Spirits in Prison

O ye, who, prisoned in these festive rooms, Lean at the windows for a breath of air, Staring upon the darkness that o'erglooms The heavens, and waiting for the stars to bare Their glittering glories, veiled all night in cloud, I know ye scorn the gas-lights and the feast! I saw you leave the music and the crowd, And turn unto the windows opening east; I heard you sigh,—"When will the dawn's dull ashes Kindle their fires behind yon fir-fringed height? When will the prophet clouds with golden flashes Unroll their mystic scrolls of crimson light?" Fain would I come and sit beside you here, And silent press your hands, and with you lean Into the midnight, mingling hope and fear, Or pining for the days that might have been!

Are we not brothers? In the throng that fills These strange enchanted rooms we met. One look Told that we knew each other. Sudden thrills, As of two lovers reading the same book, Ran through our hurried grasp. But when we turned, The scene around was smitten with a change: The lamps with lurid fire-light flared and burned; And through the wreaths and flowers,—oh, mockery strange!— The prison-walls with ghastly horror frowned; Scarce hidden by vine-leaves and clusters thick, A grim cold iron grating closed around. Then from our silken couches leaping quick, We hurried past the dancers and the lights, Nor heeded the entrancing music then, Nor the fair women scattering delights In flower-like flush of dress,—nor paused till when, Leaning against our prison-bars, we gazed Into the dark, and wondered where we were. Speak to me, brothers, for ye stand amazed! I come, your secret burthen here to share!

I know not this mysterious land around. Black giant trees loom up in form obscure. Odors of gardens and of woods profound Blow in from out the darkness, fresh and pure. Faint sounds of friendly voices come and go, That seem to lure us forth into the air; But whence they come perchance no ear may know, And where they go perchance no foot may dare.

A realm of shadowy forms out yonder lies. Beauty and Power, fair dreams pursued by Fate, Wheel in unceasing vortex; and the skies Flash with strange lights that bear no name nor date. Sweet winds are breathing that just fan the hair, And fitful gusts that howl against the bars, And harp-like songs, and groans of wild despair, And angry clouds that chase the trembling stars. And on the iron grating the hot cheek We press, and forth into the night we call, And thrust our arms, that, manacled and weak, Clutch but the empty air, and powerless fall.