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

Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red,
     The lights on brimming crystal fell,
Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head
     And mossy well.

Through prison walls, like Heaven-sent hope,
     Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed,
And with the idle gallows-rope
     The young child played.

Where the doomed victim in his cell
     Had counted o'er the weary hours,
Glad school-girls, answering to the bell,
     Came crowned with flowers.

Grown wiser for the lesson given,
     I fear no longer, for I know
That, where the share is deepest driven,
     The best fruits grow.

The outworn rite, the old abuse,
     The pious fraud transparent grown,
The good held captive in the use
     Of wrong alone,—

These wait their doom, from that great law
     Which makes the past time serve to-day;