The sun was shining bright without, where happy faces smiled,
But within the lonesome prison walls sat one so pale and mild;
No sigh escaped his peaceful lips, no tear bedimmed his eye,
Though weary from the waiting to know if he must die.
Kind stranger, do you wish to know what is the prisoner's crime?
'Twas because some cruel monster his mother did malign,
Which roused the sleeping passions of anger, hate and strife,
When in a time unguarded he took the offender's life.
"Oh now," said he, "I'm ready to answer for this crime;
You see I've killed the villain my mother did malign—
That mother who has cherished me through all my childhood days,
And rocked me on her bosom when weary of my plays;
That mother, who in her early years her orphan boy has led
O'er weary wastes and craggy peaks, to earn our daily bread,
Far over snow-capped mountains and through the sunny glens,
To sell her own productions—her books—to stranger men;
That mother, who at midnight hours, when daily toils were o'er,
And millions, on their downy beds inside their palace door
Were resting from all sorrow while she, who forced to roam,
Sat writing by the camp-fire—an authoress, with no home.
How many, many were the days, when I was but a child,
I stood beside that mother, and watched her pen the while,
Until her hand grew weary; her mind would fain have rest.
But the publisher was waiting; the book, her child might bless.
Thus months and years rolled onward; when childhood's days were done,
I stood beside that mother, a faithful, happy son.
For years we toiled together, with books and pen and type,
In hopes the future had for us a home—Oh, happy sight!
But ah! stern fate, how cruel! when men who mock our laws,
And strive with unrelenting hand to find some legal cause
To murder every cherished hope with slander's cruel knife,
And drop by drop to steal away poor woman's helpless life."
'Twas slander vile, young Harry saw upon the printed page;
His mother dear, the victim, which caused the fires to rage;
His cheeks grew pale with anguish, his heart could know no fear;
He only thought of days gone by, and mother's name so dear.
He only thought of years agone, when mother's face was young;
Her arms were strong and willing, then, to guard her little son;
But times have changed that youthful face, and age is creeping on,
While he, in early manhood now, must be the stronger one.