THE PRISON.

A VISION.

I PASS'D a studded door and enter'd in

Through alleys dark; when from a dungeon-room Came sounds of desperate and fantastic din,

Through pestilential air and murkiest gloom. Sudden I mingled with a savage crowd

Who cunning laugh'd, or fix'd a shameless stare; Their mirth was lewd and blasphemous and loud; It had the scorn and courage of despair.

And some there were of woman's gentle mein,

Who reel'd in frontless riot, strange to see;

And boys, with eyes of innocence, were seen
To ply small thefts beside their mother's knee,

D

The horror of the scene upon me fell,

So that a trance enwrapt my senses round; But when I waked from this appalling spell,

The spot I trod was changed to holy ground. The crowd were present, but no more the same;

The gale breathed fresh, the sunshine pour'd its day; Hush'd voices murmur'd low, and saddening shame Had tinged the cheeks that with excess were gay. The hum of industry was heard around,

The ORACLE OF LIFE was open spread;

The boy hung docile o'er th' enlightening sound, And harden'd vice awoke as from the dead. Though not a heaven, it seem'd a heaven-like place,

Gladden'd with hope, by penitence refined:

And, looking up, I saw an ANGEL's face,

And bless'd the SISTER * who redeem'd her kind.

* Eliza Fry.

SONNET I.

ON THE CHURCH OF ST. MARY REDCLIFF.

TOWER! that like some old pyramid dost rear August thy massive pile, which lightning strook In days of yore, while rolls this earthy sphere The ages of mankind shall on thee look.

For he, that pacing lone the river-mead,

Watch'd the sun's glory, that around thee shone,
With wild, enthusiast gaze, though dark his deed,
Hath found in thee a monumental stone.

Oh wonderous boy! thy mortal slumber take
Till generations shall have pass'd and gone;
The Son of Man sit on his Father's throne,
And thou shalt from the dust of earth awake:
The bigot scowls upon thy unblest grave;
Thy God is love, and chastens but to save.

SONNET II.

ON LINLITHGOW CASTLE.

LINLITHGOW! Melancholy loves thy halls
Now desolate, through whose time-rifted stones,
Mouldering with moss, the sunbeam sadden'd falls,
And the hoarse gust with hollow murmur moans,
Waving the thistle's top or spiry grass:

Oh dreariest solitudes! your silence deep

Sinks in the heart with noiseless step I pass
These courts, whose pavement green the record keep

Of Mary's bleeding wrongs: for she was born
Where through yon loophole an obscurer light
Trembles aslant: the turret is forlorn

As was her destiny: the owl his flight

Takes from its ivied battlement: the trees,

Darkening the ruffled lake, sigh to the passing breeze.