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Silent—save ever and anon,
A sound, half murmur and half groan,
Forces apart the painful grip
Of the old sufferer's bearded lip:
O sad and crushing is the fate,
Of old age chained and desolate!
Just God! why lies that old man there?
A murderer shares his prison bed,
Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair,
Gleam on him fierce and red;
And the rude oath and heartless jeer,
Fall ever on his loathing ear,
And, or in wakefulness or sleep,
Nerve, flesh and fibre thrill and creep,
Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb,
Crimson with murder, touches him!
What has the gray-haired prisoner done?
Has murder stained his hands with gore?
Not so: his crime's a fouler one:
God made the old man poor!
For this he shares a felon's cell —
The fittest earthly type of hell!
For this—the boon for which he poured
His young blood on th' invader's sword,
And counted light the fearful cost—
His blood-gained liberty is lost!
