To hear the piteous wailings
That rise from an empty heart,
While every breath is torture
And every thought a dart.
Oh, list to the wondrous music
As it floats from the world above:
"There is balm for the broken-hearted:
The gift of my Son is—love."
Aye, prayer to heaven ascending,
Tho' winged from a convict cell,
Shall find in heaven a welcome
No tongue can ever tell.
The under Dog.
BY BARKER.