And with a deep sadness I turned, to repair
To the cell where the convict is laid.
The thick-ribbed walls that o’ershadow the gate
Resound; and the dungeons unfold: 10
I pause; and at length, through the glimmering grate,
That outcast of pity behold.
His black matted hair on his shoulder is bent,
And deep is the sigh of his breath,
And with stedfast dejection his eyes are intent 15
On the fetters that link him to death.