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.

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