Stripes for the contumacious, and for all
Labor, and silence.
The inquiring glance
On the new-comer bent, from stolid eyes
Of malefactors, harden'd to their lot,
And hating all mankind, he coldly shunn'd
Or haughtily return'd. Yet there were lights
Even in this dark abode, not often found
In penal regions, where the wrath of man
Is prompt to punish, and remembereth not