The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 3.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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[107] Yet, where festal lamps are throwing
     Glory round the dancer's hair,
Gold-tressed, like an angel's, flowing
     Backward on the sunset air;
And the low quick pulse of music beats its measure sweet and rare:

There to-night shall woman's glances,
     Star-like, welcome give to them;
Fawning fools with shy advances
     Seek to touch their garments' hem,
With the tongue of flattery glozing deeds which
     God and Truth condemn.

From this glittering lie my vision
     Takes a broader, sadder range,
Full before me have arisen
     Other pictures dark and strange;
From the parlor to the prison must the scene and
     witness change.

Hark! the heavy gate is swinging
     On its hinges, harsh and slow;
One pale prison lamp is flinging
     On a fearful group below
Such a light as leaves to terror whatsoe'er it does not show.

Pitying God! Is that a woman
     On whose wrist the shackles clash?
Is that shriek she utters human,
     Underneath the stinging lash?
Are they men whose eyes of madness from that sad procession flash?