AT THE PRISON GATE.

Once by a foreign prison gate, Deep in the gloom of frowning stone, I saw a woman, desolate, Sitting alone; Immeasurable pain enwound Infinite anguish lapped her round, As the sea laps some sunken shore Where flowers will blossom never more.

Despair sat shrined in her dry eyes— Her heart, I thought, in blood must weep For hopes that never more can rise From their death-sleep; And round her hovered phantoms gray— Ghosts of delight dead many a day; And all the thorns of life seemed wed In one sharp crown about her head.

And all the poor world's aching heart Beat there, I thought, and could not break. Oh! to be strong to bear the smart— The vast heart-ache! Then through my soul a clear light shone; What I would do, my Lord has done; He bore the whole world's crown of thorn— For her sake, too, that crown was worn!