-TIME

Warble me now for joy of lilac-time, (returning in
    reminiscence,)
Sort me O tongue and lips for Nature's sake, souvenirs of
    earliest summer,
Gather the welcome signs, (as children with pebbles or
    stringing shells,)
Put in April and May, the hylas croaking in the ponds, the
    elastic air,
Bees, butterflies, the sparrow with its simple notes,
Blue-bird and darting swallow, nor forget the high-hole
    flashing his golden wings,
The tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapor,
Shimmer of waters with fish in them, the cerulean above,
All that is jocund and sparkling, the brooks running,
The maple woods, the crisp February days and the sugar
    making,
The robin where he hops, bright-eyed, brown-breasted,
With musical clear call at sunrise, and again at sunset,
Or flitting among the trees of the apple-orchard, building the
    nest of his mate,
The melted snow of March, the willow sending forth its
    yellow-green sprouts,
For spring-time is here! the summer is here! and what is this
    in it and from it?
Thou, soul, unloosen'd — the restlessness after I know not
    what;
Come, let us lag here no longer, let us be up and away!
O if one could but fly like a bird!
O to escape, to sail forth as in a ship!
To glide with thee O soul, o'er all, in all, as a ship o'er the
    waters;
Gathering these hints, the preludes, the blue sky, the grass,
    the morning drops of dew,
The lilac-scent, the bushes with dark green heart-shaped
    leaves,
Wood-violets, the little delicate pale blossoms called
     innocence,
Samples and sorts not for themselves alone, but for their
    atmosphere,
To grace the bush I love — to sing with the birds,
A warble for joy of lilac-time, returning in reminiscence.

1870 1881

OUTLINES FOR A TOMB

(G. P., Buried 1870)

1

What may we chant, O thou within this tomb?
What tablets, outlines, hang for thee, O millionaire?
The life thou lived'st we know not,
But that thou walk'dst thy years in barter, 'mid the haunts of
    brokers,
Nor heroism thine, nor war, nor glory.

2

Silent, my soul,
With drooping lids, as waiting, ponder'd,
Turning from all the samples, monuments of heroes.