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

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[322]
     Forces apart the painful grip
Of the old sufferer's bearded lip;
     Oh, sad and crushing is the fate
Of old age chained and desolate!

Just God! why lies that old man there?
     A murderer shares his prison bed,
Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair,
     Gleam on him, fierce and red;
And the rude oath and heartless jeer
     Fall ever on his loathing ear,
And, or in wakefulness or sleep,
     Nerve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creep
Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb,
     Crimson with murder, touches him!

What has the gray-haired prisoner done?
     Has murder stained his hands with gore?
Not so; his crime's a fouler one;
     God made the old man poor!
For this he shares a felon's cell,
     The fittest earthly type of hell!
For this, the boon for which he poured
     His young blood on the invader's sword,
And counted light the fearful cost;
     His blood-gained liberty is lost!

And so, for such a place of rest,
     Old prisoner, dropped thy blood as rain
On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest,
     And Saratoga's plain?
Look forth, thou man of many scars,
     Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars;