THE 
 
 AGONY OF MURDER: 
 
 WB.ITTEX BY A 
 
 PRISONER DESCRIBING HIS FEELINGS 
 
 WHEN 
 
 UNDEE SENTENCE OF DEATH, 
 
 AND IN MOST IMMINENT DANGER OF EXECUTION. 
 EDITED BY THE 
 
 REV? JOHN DAVIS, 
 
 ORDINARY OF NEWGATE. 
 
 Should any profit arise from the sale of this Volume, it will be expended 
 for the benefit of the Children so frequently mentioned in it. 
 
 I. R. TAYLOR, 13, BROWNLOW STREET, BEDFORD ROW. 
 1859.
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE 
 
 DAVID WILLIAMS WIRE, 
 
 Lard Mayor of the City of London; 
 
 THE LONG TRIED, HUMANE, 
 
 AND CONSISTENT FRIEND OP MISGUIDED 
 
 OFFENDERS; NO LESS READY AT ALL TIMES TO 
 
 ADVISE THEM FOR THEIR GOOD THAN TO HELP THEM IN THEIR 
 
 NECESSITIES THIS SMALL VOLUME SO FORCIBILY 
 
 DEPICTING SOME OF THEIR MOST ACUTE 
 
 MISERIES IS RESPECTFULLY 
 
 DEDICATED 
 BY HIS LORDSHIP'S 
 
 Faithful Servant, 
 
 JOHN DAVIS. 
 
 Octoler, 
 
 2030175
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 THESE remarkable verses have been in my possession 
 about two years. The feelings they express are quite 
 natural, and there is a solemnity and serious train of 
 thought in them that is likely to be useful to others. 
 In the hope of doing something to impart right sen- 
 timents on these dreadful subjects, the lines are 
 promulgated to the world. They have been seen by 
 competent judges, and there is nothing likely to offend 
 against public propriety or create improper notions as 
 respects the horrible crime of Murder. There are 
 many right sentiments modestly expressed, although 
 the verses are not finished productions. The publica- 
 tion of these poems will, it is hoped, lead to the 
 sparing of human life wherever it is compatible with 
 the safety of society. Such gentlemen as Mr. MILNEE 
 GIBSON, M.P., and ALDEEHAN EOSE, who took so 
 warm an interest in this poor convict's fate, and ulti- 
 mately prevailed to the rescue of his justly forfeited 
 life, cannot but feel thankful that their disinterested 
 and zealous endeavours have been crowned with so 
 great a blessing. Of the author of the verses them- 
 selves, whose name is for the present withheld, it may
 
 VI. PREFACE. 
 
 be said, that he has been ever since his imprisonment 
 in Newgate, under deep and permanent religious 
 impressions, and in the most distant parts of the earth 
 writes and acts like a true penitent. As some years 
 have passed over and these fervent expressions of 
 grateful piety remain, there is good hope to be con- 
 fident thac the earnest and continued prayers of the 
 offender may realise the promise of Scripture, that 
 " they who sow in tears may reap in joy." 
 
 Newgate, October 15<).
 
 THE AGONY OP MURDER. 
 
 HOUKS IN NEWGATE. 
 
 THE ARRIVAL. 
 
 'TWAS NIGHT ! The driving rain descended fast, 
 
 Blown to and fro, by "Winter's chilling blast ; 
 
 The van has stopp'd, the prison bell has rung 
 
 Disturbing silence with its noisy tongue, 
 
 "Within we hear the sound of falling chain, 
 
 Of shifting bolts, ere we admittance gain. 
 
 I stand in Newgate ! dark ill-omened place, 
 
 Shrouded in gloom ! abode of crime, disgrace, 
 
 And Death ! The words of Dante fill my ear, 
 
 " Farewell to HOPE, all ye that enter here." 
 
 I bade farewell to hope for she had fled ! 
 
 I felt already number 'd with the dead ! 
 
 A portly, florid man received my name 
 
 And entered it upon his list of shame. 
 
 While doing so, I slowly gazed around, 
 
 To find some food for Hope, but none I found ; 
 
 In vain I tried to pierce the distant gloom, 
 
 Which wrapp'd all objects in this living tomb. 
 
 No sound disturbed this ominous retreat, 
 
 Save the pen's crackle on the printed sheet ; 
 
 Which being signed, and my conductor gone, 
 
 My heart seems changed to lead, my frame to stone. 
 
 The outer door is closed with solemn bang, 
 
 And jars upon my nerve with dismal clang ;
 
 8 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 A warning note that I am henceforth hurPd, 
 
 From joys without and banished from the world ! 
 
 A Turnkey now appears with lantern dim, 
 
 And gruffly bids me rise and follow him. 
 
 I go with downcast eyes and flagging tread, 
 
 And watch their lengthy shadows as they spread 
 
 About our path. Anon they flit before, 
 
 As if in haste these regions to explore, 
 
 Or hap, to let some other wretches know 
 
 I have arrived within this home of woe ! 
 
 The massive pillars which we walk between 
 
 Seem frowning darkly, and in ghostly mien 
 
 Demand in savage whisper, "Who am I?" 
 
 As cheerless as themselves now passing by 
 
 Upon the ear some quicker footsteps fall 
 
 And loud are echoed through this dreary hall. 
 
 My gaoler bids me bare my head, I do, 
 
 A lofty form surveys with steady view 
 
 My haggard frame ! yet speaks in kindly tone, 
 
 And seems to pity one to woe-begone, 
 
 He is the ruler here, and leads the way 
 
 Across a court-yard which in darkness lay. 
 
 The rain still patters on the stony ground, 
 
 And hails my advent with a mournful sound ; 
 
 I'm usher'd soon into a spacious room, 
 
 Partly relieved from the surrounding gloom, 
 
 By sullen flashes from a fire new lit, 
 
 Which struggles with the smoke and conquers it ; 
 
 Then throws a sickly glare upon the hearth, 
 
 Pit welcome to the cause which gave it birth. 
 
 Another warder now relieves the one 
 
 Who brought me here, when we are left alone. 
 
 He is my guardian till the morning light, 
 
 Shall chase the horrors of that dreary night ;
 
 THE ARRIVAL. 9 
 
 The fire gets brighter, and my shiv'ring frame 
 
 Feels somewhat cheered, but still a sense of shame 
 
 Holds down my tongue, I wish, but fear, to speak, 
 
 Lest I should meet some rude repulse, and seek 
 
 To read my keeper's temper in his face, 
 
 For I heard that turnkeys were a race 
 
 Peculiar : gruff and always insincere, 
 
 But rumour proved herself a liar here ; 
 
 For he and all that follow'd in his train, 
 
 To me were gentle, pitying, and humane. 
 
 He first with kindness spoke and bade me try, 
 
 And hope the best, and still on God rely ; 
 
 I thank him, and in silence try to read 
 
 The word of GOD, but cannot yet succeed 
 
 In finding comfort for my troubled soul, 
 
 The name of MURDER runs throughout the whole 
 
 Of every page, each letter seems confused, 
 
 And mem'ry hints of intellect abused ; 
 
 And thwarted vilely since my early youth, 
 
 In misinterpreting the word of Truth. 
 
 I find, indeed, that God has beckon' d some, 
 
 And Heavenly love has bid them freely come 
 
 To HIM for rest and peace, but base abandoned I, 
 
 Instead of coming, fain would madly fly, 
 
 And hide beneath the deepest shade on earth 
 
 From all who knew me from my very birth. 
 
 From God, from conscience, from my frighted soul, 
 
 O'er which despairing billows loudly roll. 
 
 It reads the dread Anathema divine, 
 
 Of " blood for blood," 'tis written on each line ; 
 
 The very hand with which I turn the page, 
 
 Is stain'd with blood, produced in drunken rage. 
 
 My worthless life disturbs me not, 'tis when ' 
 
 The thread is snapp'd my soul demands where then
 
 10 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 Throughout ETERNITY is it to dwell ? 
 Despairing conscience plainly answers HELL. 
 No longer here for soothing hope I look, 
 I rise in horror, and I close the book ; 
 Then wonder as I pace the cheerless room, 
 What tortures constitute eternal doom ? 
 For until now my all- engrossing thought 
 Had been, the swift destruction I had brought 
 On those far dearer than my wretched life, 
 My helpless children, and my murder'd wife ; 
 But now my soul demands to know her fate, 
 What is her portion in the future state ? 
 Does her sad spirit now in torments dwell ? 
 My startled conscience rings her fun'ral knell. 
 What racking anguish fills my aching heart, 
 Her helpless soul and mine may yet take part 
 In endless woe ! and I the savage cause ! 
 What punishment to me are earthly laws ? 
 What is my loss of life compared to all 
 The horrors which my spirit may befall ? 
 Such images of torment fill my mind, 
 That e'en the presence of my guard I find 
 Relief ! I now should fear to be alone, 
 Lest reason should for ever leave her throne ; 
 I wish to die and fear to meet the dead, 
 Worn out with misery I creep to bed. 
 But like the tyrant, " I had murder'd sleep," 
 Like him in wretchedness my vigil keep ! 
 My aged warder dozes in his chair, 
 The very silence seems to breed despair ; 
 I lay and watch the steady roaring fire, 
 The burning embers oft displaced inspire 
 Imagination with some hideous form, 
 Which scares the spirit even while they warm
 
 THE ARRIVAL. 11 
 
 The dismal air. My glance lights on the walls 
 
 Whereon a long unearthly shadow falls, 
 
 Of him who toil-worn slumbers, and which seems 
 
 Waiting to haunt me in my coming dreams ; 
 
 Then suddenly I think of all those men 
 
 Who one by one have suffered there, and then 
 
 I wonder if they lay where now I do 
 
 And if they felt such torments as pursue 
 
 My harass'd soul. I think of not a few 
 
 Of ghastly forms that may perhaps renew 
 
 Their visits to this loathsome resting-place, 
 
 Where Murder oft has shown her hideous face ; 
 
 What cursed mischance brought me within her ranks? 
 
 Thou ! demon cup receive thy little thanks. 
 
 ! how I loathe thy mean debasing arts, 
 But self still more. My self-accusing darts 
 Pierce to my soul and fill me with disgust ! 
 
 1 grovel in humiliation's dust 
 
 To think that I to such a fiend could turn, 
 Who ne'er when sober wished to kill a worm ! 
 Oh ! juggling snare that can transform the mind, 
 And change to devils those of human kind, 
 Debase some fools to silly jabbering apes, 
 In other minds produce distorted shapes, 
 Which force them o'er the edge of reasons seat, 
 And with returning sense their vision greet 
 With horrors that the damned alone can feel; 
 Which human tongue or pen can ne'er reveal. 
 'Tis impotent to curse. I turn again, 
 And think of those, Intemperance has slain, 
 From Clitus, to the fools of modern times ; 
 Who to its juggle owe their many crimes, 
 And still amidst the filthy odious race, 
 My crime looms out, the darkest in disgrace ;
 
 12 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 I think of him who on this bed the last, 
 
 Hi a guilty form in wretchedness did cast, 
 
 And of the next, until the mind flies back, 
 
 To Thurtell's story and the murder- sack, 
 
 Which when a child I heard with dire affright, 
 
 Too fearful to be read by candle-light, 
 
 But in the shining day, ah ! happy days for me, 
 
 And long ere that, when at my grandarn's knee, 
 
 My evening prayer was always duly said, 
 
 Before she placed me in my tiny bed ! 
 
 And kissed the happy boy who loved her well, 
 
 (As petted grandchildren alone can tell,) 
 
 And who loved him with all her aged heart. 
 
 Blest be thy mem'ry ! for the brightest part 
 
 Of my whole life, was when in ardent glow, 
 
 Thou every morning to my school would'st go, 
 
 With happy me, in neatly plaited frill, 
 
 And pin before ; I thought nor dreamt of ill, 
 
 Nor when in jacket, collar overlaid, 
 
 Alone, my visits to the school I paid, [prize, 
 
 Pleased to bring home my hard earned, schoolboy's 
 
 And gave it thee, and saw with sparkling eyes, 
 
 The shining sixpence treasur'd in my vest, 
 
 And always look'd at with increasing zest ; 
 
 I well remember once when nearly drown' d 
 
 And brought home senseless o'er the snowy ground; 
 
 The trembling care she took to save her boy, 
 
 Lest damp or fever should his life destroy, 
 
 She would have thought it hard if I had gone 
 
 From her dear arms, but ah ! if she had known, 
 
 The woes in store for me her darling pride, 
 
 She would have prayed that I her joy had died, 
 
 That little hand which hung about her neck, 
 
 E'en in my dreams for fear the ice should break,
 
 THE ARRIVAL. 13 
 
 Again, is stained with blood ! Oh ! would that I 
 
 Had lost all strength to make my feeble cry, 
 
 And perished in the waters. Long I dwell 
 
 On all those days till my first shadow fell 
 
 Across my path ! Ill fated day which gave, 
 
 My gentle grandam to the yawning grave, 
 
 I still remember thee and all thy show 
 
 Of mournful emblems ; Pageantry of woe ! 
 
 The solemn hearse and loftly nodding plume, 
 
 "Were hateful mockery in thy dear old room ! 
 
 I see again the pompous mourning coach, 
 
 And slowly to thy new-made grave approach, 
 
 I feel my warmest dearest friend is gone ! 
 
 I am a child again and feel alone, 
 
 My pent-up sorrows burst their former bounds, 
 
 I sob aloud ! at these unusual sounds 
 
 My keeper starts, and bustling up comes near, 
 
 Kindly shakes hands and bids me try and cheer 
 
 My wretched self; I hear him but in vain, 
 
 The flowing tear alone relieves the pain 
 
 Of weighty grief produced by retrospect 
 
 Of days departed ? Why did I reject 
 
 The holy precepts inculcated then, 
 
 By loving hearts, and well experienced men ? 
 
 In the world's bubble why not heed the truth, 
 
 So purely taught me in my earliest youth ? 
 
 "Why has my mind become like hell deprav'd, 
 
 And yet like hell " with good intentions pav'd," ? 
 
 IRRESOLUTION ! bane of all my life, 
 
 Be thou accurs'd pregnant of bitter strife ! 
 
 Parent of all my woes oft has thy voice, 
 
 With oily plausibility made choice 
 
 Of easy deviating track, which first 
 
 Seeni'd parallel to virtues road ! Oh ! cursed
 
 14 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 Is he,, who hesitates when virtue leads, 
 And who instead of following, recedes, 
 Self confident he can when e er he wills, 
 Redeem the past : thus Resolution kills, 
 "With subterfuge of shadowy resolve, 
 With empty vapours which too soon dissolve, 
 And leave the votaries on the crumbling brink, 
 Of certain ruin, where they soon must sink, 
 Unless a power mighter than their own, 
 (Or chance as by the Atheist 'tis known,) 
 May save the wretches and haply may restore, 
 Their sliding steps to virtue's path once more. 
 What strange perversity induces man, 
 When he his chequer'd path has just began, 
 To slight all warnings, and entreaties too, 
 Of safe experience ? makes him still pursue, 
 His own erratic route ? What hope c'an tempt 
 One man to think that he shall be exempt 
 From all those ills which countless are entail'd 
 On folly's worshippers, when those who've sail'd 
 The troubled waters of alluring vice 
 And prov'd the worthlessness of each device 
 Held out to temp the rash advent' rous youth ? 
 Exhort him in the strongest terms of truth 
 To pause ! or look around and see the end 
 Of thousands who would not their fall forefend, 
 But who in easy undulating pace, 
 From step to step arrive at death, disgrace, 
 Or beggary who often at one bound 
 Plunge in the midst of vices which surround 
 Their careless road, and harden'd in their sin, 
 Heed no reproof, nor whispers from within, 
 Till Wrath, resistless in its fearful force, 
 By sudden ruin stops the headlong course !
 
 THE ARRIVAL. 15 
 
 The cause of all is inward stubborn PRIDE, 
 
 "Which bids its victim virtue's voice' deride. 
 
 Satan beholds with fiendish base delight 
 
 HIS offspring cherished by the heedless wight ! 
 
 Who hears complacently the warning note, 
 
 But still thinks danger is from him remote, 
 
 Thinks he can best arrange his own affairs, 
 
 And wishes other people would mind. theirs. 
 
 He is a man and surely ought to know, 
 
 "Where he should stop when he should further go, 
 
 Others have fallen ! True ! no reason why, 
 
 He also should. He's sure he can rely 
 
 On his own judg'ment when and how to act, 
 
 And these self pleasing thoughts are always back'd 
 
 By visions of superior strength of mind 
 
 And stern resolve ! Equally well defin'd, 
 
 Are groups of prudences and self-control, 
 
 And phantom fortitudes. This perfect whole, 
 
 By gossamer of good intent, and will, 
 
 Is neatly bound with most consummate skill, 
 
 And sounds in conversation like, the truth, 
 
 But meeting strong temptations rush in youth 
 
 "Will vanish ; and he tries to reconcile 
 
 His loss with fate, or may himself beguile, 
 
 With specious sophistry, or as he thinks, 
 
 Sound argument, till recklessly he sinks 
 
 Into a slough of intricate distress, 
 
 And perishes in utter hopelessness. 
 
 Quite wearied with reflection I despair, 
 
 And memory grows faint, when through the air, 
 
 Is borne the sound of old Sepulchre's chime, 
 
 Announcing mournfully the flight of time. 
 
 'Tis morning, four o'clock, the sound awakes, 
 
 Remembrances of death and recollection takes
 
 16 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 Another horrid form ! that solemn bell, 
 Reminds me of the wretched murd'rer's knell ! 
 The filthy hangman who adjusts the rope, 
 Still hesitates to loose the fatal drop 
 Till that has sounded ; now the agile mind 
 Flies on, leaves trial, sentence, all behind, 
 And vividly pourtray's my turn to die, 
 Fancy beholds the fatal moment nigh, 
 The slow procession leaves some quite unnerved. 
 I go, to meet my doom so well deserved, 
 The door of Newgate opens ! we are out, 
 I hear the roar of voices and the shout 
 Of rabble mirth, which greets my startled ears, 
 Staggering the soul with nerve-destroying fears, 
 I mount the steps, and faintly give around 
 My parting look on earth ! the shouts resound, 
 And then subside. A solemn hollow pause, 
 Succeeds this monstrous roar and this the cause,* 
 The thirsty blood-hounds cease, for fear the noise, 
 Should dissipate or perhaps obstruct the joys, 
 Which they anticipate in seeing me 
 In my death-struggle ; now I trembling see 
 Law's vilest functionary stand before 
 His prey ! I shudder, and can think no more, 
 But, like the Jewish king, turn to the wall 
 And try to pray to Him who orders all 
 The actions of his creatures here on earth. 
 Alas ! my prayer is smothered in its birth 
 By shame and fear ! 'Tis long since I have pray'd, 
 And now my wand'ring thoughts and words have 
 strayed 
 
 * This was actually the case when * suffered for his wife 
 and three children. I was there on that dreadful morning. No one 
 knew what I felt on that occasion.
 
 THE ABBIVAL. 17 
 
 Beyond my grasp ! Humbly I try to say 
 Our Lord's own Prayer, and my lips obey ; 
 But tremblingly my startled soul pours forth 
 Her prayers for mercy from the dreaded wrath 
 To come ; in poor, imperfect, broken cries, 
 "With heaving sobs and overflowing eyes, 
 Exhausted then the weary, harassed frame, 
 Sinks into slumber, or in slumber's name 
 Would fain seek rest, but still the hateful bed 
 Scares the refreshing sleep, and in its stead 
 A dozing dream of HOME ! Next blood appears 
 And then the naked scaring gibbet rears 
 Its lofty arm, and at my shrinking feet 
 A thousand hideous forms my visions greet, 
 Yelling and gibing with Satanic grin, 
 While loud above the fierce outlandish din 
 My hated name is heard with mocking cries ; 
 I wake and gaze around with straining eyes, 
 Trembling in agony. In these alarms 
 This dreary chamber even hath its charms. 
 I doze again, but still the feverish start 
 And half-closed eye betoken inward smart 
 Of soul at last the hazy dawn appears 
 And banishes with winter's night my fears ; 
 For it is daylight and to me relief; 
 Some of my horrors, like the sneaking thief, 
 Disperse, scared by the light of day ! Slowly 
 The sun appears, yet disdaining wholly 
 To gladden this abode of dire distress 
 Peeps in, as if to mock my wretchedness. 
 Now dreary Newgate by degrees awakes, 
 And from itself its gloomy slumber shakes, 
 Till morning service dull the hours drag on : 
 The Chapel then I enter, faint and wan,
 
 18 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 Some anxious thoughts of comfort from the word 
 
 Have roused my torpid self, some hope is stirred : 
 
 Poor sickly Hope ! I am the food for all 
 
 The staring looks and smother'd words which fall 
 
 From those around. My seat is placed apart, 
 
 Where deadly shame now fills my aching heart, 
 
 That I should be the worst of all this crew 
 
 Of fallen men, who furtively renew 
 
 Their sidelong glances at my guilty face, 
 
 So oft, that willingly I leave the place, 
 
 And eagerly I reach my room, for there 
 
 I've only one to witness my despair ! 
 
 But who can say how drearily the time, 
 
 With leaden wing, drops by when clogg'd by crime ! 
 
 That day pass'd on, and brought its dismal night,' 
 
 I felt an outcast and abandon'd quite ! 
 
 The prison rules were strict, no friend could see 
 
 That day the pris'ner, 'twas the law's decree ; 
 
 Tormented with a host of thoughts so drear 
 
 Of coming evils, and gigantic fear 
 
 Lest my poor babes have met with sudden ill, 
 
 And fresh alarms my harass'd bosom fill. 
 
 All I can do is still to offer prayer 
 
 (Such as it is) that God would kindly spare 
 
 Their baby heads, and let the wretch alone 
 
 Who caused the evil for the crime atone ! 
 
 As for myself all inward hope is lost ! 
 
 The timid soul, chill'd by the deadly frost 
 
 Of fell Despair, now mopes in silent woe, 
 
 That woe u-Jtich murderers alone can know. 
 
 The night wanes on, another morn arrives, 
 
 And with the morn my struggling soul derives 
 
 Throughout the horrors of my bitter grief 
 
 One ray of comfort to my great relief.
 
 THE ARRIVAL. 
 
 19 
 
 'Twas but a letter, but to those who wait 
 
 In deep suspense, with all its gloomy state, 
 
 'Twas welcome as the advent of Noah's dove, 
 
 Delightful messenger, from God above ! 
 
 It spoke of pardon for the guilty wretch 
 
 Who to his Saviour would his arms outstretch 
 
 In penitence, and trust to HIM alone, 
 
 Who e'en the dying thief did not disown ! 
 
 'Twas thou, * kind matron, who the missive wrought, 
 
 But 'twas God's Spirit who gave thee the thought, 
 
 And guided, though unseen, thy willing hand, 
 
 With Mercy's message from the spirit land. 
 
 A spark of Hope, just like the dawn's first ray, 
 
 Broke on my heart and gave the golden way. 
 
 I read and read again, and thought the news 
 
 Still sweeter fell, like gentle evening dews. 
 
 It spoke of sins, which, though of scarlet dye, 
 
 Through Jesus' blood could driven snow outvie, 
 
 But mine still seemed to wear the deepest stain 
 
 And through the Holy Book I range again 
 
 To find some passage that may suit us three, 
 
 "Manasseh/' and the " dying thief," and "me." 
 
 The miser, counting o'er his greedy pile, 
 
 With gloating eyes and trembling fingers, while 
 
 He fears to lose one grain, with joy distraught, 
 
 Was dull and slow compared to me, who sought 
 
 The pearl of price, the only fountain where 
 
 This blood-stained hand could cleanse this hateful 
 
 glare : 
 
 'Twould fail to tell the thousand doubts that rose 
 WTien trembling Hope her solace would expose ; 
 Haply the morning came and saw me firm, 
 Then night brought back the never-dying worm ! 
 
 * My friend's mother.
 
 20 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 The voice in sleep that spoke in mournful tone, 
 
 Or died away in distant, feeble moan ! 
 
 Not seldom have I heard her well-known voice, 
 
 And inwardly, in sleep, would oft rejoice 
 
 That all these horrors were a dream ! the past 
 
 A fearful vision, which not long would last, 
 
 And in my slumbers turn, and gently speak. 
 
 I wake ! Then have I felt each horror sneak 
 
 Fast round my beating heart, and chill the blood, 
 
 And drown my sleeping joys in their dark flood 
 
 Of misery most keen ! Oh ! dreary hours ! 
 
 When Memory would put forth her saddening powers, 
 
 When Memory, thou showman of the mind, 
 
 What messengers hast thou of ev'ry kind ! 
 
 A sound, faint as the far-,oflf tinkling bell, 
 
 Will bring a host of joys remember'd well, 
 
 Each rushing in and will be recognis'd ; 
 
 Each in its turn has once been dearly priz'd, 
 
 And now much more so ; but others receive 
 
 A heavy weight, thy wand cannot relieve : 
 
 Although fresh images thou bringest in, 
 
 Thou canst not move the load of grief and sin. 
 
 Shew me that dreadful hour ! shew me the whole 
 
 Of my dark mind, when Murder fiercely stole 
 
 To my distorted brain ! Long have I laid, 
 
 And with thee through that sad, dark evening stray'd. 
 
 'Tis chaos all ! Dark faces, shrieks, and cries, 
 
 And blood, and many thousand staring eyes 
 
 Glaring at me, some flying high in air, 
 
 But all on me still fix their savage stare, 
 
 And all are pointing, and with fury shout, 
 
 Then all is darkness 
 
 Now I have thee fast 
 
 Dark memory ! Since then I trace the past,
 
 THE ARRIVAL. 21 
 
 The streaming lantern, and the sudden shake, 
 
 The stern official, and the order " Wake ! " 
 
 I do awake, and in a prison cell ! 
 
 What avalanche of horrors quickly fell ! 
 
 Yet I had slept ! a prison rug thrown o'er 
 
 My loathsome form ! yet thus the wretch has slept, 
 
 And soundly too ! Alas, this scene has crept 
 
 Into my mind with abject, stealthy pace, 
 
 That e'en my dungeon walls might sadly trace 
 
 The vivid blush of shame that stain'd my cheek 
 
 When none were nigh ! If my lone cell could 
 
 What tales could it unfold of self-disgust ! 
 Of canker at the soul ! a filthy rust ! 
 Of rottenness ! a crawling sense of sin 
 Most loathsome 1 only to the fiends akin. 
 A grovelling thought to prostrate thus the mind 
 Of man below the beast ! yet so refin'd 
 And subtle are thy arts, Intemperance, 
 Each downward step serves but to enhance 
 Thy treach'rous joys ! The paltry coward seeks 
 Thy aid, and in his drunken valour speaks 
 Of doughty deeds, done by his mighty arm, 
 Which e'en a tale of goblins would alarm ! 
 The orator, and poet, sip from thee 
 In hope thy spell will set their fancies free 
 From this dull earth, and conjure in their brain 
 Some glorious image, or some lofty strain ; 
 The whining lover, dup'd by some false jade, 
 Hails with delight thy tempting profier'd aid, 
 And seeks in thee and Dissipation's snare 
 Some solace from the frowns of haughty fair; 
 The ruin'd tradesman, and the rake enthrall'd, 
 By Debt's foul web, or with usury gall'd,
 
 22 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 Drinks at thy fount, and in thy mocking voice 
 Hears melody, and drowns in thy loud voice 
 The cries of clam'rous duns (or thinks he does), 
 And tries to stifle mem'ry's inward throes. 
 Poor fools ! the morning brings the same old tale, 
 And added horrors to their own prevail ! 
 Then, blind Infatuation hears again 
 Thy honied whisper, thy deluding strain ; 
 Again the treach'rous glass is gaily toss'd, 
 And former horrors in its strength are lost ; 
 The social board resounds with laugh and jest, 
 And hollow mirth deceives the empty breast ! 
 The former bugbears which disturb'd their peace 
 Are food for laughter, and their woes decrease 
 Till morning dawns : and thus the endless round 
 Of unreal joys and grim Despair is found 
 Revolving still, till Death or workhouse door 
 Receives the slave, and he is seen no more. 
 Of all the servants of thy master, Death ; 
 Thou surely art the chosen, for thy breath 
 Is lov'd by all : the wretch worn down by care 
 Flies to thy arms and seeks to drown Despair 
 In thy embrace, and of thy draught drinks deep 
 To drown the images which round him creep. 
 His cry is still for more, and drinks again 
 To slay the tortures of his maddened brain, 
 Then crawls in rags another draught to crave, 
 And drops, an idiot, in some obscure grave. 
 Sometimes with joy, when long-lost absent friends 
 Gladly return, fond hearts would make amends 
 For pains of separation in the bowl 
 And festive mirth, and then each gladden 'd soul 
 Would happy be ; but thou, foul fiend, stalk'st iu 
 At once the joyous heart is changed within !
 
 THE ARRIVAL. 23 
 
 Some long-forgotten slight, perhaps, is named, 
 
 And ev'ry cause but drink is wrongly blamed ; 
 
 The hasty word and epithet arise, 
 
 And each, his friend, in fury then defies ! 
 
 The sword leaps from the scabbard and is cross'd, 
 
 Friendship and love in drunken rage are lost ; 
 
 The hand consigns its friend to sudden grave, 
 
 Whom in the morning he'd have died to save. 
 
 The wily libertine, with thy bright glass, 
 
 Seeks to betray the unsuspecting lass 
 
 Unus'd in thy imaginative arts, 
 
 And to the poison which thy fire imparts, 
 
 Her feeble mind, in glowing colours, views 
 
 The subtle offers which her foe renews ; 
 
 Bewilder'd, half unknowingly, she yields, 
 
 And, when betray'd, in thy bare bosom shields 
 
 Her blushing face in thy gay stream to drown, 
 
 The sting of mem'ry and the world's dark frown ; 
 
 The bloom of youth, which should display her charms, 
 
 Beholds her sinking in thy Master's arms. 
 
 The ruined inmates which around I see, 
 
 Ascribe their downward course, foul fiend, to thee ; 
 
 To thee belongs the palm ! thou art the cause 
 
 Although remote, which broke, for them, the laws ! 
 
 To them thou earnest in such a tempting shape, 
 
 That they ensnared ne'er ventur'd to escape ; 
 
 Lur'd on by thee, each new device they hail, 
 
 Till nothing checks them but this yawning jail ! 
 
 Where now, in vain, they impotently curse 
 
 Their headlong folly and their empty purse ; 
 
 Yet if their prison doors were open now, 
 
 How many at thy altar still would bow ! 
 
 Fresh from their prison to thy arms they'd run, 
 
 And end their ruin where it first begun !
 
 24 HOUHS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 Should any hapless wretch peruse these lines, 
 
 "Within whose breast some misery reclines, 
 
 Some grief, which, to the world cannot be told, 
 
 But which each year still twines its deadly fold 
 
 Around thy heart, to others never known, 
 
 But in thy bosom gnaws its way alone 
 
 Despising troubles, which to others seem 
 
 A load of ills ! to thee, a silly dream, 
 
 A childish shadow, which thy stronger mind 
 
 Would shame, were not this dark spot left behind, 
 
 Seek not with any vain debasing art 
 
 Of gay Intemperance to heal thy smart ! 
 
 Nor thou, poor wretch, who, buffetted along 
 
 By storms of mis'ry, render'd doubly strong, 
 
 By knowledge that thyself hast rais'd the gale 
 
 Which howls around, and filling ev'ry sail 
 
 Of thy poor shatter'd bark with hideous roar, 
 
 Threatens to hurl it on Destruction's shore ; 
 
 Be not like those who in the sinking ship, 
 
 Kiss the full bottle with their dying lip, 
 
 And fall desponding in the treach'rous wave, 
 
 Just as some outstretched hand was held to save ! 
 
 Nor thou, gay stripling, who hast just began 
 
 To be a beast, to prove thyself a " Man ! " 
 
 Boast not to other fools that thou hast kept 
 
 The bottle moving whilst thy comrades slept ! 
 
 Nor think in throbbing head, and bloodshot eyes, 
 
 And stagg'ring gait, a world of glory lies ! 
 
 Or stragg'ling home, 'twixt midnight and the morn, 
 
 Disturbing honest men to share their scorn ; 
 
 Think not thou art then on the road to Fame, 
 
 Tho' midst thy fellows thou may'st boast the name 
 
 Of merry comrade ! boon companion too ! 
 
 And for this flimsy praise wilt thou pursue
 
 THE ARRIVAL. 25 
 
 This ceaseless whirl of mock'ry which must fade, 
 
 Though ling'ring on, to haunt the wreck its made ; 
 
 Be wise in time, let these words fill thine heart, 
 
 " RELIGION. ONLY CAN TRUE JOYS IMPART!" 
 
 Religion is the pure and spotless spouse, 
 
 Intemperance the gaudy harlot ! Vain carouse, 
 
 Or drunken riot, or the stealthy glass, 
 
 Are Satan's snares, which other snares surpass 
 
 In wily cunning for thy fleeting soul. 
 
 What though the waves of worldly sorrow roll 
 
 Around thy luckless head, and all the ills 
 
 Of fallen man are thine ! when each day fills 
 
 Thy breaking heart with added weight of woes, 
 
 Religion ahcays can some help disclose, 
 
 No matter what thy cause of inward care, 
 
 Be it through crime or other's woes you share ; 
 
 Be it a wounded heart by love betray'd, 
 
 Or blasted hopes which slowly have decay'd, 
 
 Or sudden ruin thou could'st not prevent, 
 
 God, in religion, has a solace sent ! 
 
 Canst thou be worse than I, whoe'er thou arC? 
 
 An outcast murderer, with a broken heart ! 
 
 Bereft of all I dearly love on earth, 
 
 Of friends and those who owe to me their birth ; 
 
 No human heart have I in solitude 
 
 To tell my struggles with my fate so rude ! 
 
 One FRIEND I have, and HE the dearest one ! 
 
 Who, in the darkness, is my glorious sun ! 
 
 Who hears the story of my thousand cares, 
 
 And all my mis'ry with gladness shares ; 
 
 Who lifts the drooping spirit from the dust, 
 
 And kindly bids it to his mercy trust, 
 
 Who hails the contrite sinner with delight, 
 
 And cheers his broken heart with the glad sight
 
 26 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 Of His dear form and that poor wounded side, 
 Where even murderers their face may hide, 
 And in the flowing stream from that dear breast 
 Be washed from crime and share eternal rest ; 
 Who with the lonely pris'ner oft will dwell, 
 And fill with happiness his whitewashed cell ; 
 Who lifts the heart from all the joys of earth 
 To REAL happiness, of nobler worth ; 
 Who, smiling, holds His loving gracious arms 
 To shield the wand'rer from this world's alarms ; 
 Who kindles in his heart so bright a flame 
 Of trusting love, consuming guilty shame, 
 That prison walls are air ! captivity a name ! 
 Who warms the bosom with a gentle glow, 
 Of sweet delight, and bids the heart o'erflow 
 With deepest gratitude and love combin'd, 
 And with delightful visions fills the mind, 
 That the glad soul should sing from morn till eve 
 With joy and rapture where it once would grieve ; 
 And, from a quiet prison cell's retreat, 
 Pity the world still struggling at his feet ! 
 Toiling and fretting for the fleeting dross, 
 And all the bubbles which to gain is loss. 
 The never-ending harass of their lives, 
 Is fed on hoped-for bliss which ne'er arrives, 
 Their joy exists at most a few brief years, 
 And then begin again their hopes and fears ; 
 Fresh gew-gaws next they strive in vain to reach, 
 The past no lesson to their mind can teach ; 
 Still struggling on they toil and miss the main, 
 The only happiness they might obtain ; 
 Religion is that blessing rich in peace, 
 That can the anxious from their cares release.
 
 THE ARRIVAL. 
 
 This once (in truth) possess'd, the soul looks down 
 
 On earthly pleasures and the world's renown ; 
 
 His eyes are fixed on those undying joys 
 
 Which well reward the loss of earthly toys ! 
 
 He calmly waits the moment of release, 
 
 When he with other saints shall dwell in peace ; 
 
 Where all the troubles of this world are o'er, 
 
 And sorrow's plaintive wail is heard no more ! 
 
 Seek thou THIS PEARL, enshrine it in thine heart, 
 
 And, firmly seated, it will ne'er depart : 
 
 'Twill be thy truest friend in youth or age, 
 
 Whatever conflicts may thy soul engage ; 
 
 Be warned by one who many joys has seen, 
 
 In this proud city in its brightest sheen ; 
 
 The pomp of royalty, a glitt'ring crowd 
 
 Of titled nobles who in homage bow'd ! 
 
 The mightiest warriors of the present day 
 
 Have passed in state along in grand array ; 
 
 The flow of eloquence or sparkling wit, 
 
 The proud patrician, or the well-fed cit. ; 
 
 Old England's geniuses I've seen and heard, 
 
 And dwelt with rapture on each flowing word, 
 
 As they in turn have listened or have spoke 
 
 The repartee so smart and lively joke ! 
 
 The midnight revel, or the social boards, 
 
 Such vain delights a life in town affords ! 
 
 The crowded play-house in temptation strong, 
 
 The gay saloon and its voluptuous throng, 
 
 The brilliant op'ra, and the ball-room rout, 
 
 The glitt'ring race-course, and the winning shout, 
 
 The stolen rendezvous, and masquerade, 
 
 Where guilty love has hid beneath its shade ; 
 
 The charms of music, or the song divine, 
 
 In endless variation have been mine : 
 
 B 2
 
 28 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 All that a reckless, daring, harass'd mind 
 
 Of miscall' d pleasure in this life could find 
 
 Was mine ; but still the jaded soul could feel 
 
 This round of gaiety was all unreal : 
 
 No solid happiness was e'er obtained, 
 
 Some gliding spectre still the banquet stained ! 
 
 Those hours which should have brought the purest joy 
 
 Were always tainted by some foul alloy 
 
 Belonging to the past or future day, 
 
 And so life's current slowly ebb'd away, 
 
 Till the avenging arrow swiftly came, 
 
 And sunk me to the lowest depths of shame. 
 
 There in the midst of self-engendered strife 
 
 I found the ONLY treasure in this life, 
 
 And which was always at my hand ; yet I 
 
 Pursued a phantom for the peace so nigh. 
 
 Whoe'er thou art that now these lines may read, 
 
 Examine well thy heart, and take good heed 
 
 Thy steps are firm, that thou the pearl hast found, 
 
 Lest to thy ear the harsh unwelcome sound 
 
 Of gloomy Death should suddenly be brought, 
 
 Then wilt thou miss the hope thou should' st have sought 
 
 In davs gone by, and then this warning will 
 
 Rise in thy mind and all excuses kill ! 
 
 Nor think because thou'rt not so vile as I, 
 
 Thou raay'st, perchance, on some good deeds rely ; 
 
 Or in MORALITY may take thy stand, 
 
 And wait admittance to the promised land ; 
 
 Or trust to saints long dead to plead thy cause, 
 
 Or rev'rend monk to move his pious jaws 
 
 For thy lost soul, when thou art once accursed, 
 
 To say the pray'rs thou should'st have said at first ; 
 
 Dare not insult the Majesty of God, 
 
 Who gave his SON to save thee from the rod ;
 
 THE TRIAL. 29 
 
 Through HIM alone and in His holy name 
 In humble penitence put forth thy claim : 
 There stands the Cross, in faith lift up thine eye 
 And hold the hope of them that never die. 
 For 1, within the shadow of the tomb, 
 Foretell to thee thy fast approaching doom. 
 Brave not the voice of God which stirs within, 
 Go to the fount and cleanse thyself from sin : 
 That sacred form was crucified for thee, 
 If thou reject it, whither canst thou flee ? 
 In vain are bowlings of the fiends in hell, 
 So take this teaming from a prison cell ! 
 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 THUS day succeeded day, a dismal chain 
 
 Of weary hours, each linked by mental pain : 
 
 Sometimes the friendly visit would disperse 
 
 The hideous gloom, the mind would then rehearse 
 
 Each look or accent it had seen or heard, 
 
 The cheering glance, the tender parting word ; 
 
 Oft, through the lattice-work, which stood between 
 
 My face and theirs, have I beheld the keen 
 
 And anxious glance they strove in vain to hide, 
 
 By cheering words which their sad face denied, 
 
 Yet they have tried to deck it with a smile 
 
 Of threadbare hope my sorrows to beguile : 
 
 Alas ! the tremor of their voice b^tray'd 
 
 To me how deep this heavy burden laid 
 
 At their fond hearts ! the pallid quiv'ring lip, 
 
 Or smothered sigh, would in a moment strip 
 
 The well-meant mask from each dear face ; then stole, 
 
 Unconsciously, the tear in grief of soul !
 
 30 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 The wistful glance at parting, when the eye, 
 
 Strained to the last my features to descry, 
 
 Remains upon my mind's fond thought till now, 
 
 And will continue wheresoe'er I go. 
 
 But ah ! how bitter was the fear to me, 
 
 That I had oped the floodgates of this sea 
 
 Of lasting misery on all so dear, 
 
 On those I love, on those I still revere. 
 
 Who can foretell th' effects of that one blow ? 
 
 Who can describe the catalogue of woe ? 
 
 And future sorrows which may yet entail? 
 
 What unborn anguish time may yet unveil ! 
 
 Society's is like a vast machine, 
 
 Some parts of which are dress'd in gold and green 
 
 With outward show, while uncouth hidden wheels 
 
 Produce the motion which the framework feels : 
 
 If but a simple cog is once displac'd 
 
 By ruthless hand, how soon a dreary waste 
 
 Of desolation may be seen around ! 
 
 Then, midst the crash, some skilful hands are found 
 
 With loving hearts, who, Amongst the ruins try 
 
 To build a smaller edifice, and dry 
 
 The tears of those who yet are left behind : 
 
 And in this gen'rous act the workmen find 
 
 Their own reward ! each Christian's breast is cheerM 
 
 By knowledge that his soul is thus endear' d 
 
 To HIM who orders all ; and here, alas ! 
 
 All human aid must cease, whate'er may pass 
 
 Within the hearts of those who still must giieve 
 
 In silent woe ; these hands cannot relieve 
 
 Nor heal the wounds they share with him who made 
 
 A desert where fond hearts had once pourtrayed 
 
 A smiling landscape, and an autumn clear 
 
 From worldly harass in some future year ;
 
 THE TRIAL. 31 
 
 These withered hopes will still remain to prove 
 
 Within their hearts how lasting was their love. 
 
 All these, unseen, with melancholy strive, 
 
 Though other cares may fade, these will survive; 
 
 No friendly hand with utmost skill can heal 
 
 The gnawing pain so many deeply feel : 
 
 A thousand various scenes the mind will raise, 
 
 And bend on each a lingering hopeless gaze 
 
 Of what might have been realized, had not 
 
 This gloomy cloud overspread his future lot ! 
 
 For all these ruin'd hopes, I've keenly felt 
 
 For each fond heart, in bitterness I've knelt 
 
 In constant pray'r that God would give them strength 
 
 With me to struggle thro' this weary length 
 
 Of deepest anguish, and of inward care, 
 
 Without God's help, too much for man to bear ! 
 
 Mysterious future ! who can penetrate 
 
 The veil of sorrows or of joys which wait 
 
 My onward course ! Some distant day may dawn 
 
 And add fresh griefs to those already borne ! 
 
 Some dreadful stroke in wisdom may be sent, 
 
 Which no far-seeing friendship could prevent ! 
 
 This rebel heart another blow may need 
 
 Before it can be called the Lord's indeed ! 
 
 Those HE receiveth HE must needs chastise, 
 
 And through affliction's waters reach the skies; 
 
 Or, haply, some kind solace may be brought, 
 
 Which my poor spirit ne'er had hop'd or sought ; 
 
 Some glad delight may cheer my aged head, 
 
 And love and friendship yet their joys may spread 
 
 Around some lowly fireside, hid from all 
 
 The noise of cities and the judgment-hall, 
 
 Where loving eyes may watch my wrinkled face ; 
 
 Where Death is creeping with her stealthy pace ;
 
 32 HOURS IN NEWGATE. 
 
 A few fond hearts the world's disdain may brave, 
 
 And kindly follow to the peaceful grave 
 
 The silent ashes of a long-lov'd friend, 
 
 Whose woes by pitying heaven have an end. 
 
 Some faithful heart, at misery who weeps, 
 
 May raise a tomb 'neath which the murd'rer sleeps. 
 
 Or, in Almighty wisdom's just decree 
 
 The fate I dealt may yet return to me. 
 
 Some fatal moment may behold me low, 
 
 Struck to the earth by God's avenging blow ; 
 
 Some fearful accident, or ocean tomb, 
 
 Or other shape may sudden death assume. 
 
 Most solemn thought ! within an instant die, 
 
 And stand before the throne of God on high ! 
 
 A pardon'd sinner, aye, with him to dwell ! 
 
 Or blood-stain'd rebel, doom'd to groan in hell ! 
 
 What sayest thou my soul ? art thou prepar'd 
 
 To meet thy God ? are all thy sins declared 
 
 To HIM who knows them all ? who can alone 
 
 Redeem thee from thy doom : who can atone 
 
 For all that thou hast done ! Dost thou believe ? 
 
 Or dost thou but thy wicked self deceive ? 
 
 With fancied hopes for pardon for the past ? 
 
 Dost live as though each moment were thy last ? 
 
 Art thou still striving for the golden crown ? 
 
 Are all thy errors at the cross laid down ? 
 
 Is thy base heart opposed to thee as such ? 
 
 Canst thou trace Sin, in ev'ry worldly touch ? 
 
 Dost fear that tears, although thou weep'st a flood, 
 
 Can never save thy soul ? That Jesu's blood, 
 
 And that alone, can wash thy guilt away? 
 
 Dost thou for his blest Spirit hourly pray 
 
 To hold thee up, lest thy deceitful heart, 
 
 Should, Judas-like, betray ? Wilt thou take part
 
 THE TRIAL. 33 
 
 With true Religion, midst the motley crew 
 
 Of harden'd sinners, who may oft renew 
 
 Their jibes and sneers at thee, and oft abuse 
 
 Thy gracious Lord ? Say, wilt thou always choose 
 
 Reproach for Jesus, and the world's foul scorn, 
 
 With joy, through love to him who once hast borne 
 
 Thy sins thy soul to save ? Wilt thou do this, 
 
 And watchful keep, so that thou ne'er may'st miss 
 
 One effort to proclaim the wondrous Cross ? 
 
 Though it should bring thee shame and worldly loss ? 
 
 If thou canst cling to this, then boldly stand, 
 
 Defying Satan and his fiendish band ! 
 
 Thy Lord will keep thee, and will hold thee up, 
 
 And mix His favour with thy bitter cup. 
 
 But if thou, like some recreant knave, draw'st back, 
 
 And slid'st, like Demas, to thy former track, 
 
 Thou knowest well, my soul, what pains await 
 
 No Queen's reprieve can change thy future state. 
 
 Down on thy knees, and pray for grace from high, 
 
 Lest thou should'st fall, and, in thy falling, die ; 
 
 Lay bare thy heart, keep Jesus for thy friend, 
 
 Then sleep in peace, and leave to HIM the end ! 
 
 At last the day so long expected came, 
 
 Stamped in my heart in blazonry of shame ! 
 
 What feelings strove within me as I saw 
 
 The solemn, last tribunal of the law 
 
 With gloomy presage ; shadow of the past, 
 
 For life or death the die will soon be cast ; 
 
 But not for me alone, another wretch 
 
 Stands by, o'er whom stern Justice soon will stretch 
 
 Her sword, which, emblem, threat'ning hangs before 
 
 And warns the guilty of the fate in store,
 
 34 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 If thus, too clearly proved ! My luckless mate 
 
 Stands unconcerned, nor cares what ills await. 
 
 Deformed as well in body as in mind,* 
 
 No cares for death before nor blood behind. 
 
 How many eyes upon me bent their gaze, 
 
 As in my features some dark signs to trace ; 
 
 And, worse than all, that gentle women, too, 
 
 Should, in such scenes a morbid taste pursue. 
 
 Vile curiosity ! thou fatal bane ! 
 
 How many of the sex thy snare has slain ! 
 
 Parent of sin, of human race the curse, 
 
 First peeps, then dares, then falls from bad to worse ; 
 
 To things forbidden or exciting turns, 
 
 And common Prudence, as too common, spurns ! 
 
 And now the crier, while still silence hung, 
 
 The jury summons with stentorian lung 
 
 And tone monotonous ; each takes his place, 
 
 And tries to find his verdict in my face ! 
 
 (Or thus I think), as oft they scrutinize 
 
 My careworn visage, with intruding eyes : 
 
 The solemn Judge next takes his stately seat, 
 
 And busy counsellors mingle at his feet, 
 
 Unroll huge briefs, and proudly scan the court 
 
 With haughty gaze, with self-importance fraught, 
 
 With thoughts redundant in their teeming brain, 
 
 Tho' oft defeated, fall, to rise again ! 
 
 In wordy battle wrestle with the laws, 
 
 To save their client with some hidden clause, 
 
 And, to the last, the laws decree resist ! 
 
 Amongst the names which throng the guilty list 
 
 Mine foremost stands, and is the first arraigned : 
 
 I plead " Not guilty/' with my features stained 
 
 The Prisoner alluded to was humpbacked.
 
 THE TRIAL. 35 
 
 With burning shame : the trial now begins 
 
 For MURDER ! deepest, deadliest of sins ! 
 
 Fatal disturber of my soul's repose 
 
 On earth ! Now the opposing counsel rose 
 
 With frothy, legal flourish, and began 
 
 The leading features of my crime to scan, 
 
 With forcible exactness and with stress, 
 
 Which but increased my inward wretchedness. 
 
 The witnesses were called : friends of my youth 
 
 Compelled, alas ! to speak the dreadful truth ; 
 
 What misery for those who lov'd me well, 
 
 The horrid details of the deed to tell ! 
 
 With what reluctance came each fatal word 
 
 From their pale lips ; by me, with horror heard, 
 
 Almost extorted, by the Advocate 
 
 For Justice, for the dead ! At what quick rate 
 
 Their palpitating bosoms beat, are known 
 
 To me by that swift pulse which moved my own. 
 
 On each fond face I read the hopes and fears, 
 
 The anxious glance, quick darting through their tears 
 
 Before the Judge, whene'er some point would rise 
 
 Which hope would magnify to their fond eyes 
 
 In my behalf ! and then the sudden thrill 
 
 Of sad foreboding which would fiercely fill 
 
 Their gentle breasts, as the balance veered, 
 
 And all the worst in darker shades appeared. 
 
 Alas ! what dismal see- saw Mind had there, 
 
 From eager Hope to saturnine Despair. 
 
 And when the surgeon ! ah ! shut out his breath ! 
 
 Within that dock I died a double death ! 
 
 Her mangled form professionally laid 
 
 Before the court and I compelled to wade 
 
 Through all the dark minuteness of the blows 
 
 My ruffian hand had struck unheard of woes !
 
 36 HOURS IN NEWGATE. 
 
 Remorse, despair, foul shame, and misery keen ! 
 
 Welcome the gibbet, rather than this scene ! 
 
 Should some mad savage, 'neath a burning sun, 
 
 Or wild Malay, with frenzied poignard run 
 
 To such a deed, a thousand hands would rise, 
 
 And sweep the miscreant from beneath the skies. 
 
 And yet 'twas wretched I, whom some call man, 
 
 Then, man no longer, since fiend-like he ran 
 
 On helpless woman monster he became, 
 
 And monster was ! a man alone in name. 
 
 What loathsome feeling now pervades my breast, 
 
 And stinging shame again becomes its guest, 
 
 As now 1 hid, or tried to hide my face, 
 
 But still my soul read infamy, disgrace, 
 
 And scorn in ev'ry honest heart around. 
 
 Alas ! no greater cause could well be found, 
 
 In vain kind hearts would palliate the act, 
 
 And try the deeper horrors to extract 
 
 From this foul deed, by pointing to the cause ; 
 
 No cause should e'er have been, my conscience wars 
 
 Against this plea ; why from the man descend 
 
 To be the beast, nay, worse, the savage fiend ! 
 
 Myself I execrate and not the cup, 
 
 Though grief effeminate at times starts up, 
 
 And whines and gnashes at the odious snare. 
 
 Still all excuse is empty, vain as air. 
 
 Vainly my counsel, filled with eloquence, 
 
 Harangu'd the solemn twelve in my defence, 
 
 I'd heard enough I wish'd that all was o'er, 
 
 My life was ready, law could do no more, 
 
 Within the judge's cool collected eye, 
 
 I read my doom ! I felt condemned to die, 
 
 And reason, conscience, whisper'd " It is just, 
 
 Thy life for hers, whom thou hast vilely thrust
 
 THE TRIAL. 37 
 
 Into eternity." The counsel's loud harangue 
 
 Fell on my ears unheeded, for there rang 
 
 A loud alarum in my tortured mind 
 
 Of starving children I should leave behind ; 
 
 I would have given worlds to weep, to moan, 
 
 My wretched fate, my wife's, and their's alone. 
 
 The counsel ceas'd, a murmur of applause 
 
 Announced his task was o'er ! amidst the pause, 
 
 The judge with true forensic acumen summ'd up 
 
 The damning evidence and fill'd my cup 
 
 To over-flowing with the loathsome tale 
 
 O'er which I prayed for death to draw the veil ! 
 
 Then came suspense, that many edged sword, 
 
 Future's abortion, by all men abhorr'd, 
 
 Despair and hope combined a nauseous draught, 
 
 Which all in turns in bitterness have quafPd, 
 
 A sinuous reptile with chameleon hues 
 
 Protean demon which the mind pursues 
 
 Through ev'ry chamber of the halls of thought 
 
 Wherein their varying tints are swiftly brought : 
 
 First, rosy hope, enlivening the whole, 
 
 And for a moment lifting up the soul ; 
 
 Then vanishing, while dark despair holds sway, 
 
 That fell magician hope must fain obey; 
 
 Then, when the soul is plunged in deepest gloom, 
 
 Like sickly moonbeams o'er some haunted tomb. 
 
 HOPE darts again, and then again is lost, 
 
 As wretched seamen in their barque are toss'd, 
 
 One moment in the air the vessel rides, 
 
 Then like an arrow sinks midst mountain tides. 
 
 How many aching hearts hung on one word 
 
 In keen intensity of HOPE deferr'd 
 
 " Guilty or Not " the crier now demands, 
 
 " And expectation on her tiptoe stands,"
 
 38 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 The e'er-strained eye, the quickly heaving breast, 
 
 The mournful sympathy of all attest, 
 
 " GUILTY " the verdict, and the smother'd shriek 
 
 Of pitying listeners their compassion speak. 
 
 Now through the judgment hall nor breath nor noise 
 
 Of timid whisper sounds ! The judge's voice 
 
 In solemn accents, breaks the stilly air, 
 
 With cypress garland crowns the fiend despair. 
 
 E'en at that moment memory's far off chime. 
 
 Rang in my ears some notes of by-gone time, 
 
 When I as mimic judge had set o'er fools, 
 
 And hung the table with forensic rules ; 
 
 With mock heroics as the laws high priest, 
 
 And mix'd the forum with the jovial feast, 
 
 With studied gravity my sentence gave, 
 
 And seal'd the verdict with judicial wave 
 
 Of jewell'd finger as the fine I drew 
 
 Amidst the laughter of the giddy crew. 
 
 Alas, how changed the scene no mockery here, 
 
 Too true the gibbet and the murd'rers bier ! 
 
 No loud applause from jovial comrade greets 
 
 My joyous ear no laughing visage meets 
 
 My sparkling eye ! The clear and solemn breath 
 
 Of laws dread umpire, speaks its sentence, " DEATH 
 
 Hang'd by the neck," alas ! the horrid thrill 
 
 Which I felt then, vibrates within me still 
 
 As I remember how my blood ran cold, 
 
 While all the details of my doom were told ; 
 
 How glad was I when I my room regain' d, 
 
 And all my pent up feelings unrestrain'd 
 
 Burst forth in words to those I fondly lov'd, 
 
 For ever from my sight to be remov'd. 
 
 Quick flew the pen and fill'd the ample sheet, 
 
 'Twas some relief, their eyes my woes to meet,
 
 THE REPRIEVE. 39 
 
 Though they, alas, already fill'd the skies 
 
 With bitter wailings and despairing cries ! 
 
 Sad was the night of that eventful day, 
 
 Though in my dungeon I could still pourtray, 
 
 From house to house the fatal tidings borne, 
 
 And ev'ry loving heart with anguish torn ; 
 
 My aged sire with upturned eyes I saw, 
 
 Resigned to holy will, for 'twas his law, 
 
 The loving pair who once the stripling rear'd, 
 
 To whom the nephew still remained endear'd, 
 
 In spite of all my vices wept for me, 
 
 Who oft in childhood climb'd their yielding knee ; 
 
 My father's heart, deep-stricken by despair, 
 
 My brothers who their sisters sufferings share, 
 
 Like lightning flashes darting through the night, 
 
 Each friendly bosom bared before my sight 
 
 Its inward grief. Ah ! wretchedest of men, 
 
 To feel so many hearts were bleeding then 
 
 Tor one degraded and as lost as I. 
 
 For wicked me now gazed the frenzied eye 
 
 Around for hope no matter whence it came, 
 
 So that 'twas brought in hope's upholding name ! 
 
 Then one by one I saw them seek for rest, 
 
 And try with sleep to cheat the aching breast, 
 
 Until the morn which might some solace bring, 
 
 For then I tried to threadbare hope to cling, 
 
 While on my couch night spread her sable wing. 
 
 THE REPRIEVE. 
 
 My hour is named ! Death's messengers are gone ! 
 But fourteen days and then a world unknown ! 
 Farewell for ever to my native earth, 
 E'er thirty summers numbered from my birth !
 
 40 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 'Tis just; and yet how sad this loathsome end, 
 
 My ghastly eyes unclos'd by gentle friend; 
 
 No weeping children gather round my bed, 
 
 No sister's care shall soothe my dying head, 
 
 No matron's skill the stiffening limb shall lay, 
 
 While feeble tapers shed their faintest ray ; 
 
 No watchful eye shall take its farewell view 
 
 Of my sad dust, and bid a last adieu ; 
 
 No fingers soft my shriyell'd hand shall press, 
 
 No fond embrace my aged form caress ; 
 
 No kindred dear shall follow to the grave, 
 
 The one long lov'd they vainly tried to save ; 
 
 Nor to my tomb in after years may hie, 
 
 No stone relate my death to passers by. 
 
 Ah, yes, unwittingly my grave I've seen, 
 
 Amidst the passages which intervene 
 
 Betwixt the judgment hall and my sad room, 
 
 A narrow archway shrouded deep in gloom, 
 
 Reveals the tombs of all the gibbet's dead, 
 
 Midst which their doom'd successors fain must tread. 
 
 One small initial marks the loathsome spot, 
 
 Where murder in her charnel house must rot. 
 
 I marvelled why my keeper hasten'd by, 
 
 Nor gave response to my enquiring eye, 
 
 As through the lonesome avenue we paced, 
 
 Sad resting place for men although debas'd. 
 
 Soon shall my letter blotch the charnel wall, 
 
 And my dark body fill the ghostly hall; 
 
 Soon shall some shudd'ring curious eye be told, 
 
 Who lies beneath, beside his brethren cold. 
 
 In my vicissitudes I've mixed with men 
 
 In halls palatial and in murky den ; 
 
 In midnight riot heard the frenzied howl, 
 
 With quiet grey beard mingled cheek by jowl ;
 
 THE REPRIEVE. 41 
 
 With folly laughed, anon with sorrow wept, 
 
 On many a thorny couch Fve often slept. 
 
 But in my roving mind no thought would creep 
 
 With this dark brotherhood I e'er should sleep. 
 
 This form so oft in tender love's embrace, 
 
 Shall mix with theirs, and share their resting place. 
 
 What hideous gathering, Pandemonium ring, 
 
 Could scarce a more unsightly vision bring. 
 
 But ah ! that thought brings back the seal again, 
 
 Which to eternity its eyes would strain, 
 
 And learn the secret death alone can tell, 
 
 Its future home, in heaven or in hell. 
 
 Ye philosophic drivellers sublime, 
 
 Who speculate with dreams and sport with time, 
 
 With subtle jargon mystify the soul, 
 
 Pronouncing chaos as its final goal. 
 
 Why this demur at parting from the clay ? 
 
 Why is my soul reluctant to obey ? 
 
 Sad is this death, yet if it hides the whole, 
 
 It should be welcome to the harass' d soul. 
 
 Why not remorseful melt away in tears, 
 
 And in oblivion drown these thousand fears ? 
 
 If this frail tenement alone has sinn'd, 
 
 Then let it suffer, cast it to the wind, 
 
 So let its tortures make the past serene, 
 
 And with the gibbet end the dismal scene 
 
 A sign while grimly dangling in the air, 
 
 That crime and punishment are ended there. 
 
 Vain ideality not all the race 
 
 Of philosophic scoffers man can trace, 
 
 From lofty Sadducee in holy page, 
 
 To modern infidels of later age, 
 
 Have any solid argument to stay 
 
 The startled mind while nature fades away;
 
 42 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 Whilst man (proud spirit) free and uncontrolled, 
 Can tread his native dust, though blind, yet bold. 
 He boasts his wisdom, and can well arrange 
 Creation's story, which to some seems strange ; 
 By regulations eloquent and terse, 
 Which in his judgment guides the universe ; 
 Distorts the truth, or else the whole denies, 
 And boldly names it well concocted lies ; 
 Looks on the Christian as of feeble mind, 
 A harmless specimen of weak mankind ; 
 Pities the creature, and with hidden jeer, 
 Derides that Saviour whom His saints revere ; 
 Smiles at religion as a vain pretence, 
 And boasts at heart of his superior sense ; 
 Demands of Christians, " If so well beloved, 
 " Why are not sorrows from their path removed ? ' 
 And mocks at miracles from God's own hand, 
 Which ne'er were meant for him to understand. 
 Let but the grave extend its ready jaw, 
 How soon this boastful courage 'gins to thaw; 
 Poor stifled conscience then begins to wake, 
 And all its thunders in his ear to shake : 
 Some strange misgivings pass in dim review, 
 That Christian hope may after all be true ! 
 Then proud philosophy is called, dismay'd, 
 Who creeps in threadbare garment to his aid, 
 And fain would struggle like a wounded snake, 
 And to the last some futile effort make ; 
 'Till the duped soul no longer will be fool'd, 
 And mourns the folly which so long has rul'd : 
 Then pleads with agony for some delay, 
 Some time to think, a month ! a week ! a day! 
 Struggles in vain some middle course to shape, 
 And through some avenue would fain escape
 
 THE REPRIEVE. 43 
 
 From all the fury of a Saviour's wrath, 
 
 But Death's attendants fasten ev'ry path. 
 
 The rolling eye looks round in vain for time, 
 
 The awe-struck ear receives hell's dismal chime; 
 
 The spirit flutters at the gate of breath, 
 
 Then leaves the clay an offering for death ; 
 
 The stiff'ning fingers grasp the coverlid, 
 
 While with the fiends the tortured soul is hid. 
 
 Come ye who still deride a Saviour's love, 
 
 Despising warnings which the stones might move, 
 
 Come, stand in Newgate, count the rolling hours, 
 
 And try their worldy wisdom 'gainst the pow'rs 
 
 Of certain death and gloomy hell combin'd, 
 
 And weigh them jointly in the startled mind ; 
 
 Come forth gaunt usurer come thou whited wall, 
 
 The wide- world's clog, the pest of Leadenhall ! 
 
 Foresee thy fate, one moment stand with me, 
 
 And see death leering 'neath the gibbet tree ! 
 
 Where now thy shining dross, thy bulky purse, 
 
 Filled with thy schemings, and the spendthrift's curse, 
 
 Who must perforce seem to believe thy lies, 
 
 While smother' d scorn is gleaming from his eyes ; 
 
 Where now the issue of a lifetime's pains, 
 
 Thy closely hoarded wealth, thy pent up gains. 
 
 Those shrivell'd fingers which thy god would clutch, 
 
 Must play with worms within thy narrow hutch ; 
 
 Thy gloating eyes which glisten on thy gold, 
 
 No more with rapture shall their joy behold ; 
 
 The fawning tongue no more proclaim the tale, 
 
 " You know my terms, the money or the gaol !" 
 
 Soon shall thy hoards become the legal prey, 
 
 Of wasteful heirs who lavish day by day 
 
 Thy ill- got gains to sweeten all the past 
 
 And thank their stars that thou art gone at last.
 
 44 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 Where now thy houses and* the mortgage deed. 
 
 Torn from some starvling in his direst need ? 
 
 Where now the signature thou loved'st to view, 
 
 Of some sure placeman in the 1. 0.1 1, ? 
 
 Not all thy glittering dust in mountains piled, 
 
 Can make the King of Terrors reconciled ! 
 
 His dart unerring at thy heart is laid, 
 
 Now ask thy soul is its full ransom paid : 
 
 If not, go howl beneath the wrath divine, 
 
 And curse the hour ye knelt at Mammon's shrine. 
 
 And thou his dupe who barterest life away, 
 
 For its false glare would'st sell eternal day, 
 
 Who seek'st at any price the sordid pelf, 
 
 To bring destruction on thy wretched self ! 
 
 Where now the nights in gay debauch laid out, 
 
 The noisy laughter and the vacant shout, 
 
 The " sparkling bowl," by Bacchanalian sung, 
 
 The jovial chorus which thy voice has rung, 
 
 The empty mirth that vanishes with morn, 
 
 Like painted harlot of her lustre shorn ? 
 
 Come hither spendthrift of thy treasure, Time 
 
 And to the edge of this dark chasm climb ; 
 
 Within the confines of this dismal room, 
 
 Anticipate the horrors of thy doom : 
 
 In death's embrace refill the flowing cup, 
 
 On hell's dark tortures bid thy conscience sup. 
 
 And thou, adulterer, where are now thy schemes ? 
 
 Thy guilt is fact, thou would' st it were but dreams. 
 
 Thy feet no more thy wretehed path pursue, 
 
 To scenes like this thou'st bid thy last adieu. 
 
 No more the fading twilight screens thy face, 
 
 Nor lamps nocturnal light thy culprit pace j 
 
 Thy form in wickedness so oft caress'd, 
 
 In death's dark panoply must soon be dress'd.
 
 THE REPRIEVE. 4.5 
 
 The slimy reptile for thy bosom mate, 
 
 Shall on thy breast in gloating dalliance wait; 
 
 No more the resting-place of shame and sin, 
 
 Where guilty thoughts were cherished long within. 
 
 Those arms the plaited shroud must soon embrace, 
 
 And worms shall fatten on thy fulsome face ; 
 
 That honied tongue which poisoned as it spoke, 
 
 No more shall filthiness in whispers cloak; 
 
 Nor shall it weave its subtle myths again, 
 
 Nor darken conscience with a hideous stain ; 
 
 Those lips that heaven once graced with promise fair, 
 
 Shall mutter soon some long- forgotten prayer ; 
 
 But then in vain the passing bell shall toll, 
 
 And fiends exulting seize thy shrinking soul. 
 
 And thou proud Pharisee with icy heart, 
 
 Who in disguise wouldst play the Christian's part, 
 
 To please the world the church must needs attend, 
 
 But thy Religion at the porch must end. 
 
 With pompous rattle help to fill the plate, 
 
 And scorn the sinner as beneath thy state. 
 
 Thou painted sepulchre thou dupe of hell 
 
 Who for the shadow would the substance sell ; 
 
 Of what avail thy shining broad-cloth now, 
 
 To which so many poorer fools would bow, 
 
 As thy sleek form, with stately strut, woiild march, 
 
 By pride inflated 'neath the sacred arch. 
 
 Thou base polluter of the Christian name, 
 
 At once the scoffer's and the Christian's shame. 
 
 " Look," cries the scoffer, " how he kneels and prays, 
 
 Yet scorns to stoop a fallen man to raise, 
 
 In stern morality enshrouds his face, 
 
 And shudders at the thought of such disgrace." 
 
 If this is tender love and Christian care, 
 
 Give me Humanity that all may share.
 
 46 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 That dainty hand, where jewell'd rings abound, 
 
 Was never meant to heal a poor man's wound, 
 
 Let some great name but head the printer's sheet, 
 
 How soon beneath, his glaring name you meet. 
 
 " Ah ! " cries the world, " how kind that man must be/' 
 
 Not so the Christian, who the cheat can see, 
 
 Who gives his mite in secret and unasked, 
 
 And sadly mourns religion thus is masked. 
 
 Of true Religion's enemies thou art, 
 
 In their chiefs hands a sure and poisonous dart ; 
 
 The wily serpent takes thee for his tool 
 
 To teach his dupes to enter hell by rule. 
 
 A man so moral sure can ne'er be wrong, 
 
 Most bright example, cries the blinded throng ; 
 
 With fulsome praise bedaub their Juggernaut, 
 
 Till Death in ambush has their idol caught. 
 
 Where now the trumpet thou was wont to blow ? 
 
 Of what avail thy loud alms-giving now ? 
 
 Thy fair-self-righteousness ? thy Sunday seat ? 
 
 Where, all but Christians, thou could' st easy cheat ? 
 
 Canst thou in thy good works a passport see 
 
 To heaven, when from thy dust the soul is free ? 
 
 Hast thou through all thy life, whate'er its length, 
 
 Loved God with all thy heart, and soul, and strength ? 
 
 And though thou didst bestow thy noisy pelf, 
 
 Did'st ever love thy neighbour as thyself? 
 
 Did'st ever feel within thy pompous breast, 
 
 Some soft emotion for the wretch distress'd ? 
 
 Did'st ever feel another's woes thine own, 
 
 And for his succour seek the holy throne ? 
 
 While from thine eye the pleading tear wo aid start, 
 
 Did Charity e'er dwell within thy heart ? 
 
 If thou had'st all the virtues ever known, 
 
 Without this one, thy heart is but a stone.
 
 THE REPRIEVE. 47 
 
 Could'st thou for Jesus clasp the burning stake, 
 
 And thus in heaven triumphant entry make ? 
 
 Not thou ! thy sanctimonious face would turn 
 
 To any God ! before a hair should burn. 
 
 'Twas not such stuff as thou that martyrs made, 
 
 No hypocrite e'er on the rack was laid. 
 
 Stand here in filthy rags of righteousness, 
 
 And let cold Death thy bloated form undress : 
 
 Where now thy works, thy gifts, thy upturned eye, 
 
 Thy string of horrors at the passer by ; 
 
 See where the tempter, who has thee beguil'd, 
 
 Clasps to his arms his sin-begotten child ! 
 
 Behold thy recompense deserved so well, 
 
 Go, share with hypocrites their deepest hell. 
 
 May God forfend such fearful doom for me, 
 
 Be witness all created, earth, and sea ; 
 
 Ye holy angels who in reverence bow, 
 
 "Whose spreading pinions hide each glorious brow, 
 
 Who with adoring homage bend the knee, 
 
 Before the Holy uncreated Three ; 
 
 Ye principalities and mighty powers, 
 
 Who share with saints the joy of endless hours ; 
 
 Ye host illimitable, who surround 
 
 The Great Eternal with unceasing sound 
 
 Of holy harmony in God's own hall, 
 
 Freed by the Lamb from Satan's hellish thrall : 
 
 Now let your souls with grateful ardour burn, 
 
 Be witness of the prodigal's return ; 
 
 Be witness that to Christ, and Christ alone, 
 
 He yields his soul no more to be his own, 
 
 But to be kept by God until that day 
 
 When worlds shall fade, and heaven shall pass away. 
 
 If Jesus, who on Calvary was slain, 
 
 Be not sufficient to erase this stain ;
 
 48 HOURS IN NEWGATE. 
 
 If there remains no virtue in his blood 
 
 To cleanse my soul from this dark crimson flood 
 
 Then let me perish, for to him I cling 
 
 To Him my crimes and all my sorrows bring ; 
 
 By Him alone content I stand or fall, 
 
 He gave me life, and He can give me all. 
 
 A week has gone ; but seven days remain, 
 
 Sweet Hope once came, but scared, soon fled again ; 
 
 One night, as on my sleepless couch I laid, 
 
 Around my heart, she, for a moment play'd, 
 
 Spoke of the future in the word " Repent," 
 
 And live, of grace, to be a monument : 
 
 Pleased with this thought, the jaded soul revived, 
 
 And for a moment on this nectar thrived. 
 
 "When heavy footsteps echoed in the night, 
 
 And 'neath my doorsill gleam'd a shaded light, 
 
 The sickening sound of shifting bolts and keys, 
 
 Brought down the hands, and shook the feeble knees. 
 
 Another wretch now enters o'er my head, 
 
 To this sad tenement by Murder led ! 
 
 Farewell to hope i 'tis lost in horror's flood, 
 
 Now Satan holds high carnival of blood : 
 
 Three wretched beings, who one time were men, 
 
 Now share the horrors of this dismal den. 
 
 One savage drunkard on his helpmate ran ; 
 
 One hunchback' d dotard slays his fellow-man ; 
 
 A third, his wife and children levels low, 
 
 In peaceful slumber strikes the deadly blow. 
 
 Not man alone his cup of guilt has fiii'd, 
 
 Two wretched women have their offspring killed. 
 
 Was ever such a list of horrors known ? 
 
 Poor Hope and smiling Mercy both have flown !
 
 THE REPUTE VE. 49 
 
 E*en soft-eyed Pity hides her gentle face, 
 
 And languidly forsakes the hateful place. 
 
 Now doubly hollow every sound appears, 
 
 Now rage again the multitude of fears, 
 
 Now gliding spectres fill the loathsome hall, 
 
 And ' ' blood for blood " is written on the wall. 
 
 Loud laugh the fiends ! with hellish pleasure seized, 
 
 Insatiate Moloch even smiles, appeased: 
 
 High jubilee in hell triumphant reigns, 
 
 Demons one hour forget their fiery chains, 
 
 While mine are rivetted with tenfold force, 
 
 And fell Despair pursues his noisome course ; 
 
 "Within my heart, he, regal State maintains, 
 
 And, till the morn, his fearful power sustains ; 
 
 Throws o'er my soul his robes of gloomy jet, 
 
 And downward drags me deeper, deeper yet, 
 
 Till Mercy, weeping, turned aside the rod, 
 
 And to my dungeon sent the man of God ! 
 
 How beautiful the step of those who bring 
 
 The sounds of Peace from Zion's gracious King, 
 
 How bright the fountain whence those streamlets flow, 
 
 How sweet those tidings to the child of woe : 
 
 Nor is the Messenger forgot by me, 
 
 "Who, for the sinner, bent the prayerful knee, 
 
 Thy kindness in this heart remains till now, 
 
 Though guilt may brand this pallid aching brow j 
 
 Thou heard'st my tale of misery and shame, 
 
 And gave my sorrows Pity's willing claim, 
 
 Taught me to Christ to lift my tearful eye, 
 
 Showed me the cross, and taught me how to die. 
 
 Nor thou, true Christian, robed in Sheriff's garb, 
 
 "Who from my bosom tried to draw the barb, 
 
 Which conscience deep into my vitals thrust, 
 
 And laid my spirit helpless in the dust ; 
 
 c
 
 50 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 Who as a Christian would the wound explore, 
 And left proud dignity outside the door ; 
 Thy gentle voice still echoes in my ear, 
 And finds response where thou still art most dear : 
 Some day, when both have long forgotten me, 
 A voice shall reach you o'er the distant sea, 
 Some stricken wretch who has his Saviour found, 
 Shall to your ears proclaim the joyful sound, 
 And giving praise to whom the praise is due, 
 Though taught by me, shall send his thanks to you. 
 
 Swift fly the hours, still sweeter life appears, 
 For me now flow a boundless sea of tears ; 
 Unworthy me by one sad act to make 
 So many loving hearts to bleed and ache. 
 Now pale anxiety flows to and fro, 
 In search of hope yet knows not where to go, 
 Reckons each moment, counts the fleeting hours, 
 Defying sleep to exercise its powers. 
 Fast beat their hearts, quick fly their agile feet, 
 Petitions now the royal vision greet ; 
 Mercy abashed still hides her drooping head, 
 While for her presence many a prayer is shed : 
 Some glad report at times their ear may reach, 
 Like most reports its impotence to teach ; 
 Meanwhile my dungeon witnesses my sighs, 
 My silent prayers, my ever up-turned eyes. 
 To me the trifling pang of death is nought, 
 'Tis after death which fills the soul with thought. 
 Like gamesters who stake all on one last throw, 
 Bankrupt or Croesus from the table go, 
 So have I staked my all on him who died. 
 Who for the sinner shows his wounded side ;
 
 THE REPRIEVE. 51 
 
 There stands my plea, and there my trust remains, 
 
 Still unbelief at times in triumph reigns, 
 
 Finds out some flaw and down my castle throws, 
 
 And shows a future formed of endless woes ; 
 
 Now longs the soul for Christ and yet would fain, 
 
 A little longer on this earth remain ; 
 
 One moment anxious joyous to be gone. 
 
 The next drawn backward by this heart of stone : 
 
 Thus vaccillates the mind throughout each day, 
 
 By turns in hope, then to despair a prey. 
 
 The shrill toned bell proclaims the flight of time, 
 
 As if in haste how clearly falls each chime, 
 
 No leaden wing now fastens on his side, 
 
 But fast and lengthy is each giant stride. 
 
 Soon will my sands, already counted, . pass, 
 
 Soon will be seen the useless empty glass. 
 
 One fearful trial yet awaits my soul, 
 
 Like burning diadem to crown the whole, 
 
 My children from their father must be torn, 
 
 Four orphan wanderers through the world to mourn. 
 
 Soon will the moment come when in my sight, 
 
 For one brief hour they torture yet delight, 
 
 And then for ever leave their wretched sire, 
 
 And with their exit bid all hope expire. 
 
 Alas, the suit for mercy has not thrived, 
 The last sad hour of parting has arrived, 
 The outer gate is opened and the throng 
 Of anxious kindred trembling move along : 
 I see them coming, and I fain would fly 
 To each embrace, and while embracing die. 
 But oh ! what misery in each sad face, 
 How clearly I the work of grief can trace; 
 
 c2
 
 52 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 In that brief glance I saw the harass'd mind, 
 Where poignant woe had left its seal behind. 
 With funeral step they cross the gloomy yard, 
 Each intervening door I hear unbarr'd ; 
 They enter, and the searching glance around 
 Is followed by deep sorrow's wailing sound. 
 Each clings to me as though their hand could save, 
 Their guilty kinsman from his yawning grave. 
 No word of murmur or of harsh reproach 
 Nor gentle censure on my ears encroach 
 No sounds but pitying love tho' clothed in grief, 
 That their fond hearts could bring me no relief. 
 E'en now they talked of Hope, and would not hear 
 My weak apology for every tear 
 That on this shipwreck I had caused to flow 
 For having heaped this avalanche of woe. 
 There stood my aged grandsire bathed in tears, 
 The loving guardian of my infant years ; 
 There stood his son who loved me as his own, 
 Whom this sad scene had petrified to stone ; , 
 And there my gentle aunt who tried to soothe, 
 The hapless wretch she'd loved from early youth : 
 These reared the outcast once their joyous pride, 
 Now like some monster to the fiends allied ; 
 And yet they lov'd him still, not all the shame 
 Could break that band or weaken pity's claim. 
 There stood my father, weeping o'er his boy, 
 His eldest offspring, once his brightest joy. 
 Blest be that God who took my mother first, 
 Ere this sad drama on her vision burst, 
 Or twice the passing bell would sadly toll, 
 I then should have two murders on my soul. 
 And there my brothers gazing on my face, 
 With straining eyes each lineament to trace
 
 THE REPRIEVE. 53 
 
 How keen the stab sharp mem'ry gave me then, 
 
 Of bad example I had set to them. 
 
 Close to my side my darling sisters clung. 
 
 And on their ruffian brother's bosom hung ! 
 
 Wiped off the tears that left my blood-shot eyes 
 
 With tenderest cares, and thus their woes disguised. 
 
 There stood my friend, God knows how great a friend, 
 
 From sad commencement to this fatal end : 
 
 Careworn he gaz'd, though clinging fast to Hope, 
 
 Nor yet despaired to save me from the rope. 
 
 And here those loving souls who knew the lad 
 
 With buoyant heart, with spirits ever glad ! 
 
 Whose merry laugh had shook their jocund walls, 
 
 Whose joyous songs had filled their welcome halls, 
 
 Whose mirthful story once was heard with glee, 
 
 Whose happy features 'twas their pride to see. 
 
 Their flowing tears spoke more than words could speak, 
 
 And wrote their story on each bloodless cheek. 
 
 Had these been all, it were enough to crush 
 
 The soul, and make it to destruction rush ; 
 
 Or wish for some dark sepulchre, alone 
 
 To yield convulsive one expiring groan. 
 
 But, see ! this childish group of weeping love, 
 
 Who, from my sight, stern Fate must soon remove : 
 
 Behold my eldest daughter's anxious face, 
 
 W^ho, barely comprehending this disgrace, 
 
 Mourns her poor mother ! yet for me still weeps, 
 
 As through her mind the fearful vision creeps 
 
 Of my sad death, while, sobbing on my breast, 
 
 Her panting bosom to my heart she press'd, 
 
 And cried, " Dear father, I will always pray, 
 
 And love my sisters more and more each day ; 
 
 Don't fret, my father, for I love you too, 
 
 And wish that I could die instead of you
 
 54 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 My father ! oh, my father ! must you die ? 
 
 Oh, my poor father \" and the anxious eye 
 
 Looked in my own, and spoke a world of love, 
 
 Then both alike impelled to God above 
 
 Our vision turned ; and though no sound was heard, 
 
 Our beating hearts pronounced the imploring word, 
 
 That both might meet in yonder peaceful sky, 
 
 And with her mother live no more to die ! 
 
 My second infant held my feverish hand, 
 
 And though unable all to understand, 
 
 Yet her full eyes shed forth their briny flood, 
 
 As 'twixt my knees in helplessness she stood ; 
 
 Some lurking horror of the loathsome place 
 
 In her young heart my eye could sadly trace : 
 
 We gazed bewildered midst the thick'ning gloom, 
 
 Which filled each face and clothed the dreary room : 
 
 That loving bosom, erst no care had known, 
 
 Was now the soil where grief *s dark seeds were sown ; 
 
 That smiling mouth, which prattled once with love, 
 
 Was now transfix'd, save when her lips may move 
 
 In lisping accents, as in tears she bears 
 
 Some childish solace to her sister's ears. 
 
 But they, sweet babes, knew not the dreary tale 
 
 Of guilt and sorrow which must soon prevail ; 
 
 Their infant hearts knew not their cruel loss, 
 
 No fearful future yet their eyes engross, 
 
 Clasped in my arms, their little sparkling orbs 
 
 Peered in my face, nor knew what woe absorbs 
 
 The writhing bosom of their guilty sire, 
 
 While each endearment fuel adds to fire. 
 
 Alas ! they knew me not much less my grief, 
 
 Unhappy father ! death would be relief; 
 
 Those tiny forms which once my vision cheered, 
 
 Cooed in my face, and stroked their father's beard
 
 THE REPRIEVE. 55 
 
 In playful innocence, now did the same, 
 
 But knew not he who bore a father's name ; 
 
 In bitter agony I looked around, 
 
 While on my ear there fell the doleful sound 
 
 Of choking sobs, of smother' d grief and sighs, 
 
 As each read anguish in the others eyes. 
 
 I vainly sought for comfort, but despair 
 
 On ebon pinions filled the gloomy air, 
 
 And o'er his victims hovered, while below 
 
 Leered foul intemperance, cause of all this woe, 
 
 And in the darkest shade there stood the fiend, 
 
 Exulting in the horrors he'd convened ; 
 
 Pleased with his work, yet grudging death's delay, 
 
 He gloats with rapture o'er his wretched prey. 
 
 Ah ! what to me was public odium then 
 
 Or all the scribbling of censorious men ! 
 
 The whole vocabulary of abuse, 
 
 Which polished hirelings are allowed to use, 
 
 Like blunted arrows on the hardened skin, 
 
 Disturbed me not, the wound lay deep within j 
 
 The world's opprobium in its strongest force, 
 
 Is but a vapour to the worm remorse ! 
 
 When tried for life I wished that all was o'er, 
 
 Nor thought this wretched bosom could bear more ; 
 
 Then busy mind each sufferer's woe descried, 
 
 Now I beheld their woe personified : 
 
 Old age here writhed beneath this heavy load, 
 
 Which helped to force him further on his road ; 
 
 The frost of time, though it had clothed his brow, 
 
 Had ne'er been tinged with deadly shame till now ; 
 
 And manhood's prime now felt his courage reel, 
 
 Nor cared his manly sorrow to conceal. 
 
 The happy boy he'd carried many a mile, 
 
 And felt rewarded by his rosy smile,
 
 56 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 Must soon be swaddled in the hangman's shroud, 
 A legal scareceow to a lawless crowd ! 
 Her tender woman felt her heartstrings break, 
 That guilty form which quivered on her neck 
 Was still the same, who, many years before, 
 Hail'd with delight her summons at the door ; 
 Who eager ran, with nimble schoolboy pace, 
 To be the first to greet her smiling face. 
 Here gentle sisterhood and friendship wept, 
 And closer to each other sadly crept, 
 As if in union to discover strength, 
 To help them through this misery's sad length. 
 Huddled in groups my younger kindred gazed, 
 Each eye, alas ! by hopeless sorrow glazed ; 
 And here sweet childhood, shorn of rosy bloom, 
 Pale as the snowdrop, shiver' d in the gloom, 
 Heirs to the scandal of their sire's disgrace, 
 The world's poor pity, or its proud grimace ; 
 The broken heart, or every weary head, 
 Some short-lived Charity or workhouse shed : 
 This sad inheritance was doubtless theirs, 
 With all the female orphan's bitter cares. 
 This was their legacy ! most noble one ! 
 This was my work ! and well the work was done ! 
 If at that moment I had been alone, 
 My body to no gibbet would have gone ; 
 Oft did the tempter bring again this view, 
 And all its horrors to my soul renew ; 
 But God was good, his tender love prevail' d, 
 And sooth'd the anguish which my soul impaled. 
 All seem'd exhausted ! Grief enjoyed its scope, 
 Each trembling eye beheld the fatal rope. 
 One voice then rose defying dark Despair, 
 And broke the silence with the sound of prayer.
 
 THE REPRIEVE. 57 
 
 The holy accents of the man of God, 
 
 Rose for assistance 'neath this heavy rod, 
 
 His aid besought who ne'er was asked in vain, 
 
 To ease the weight of murder's dismal chain ; 
 
 To give all strength who suffered here with me, 
 
 To bow with reverence to his wise decree. 
 
 If Wisdom chose this bitter cup to drain, 
 
 Then might my soul in his dear hands remain ; 
 
 Yet if it pleased Him I should yet be spared, 
 
 To cheer the infant and the silver-hair'd, 
 
 Then would the humble praise of all arise, 
 
 And grateful blessings reach beyond the skies. 
 
 Whate'er the end our task was to obey, 
 
 And in submission wait the fearful day ; 
 
 The earnest supplication cease, and then 
 
 Each heart responded with a deep " Amen," 
 
 And now the gently opened door announced, 
 
 The last adieu on earth must be pronounced. 
 
 But all my soul's deep anguish who can tell, 
 
 As one by one each muttered the farewell : 
 
 The close embrace, the burning anxious eye, 
 
 The quiv'ring lip which feared to say " Good bye ;" 
 
 The slow reluctant step, the clay- cold hand 
 
 Of youthful love ! The tears of all the band 
 
 Poured forth again, and bathed each pallid face, 
 
 As, clothed in grief, they left the hateful place. 
 
 Some gentle hand amidst these friends so lov'd, 
 
 My helpless babes with tender care remov'd ; 
 
 One voice I heard behind the closing door, 
 
 " Me never see poor father any more." 
 
 That form I still can see, that voice I hear, 
 
 No form, nor voice, to this lone heart so dear ; 
 
 I to the window flew, and tried to speak, 
 
 But grief like mine left its poor slave too weak ;
 
 58 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 I saw them turn, and then could see no more, 
 
 Drunken with woe, I sank upon the floor. 
 
 Kind Mapperson, whoe'er shall read these lines, 
 
 Shall know, within thy bosom brightly shines 
 
 Dear Sympathy and sweet Compassion mild, 
 
 'Twas thou, kind heart, my wretched grief beguil'd ; 
 
 With fond solicitude and anxious care 
 
 In all my sorrows took the lion's share. 
 
 Thou prince of janitors ! I would that men 
 
 Proud in morality had seen thee then. 
 
 "Pis not forgotten, honest heart, by me, 
 
 And till my death must still remembered be. 
 
 The Christian heart shall yet rejoice again, 
 
 With happy tidings from the distant main ; 
 
 Of him who in affliction's darkest hour 
 
 Felt from thy hand compassion's mighty power : 
 
 'Twas thou who helped the prostrate soul to rise, 
 
 And to his Saviour rais'd the drooping eyes, 
 
 Handled his wounds with Friendship's tenderest skill; 
 
 With loving caution and with ready will ; 
 
 Then sweetly read the Holy Word with care, 
 
 And with the sinner shared the sinner's prayer. 
 
 Brief moments fly, and swiftly on their wing 
 
 Eternity's tremendous issues bring ; 
 
 Her herald's loud and deep-toned bell will chime 
 
 How precious then appears the gift of Time ; 
 
 How low the spirit sinks at thought of all 
 
 The opportunities beyond recall. 
 
 Of what avail to mourn the loss of these 
 
 So oft neglected, but which sorrow sees 
 
 With downcast eye, shamefully unseen, [keen. 
 
 In time to spare the stab with Memory's poignard
 
 THE REPRIEVE. 59 
 
 Oh ! safe experience, but too often scorn' d 
 
 By headstong youth whom thou hast kindly warned ; 
 
 How oft thy upraised finger has been shook 
 
 In gentle caution, and, thy pleading look 
 
 On former griefs significantly bent ! 
 
 How oft postponed the Christian's course " Repent \" 
 
 How many hours in midnight revel slain 
 
 O'er ruby bowl (volcanoes to the brain) 
 
 In stern array now challenge my repose, 
 
 And all their bleeding bosoms, bare, disclose, 
 
 By me thus pierced ! But now the shaft recoils, 
 
 The reckless spendthrift in the ruthless toils 
 
 Of grim remorse, now mourns his waste profuse 
 
 Of by-gone Time and profligate abuse 
 
 Of daring mind ! Why have I basely stooped, 
 
 And year by year on Time's dead-line have looped ? 
 
 Another knot to measure that deep slough 
 
 Of bare-born pleasures, which poor fools allow ? 
 
 In which I've wallowed, like the grovelling swine, 
 
 And wasted hours which should make man divine. 
 
 What if those moments in the midnight song 
 
 Had been directed to the countless throng 
 
 Of sparkling gems which deck the azure plains 
 
 Endless revolving ! and whose song sustains 
 
 Incessant chorus through the boundless sphere, 
 
 In god-like music to the listening ear. 
 
 Majestic symbols of the Omnipotent ! 
 
 Eternity's bright messengers, and sent 
 
 To warn the puny insect lord of earth 
 
 His life is but a span, a ling'ring birth, 
 
 A preparation for a nobler state 
 
 Of bliss immortal ! joys perpetuate ! 
 
 Bright emblems of the glorious host beyond, 
 
 Who, ceaseless, circle round the High Enthroned.
 
 60 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 What noble pastime, thus to range with thee 
 
 The boundless summits of th' ethereal sea! 
 
 To measure worlds ! to track the meteor's flight, 
 
 To range at will the empire of the night ? 
 
 Sweet Night ! dear shelter of the harass'd mind, 
 
 Cradle of genius ! Nurse of thoughts refin'd, 
 
 Thy velvet mantle decked with glittering gems, 
 
 The Christian justifies, the fool condemns ! 
 
 Where is the idiot, who, with upturned eyes 
 
 Can stand unmoved and watch the starlit skies } 
 
 Are all those endless revolutions made 
 
 In regular precision, but to aid 
 
 The gay debauchee in his midnight way, 
 
 Or e'en the honest man whose route may lay 
 
 Through night's dark shadows to his distant home, 
 
 Is it for this He spangled Nature's dome ? 
 
 Preposterous thought ; millions of worlds for one 
 
 And that one smaller than their smallest sun ; 
 
 Thus very few e'er read this book aright, 
 
 But with a shudder greet the dreary night, 
 
 Or hail it but in barefaced wantonness, 
 
 To plunge in riot or in foul excess ? 
 
 Methiuks if such gay revellers stood here, 
 
 Their festive turbulence would fail to cheer. 
 
 Each fool imagines death a distance off, 
 
 And hence at dark eternity can scoff, 
 
 Nor stays to think each. loud and boisterous breath, 
 
 Serves but to bring him to his bugbear death ! 
 
 How soon must I behold him face +.0 face, 
 
 A few short hours must close my earthly race. 
 
 How solemn are these moments to my soul ? 
 
 How many billows through my bosom roll ? 
 
 How empty now the world, how vain its joys ? 
 
 How cold its pleasures and its mirthful noise ?
 
 THE REPRIEVE. 61 
 
 How hollow now its fulsome varying breath 
 
 "When whisper' d to the leaden ear of death ? 
 
 E'en to this moment hope has tried to thrive, 
 
 In spite of all still struggling to survive ; 
 
 But tenderly the reverend man of God, 
 
 Has tried to ease the fast descending rod; 
 
 By warning me in privacy alone, 
 
 That justice only occupies the throne ; 
 
 That all appeals to mercy are declined, 
 
 And softly praying bids me be resigned; 
 
 For soon the official tidings will proclaim 
 
 To my sad ear the doom a death of shame ! 
 
 Again he's gone, again my prayers arise 
 
 For humble entrance to the holy skies. 
 
 I have no hope but Christ ; he is my prayer, 
 
 On Christ alone my soul casts all its care; 
 
 I know I've sinned, I know that Christ has died, 
 
 I know for sinners he was crucified, 
 
 And that was all I knew, that knowledge small 
 
 Was my soul's safety and my all in all, 
 
 " If I am saved on Christ alone I trust, 
 
 If I'm condemned, my condemnation's just." 
 
 This was my creed, my humble faithful creed, 
 
 And this sustained me in my direst need. 
 
 I write farewell to soothe the hearts of those 
 
 Who feared my safety, made my pen disclose, 
 
 The truth. Already had I filled the sheet, 
 
 That after my sad death their eyes should meet, 
 
 With glad assurance that I died prepared, 
 
 That thus their tortured bosoms might be spared ; 
 
 The thought that soul and body both must die, 
 
 And this might keep their burning eyelids dry. 
 
 I hear the heavy tread of men once more, 
 
 And see again the gently opened door :
 
 62 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 It moves me not, I am prepared to hear, 
 
 The morning sun must close my brief career. 
 
 Three forms approach, by me remember'd well, 
 
 Whose kindness now illumes my lonely cell, 
 
 The gentle ruler of the sad domain, 
 
 Whose tender pity cheered the pris'ner's chain, 
 
 The Christian sheriff whose endearing voice, 
 
 Had often made this aching heart rejoice. 
 
 The man of God who soothed my riven heart 
 
 By cheering those who in my woes had part. 
 
 These now approached, and I expectant stood, 
 
 Waiting to hear the legal doom of blood ; 
 
 With gentle caution then he kindly said, 
 
 My earnest friends one more appeal had made, 
 
 Bade me be calm, and listen well prepared, 
 
 To God's own message, for MY LIFE WAS SPARED ! 
 
 I heard him and I heard him not my soul 
 
 Flew up to God and thanked HIM for the whole 
 
 While yet he spoke ! and then flew back to all 
 
 Who suffered with me in my dreadful fall. 
 
 God is my witness that I thought of them, 
 
 And all the grief this joyful news would stem ; 
 
 For I had passed myself, I stood amazed, 
 
 The sudden joy my harrass'd brain had crazed : 
 
 I tried to thank the messenger of God, 
 
 But felt o'er-whelmed beneath the joyful flood. 
 
 Whatever I said I know not they were gone, 
 
 My jailor and myself were left alone. 
 
 Was it a dream ? and was I not to die ? 
 
 Could 1 indeed on their good news rely ; 
 
 We clasped each other to our grateful breast, 
 
 And mix'd our sobbings as our hearts we press'd. 
 
 Glad were the true thanksgivings that arose, 
 
 From that dark room, the scene of untold woes ;
 
 THE REPRIEVE. DO 
 
 Glad were the tears which drenched each joyous cheek. 
 
 Each happy heart too full of love to speak- 
 
 Some incoherent words to each were said, 
 
 Then both to Him who saved the sinner pray'd : 
 
 If e'er the prayers of gratitude were heard, 
 
 Our humble voices heaven's echo stirred. 
 
 The weight of years that moment seemed relieved, 
 
 And all the horrors which so long had grieved; 
 
 At once the mighty love of God appeared, 
 
 At once my soul could feel that love endeared, 
 
 And cherished as a long lost, welcome guest, 
 
 Within that heart its absence had distress'd. 
 
 How sweet is life ! How good the God who gave 
 
 His only son that he my life might save ; 
 
 In one glad moment how the scene was changed, 
 
 Now in my bosom what bright visions range. 
 
 My children, kindred, friends, all smiled once more, 
 
 And for an instant glistened as of yore. 
 
 No Newgate held me now ! my soul was free, 
 
 What was a prison or its chains to me, 
 
 Had I not Jesus ! was I not alive ? 
 
 Had not I that sweet boon no man can give ? 
 
 I trod that dungeon floor with more delight, 
 
 Than many kings their halls on that glad night, 
 
 And so did many more for miles around, 
 
 When once they heard delightful mercy's sound. 
 
 Hail ! brightest jewel in Old England's crown, 
 
 Worthy indeed of all the world's renown, 
 
 True ornament of queenly diadem, 
 
 Peerless and brightest inimitable gem, 
 
 Adored by all, beloved by every soul, 
 
 From swarth Yoruba to the icy pole : 
 
 'Twas well for me a female bosom reign' d, 
 
 Or else dear mercy's suit had been disdain' d,
 
 64 HOURS IN NEWGATE, 
 
 But if the seraph e'er could find abode, 
 
 'Tis surely in a woman and in God. 
 
 Blest be her name, for ever doubly blest, 
 
 Tho' in this heart unworthily it rest ; 
 
 Yet it shall there be cherished and with joy, 
 
 When other names long absence shall destroy ; 
 
 To grant her homage Britons ne'er deny, 
 
 Tho' none can have a right to praise like I ; 
 
 Long may she reign, and every British heart 
 
 With mercy and her handmaiden take part. 
 
 Now joys the soul, endowed with holy strength, 
 
 On vivid pinions flies Creation's length. 
 
 Oh ! for some eminence by man ne'er trod. 
 
 To speak to nature, and to nature's God, 
 
 Unheard, unseen, by mortal ear or eye, 
 
 To mingle with the denizens of sky, 
 
 To shout with joy 'neath heaven's spangled hall, 
 
 " My crucified Redeemer made you all." 
 
 With tears of love, with smiles of heartfelt joys, 
 
 To add my twitter to the warbling noise; 
 
 On giant fancy midst the starry host, 
 
 Excited wander till this earth is lost, 
 
 'Till distant space shall presently absorb, 
 
 This puny earth and its attendant orb ; 
 
 To land at will on each revolving world, 
 
 Unseen, exulting, in its path be whirled ; 
 
 To mix with its inhabitants, and know 
 
 How far superior they to us below ; 
 
 Hear them descant upon man's fatal loss, 
 
 While glorying in the story of the cross ; 
 
 And shudder if I thought their minds perceivM, 
 
 The stranger guest their glorious orb received ; 
 
 To hear them marvel, how the monster SIN, 
 
 In this bright universe could first begin ;
 
 THE REPRIEVE. 65 
 
 To cast her fertile seed and wonder yet 
 
 When death shall die and time shall pay his debt ; 
 
 To hear them grieve o'er all these world's destroyed 
 
 Through our fair earth with deadly sin alloyed ; 
 
 To hear them mourn o'er senseless fallen man, 
 
 Who seeks the ruin which his foe began. 
 
 Most deadly foe and I of dupes the worst, 
 
 But now no longer hence thou fiend accursed, 
 
 The hollow fabric thou for years has't rais'd, 
 
 Which hid the views on which I would have gazed. 
 
 Thy dark philosophy and subtle schemes 
 
 Have vanished, and the whole creation seems 
 
 Alive with love, with God, and smiling truth, 
 
 Again I feel the buoyancy of youth : 
 
 Well might thou strive my spirit to ensnare, 
 
 By every lure my ruin to prepare. 
 
 'Canst read the future ? then thou knowest well 
 
 This hand shall rescue many a soul from hell. 
 
 Not for myself was this poor life restored, 
 
 But that a gracious God should be ador'd ; 
 
 By those whom long the galling chain has bound, 
 
 That in their ears the welcome notes should sound, 
 
 Of mercy to the basest of them all : 
 
 And through my efforts hear their glad recall 
 
 To happiness, lo love, to God's own arms ; 
 
 No more the slaves of thy soul-damning charms. 
 
 Oh ! help me gracious God this foe to slay, 
 
 Who but for thee would triumph o'er his prey; 
 
 Give me thy armour, and thy spirit's sword, 
 
 Teach me to wield the weapon of Thy Word ; 
 
 Let me not fall, nor let my footsteps slide, 
 
 Be with me through all ills that may betide; 
 
 Give me thy love, for that alone I ask, 
 
 Once having that how sweet the holy task.
 
 66 THE CONVICT'S RETURN. 
 
 Up, spirit, up ! behold a view sublime, 
 
 Use well thy moments, seize the fleeting time, 
 
 Care thou for nought, look thou to Christ alone, 
 
 And know no summit, but his gracious throne. 
 
 'Tis he alone hath made thy heart rejoice, 
 
 'Tis he shall make men hear the convict's voice, 
 
 Arise, my soul ! no longer be the slave 
 
 Of blood-stained memory thou'rt saved, now save ; 
 
 Receive him as thy guardian friend and guide, 
 
 The world, the devil, and the flesh deride ; 
 
 Let memory be thy monitor no more, 
 
 A beacon pointing to a dangerous shore ; 
 
 Know nought but Christ, and know him crucified, 
 
 Cling to that Christ who for thy spirit died ; 
 
 To him alone whose out-stretched bleeding hand 
 
 The glass reversed and checked the flowing sand, 
 
 Whose pitying finger stayed the fatal pen, 
 
 Which would have doomed the wickedest of men, 
 
 And which his sad death warrant would have signed, 
 
 Had not his love the royal ear inclined 
 
 To mercy's voice, and bade the sinner live 
 
 And hide the warrant 'neath the glad Reprieve. 
 
 THE CONVICT'S RETURN ! 
 
 See ! the sun has gone down by the old village church, 
 
 Which is empty, for service is o'er ; 
 A few of the neighbours shake hands in the porch, 
 
 And the rest scatter over the moor. 
 A widow and daughter are bidding "Good bye" 
 
 To a grey-headed man, who has bade 
 His usual farewell, with a bow and a sigh, 
 
 And is lost in the deepening shade !
 
 THE CONVICT'S RETURN. 67 
 
 Dear mother, pray who is that elderly man,. 
 
 Who sits by himself in the pew ? 
 " Seeming always to me," says the child as she ran, 
 
 ' Like a person whom nobody knew ! 
 It is only to us that I e'er hear him say 
 
 Good morrow, or ask how we are ; 
 Yet he does not seem cross, is it only his way ; 
 
 Does he live from the church very far ?" 
 
 " My dear little child," said the mother, " some day 
 
 When a year or two older you've grown, 
 I will tell you the cause of his going away, 
 
 And the reason he sits all alone ; 
 But now let us haste, for the wind's getting high, 
 
 And see ! 'tis beginning to rain," 
 Then soon they were hid by the dark'ning sky, 
 
 And the trees that grew over the lane. 
 Old Time travels on, and again there's a throng 
 
 Gazing in at the old church door ; 
 At the coffin of one, who is now borne along, 
 
 O'er the threshold he'd oft trod before. 
 And soon he is laid in his cold earthy bed, 
 
 In a corner where grass used to wave ; 
 But some children he taught, will still lingering 
 tread 
 
 Round their schoolmaster's lonely grave ! 
 "Dear mother, now tell me the name of your friend ?" 
 
 Said the girl, who much older had grown ; 
 As they sat near his grave, by the grey gable-end 
 
 Of the church, on an old tomb-stone. 
 " Alas ! my dear child, he ne'er told his true name, 
 
 And the reason Pll now give to thee ; 
 'Tis a narrative sad of sin, sorrow, and shame. 
 
 From which now his spirit is free.
 
 68 THE CONVICT'S RETURN. 
 
 It is turn'd seven years since he came to the town, 
 
 Which you see as you look o'er the moor, 
 Qnite weary with wand'ring he there settled down, 
 
 "When in years he was nearly three- score, 
 He there saw your father, each other they knew, 
 
 For oft times abroad they had met ; 
 He took his advice, a short lease to renew 
 
 Of the school-house, which then was to let. 
 You scarce recollect your dear Father who died 
 
 From the wounds he received in the fight ! 
 But you've play'd with his sword as it hung by the side 
 
 Of his bed in its scabbard so bright ; 
 And oft as he lay our old pilgrim has come, 
 
 His Bible to read and to pray, 
 That in heaven above they might all find a home, 
 
 Whom so far time had drifted away, 
 It is many years since, at one Christmas-tide, 
 
 When most human hearts are light, 
 That a few happy friends put their troubles aside, 
 
 And resolv'd to have one merry night, 
 The table is spread, and they laugh in high glee, 
 
 All but one whose fierce rolling eye 
 Betokens a mind far from misery free, 
 
 Which the guests to their sorrow descry ! 
 For their mirth in a moment is chang'd into woe ! 
 
 First a shriek then an outcry is heard 
 The maniac through drink, has inflicted a blow, 
 
 Ere the guests from their seats can have stirr'd. 
 'Twas his poor helpless wife whom the wretched man 
 slew, 
 
 And wounded a few of his friends ; 
 Though he slept in a prison, the drunkard scarce knew 
 
 What horror the morning attends !
 
 THE CONVICT'S RETURN. 69 
 
 But as soon as the fumes of the liquor dispersed, 
 
 The wretched man's intellect clears, 
 And the witnesses the tearful story rehearsed, 
 
 Which a mountain of sorrow appears ! 
 His children bereft must be turned in the street, 
 
 Four orphans are left without care ; 
 Their mother, unready, her God sent to meet, 
 
 Not a moment allowed to prepare ! ! 
 With a spirit quite crush* d to the goal he was borne, 
 
 Many days for his trial to wait, 
 With what varied emotions his mind was there torn, 
 
 'Tis too painful for me to relate : 
 For no soul but his own, and that Saviour so kind, 
 
 To whom all his troubles were told, 
 Could the agony tell that distracted his mind, 
 
 Or his wretchedness ever unfold ! 
 At last came the day when the friends whom he saw 
 
 All the horrible truth must reveal, 
 Compelled by the sternest injunction of law 
 
 Not a fact nor a word to conceal ! 
 A * moment's suspence now seems lengthened to 
 years, 
 
 For his life merely hangs on their breath 
 The verdict of " Guilty " agrees with the fears, 
 
 And the terrible sentence is "Death !" 
 In despair to his cell he is back again sent, 
 
 On earth a brief space to remain ; 
 And to him there was given a time to repent, 
 
 Who gave none to the one that was slain ! ! ! 
 After this came the sorrowful parting from those 
 
 Who clung like his life to his heart ; 
 What a history sad could that dungeon disclose ! 
 
 What a terrible lesson impart !
 
 70 THE CONVICT'S RETURN. 
 
 But the sinner belong' d to a true-hearted band, 
 
 Who for sympathy ever were famed ; 
 To provide for his children each held out his hand, 
 
 As a duty they eagerly claimed. 
 He pray'd that such bounty might ne'er know distress, 
 
 While he patiently waited his doom j 
 Beseeching his Saviour his children to bless, 
 
 Though he lay in a murderers tomb ! 
 
 But the mercy of God, is beyond human ken, 
 
 To all sinners who truly believe, 
 Through exertions of some of the kindest of men, 
 
 There suddenly came a reprieve ! 
 Unspeakable joy took the place of despair, 
 
 As the penitent wretch, on his knees, 
 His God tried to thank, and to utter a pray'r 
 
 He would teach him his Saviour to please. 
 He thought of his friends, for no man ever had 
 
 So many, so kind, aud so true, 
 He knew in their hearts how each one would be glad, 
 
 And rejoice when the tidings they knew; 
 And he earnestly hoped they the lesson would learn, 
 
 On their Saviour alone to rely ; 
 For the God of all mercy is equally stern, 
 
 Unto those who his mercy defy ! 
 His life was thus spared, but the rest of his days 
 
 Were in banishment doom'd to be spent, 
 Still he never complan'd, but to God gave all praise, 
 
 And besought Him to make him content. 
 Many years roll'd away, when a pardon was brought, 
 
 It told him again he was free ! 
 
 With a heart full of thanks to his Saviour, he 
 thought 
 
 Of beloved ones he shortly would see.
 
 THE CONVICT'S RETURN. 71 
 
 More than one score of years had passed off since 
 he'd been 
 
 Removed from the land of his birth ; 
 He found that Old Time had quite altered the scene, 
 
 And had scatter' d the groups on the hearth ; 
 Of all he then knew a few only remain' d, 
 
 And those he lov'd dearest of all 
 Could nowhere be found, so his tears unrestrain'd 
 
 At a sense of h'is loneliness, fall. 
 
 His children he sought, and was told two were dead, 
 
 And the others he never could trace, 
 Many miles he had travelled, by false rumours led, 
 
 In the search for their true resting-place ; 
 His kindred were scatter'd abroad far and wide ; 
 
 Of his sisters, no mortal could tell : 
 And the one that he lov'd, even she, too, had died ! 
 
 There he stood as if bound by a spell ! 
 
 For one that had been more than brother or friend, 
 
 Even he from the old place had gone ; 
 And he felt that his days, like a stranger's must end, 
 
 And his grave be for ever unknown ! 
 It was then that he came to the town, there beyond, 
 
 Where he quietly kept the old school : 
 For, of children he said he had always been fond : 
 
 To be kind was his principal rule." 
 
 " Oh, mother, why did you not let me go there ? 
 
 I his pupil would gladly have been." 
 " You then would have added, although unaware, 
 
 To his sorrow already so keen. 
 For he had a daughter, like you, christen'd Jane, 
 
 With long curling hair and dark eyes ; 
 Whenever he saw you his heart fill'd with pain, 
 
 And a sigh from his breast would arise !
 
 7 THE CONVICT'S RETURN. 
 
 This Bible he gave me, and which he had priz'd 
 
 For the sake of a friend ever dear, 
 Its precepts he'd cherish'd and never despis'd, 
 
 It had comforted many a year. 
 In this Testament, see, he has written your name 
 
 In remembrance of her whom he lov'd ; 
 And who in his eyes would be always the same, 
 
 Darling girl, from his sight long remov'd ! 
 He said, in return he'd a favour implore, 
 
 Which from my hands alone he would crave : 
 It was, that a locket he constantly wore, 
 
 Should be buried with him in the grave ! 
 To our curate he gave all the rest of his books, 
 
 Who had often his sorrows relieved; 
 They are placed in his room, that the church overlooks, 
 
 Near the grave which- his ashes receiv'd." 
 " Dear mother, may I ask a favour as well ? " 
 
 Said the girl, looking up in her face, 
 Where the tear of true womanly sympathy fell 
 
 For the victim of early disgrace : 
 ' What is it, my child ?" "It is only to plant 
 
 A ' Forget-me-not' over his head," 
 " 'Tis a favour, my love, that I willingly grant, 
 
 For he slumbers in peace with the dead ! 
 
 But pity, my dearest, the wreck of a heart 
 
 That no doubt had been tender and kind, 
 But when poisoned by drink play'd a terrible part, 
 
 And has left us a warning behind. 
 Oh ! fly from the man who the tavern attends 
 
 To drive away care frdm the brain, 
 It is Satan's device, and assuredly ends 
 
 In beggary, sorrow, or pain !" 
 
 I. R. Taylor, Printer, 13, Brownlow Street, Bedford Row, W. C.
 
 A 000 024 307 1