The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 2/Number 7/Spirits in Prison

by Christopher Pearse Cranch

 

SPIRITS IN PRISON.^[1]

I.

O ye, who, prisoned in these festive rooms,
⁠Lean at the windows for a breath of air,
Staring upon the darkness that o'erglooms
⁠The heavens, and waiting for the stars to bare
Their glittering glories, veiled all night in cloud,
⁠I know ye scorn the gas-lights and the feast!
I saw you leave the music and the crowd,
⁠And turn unto the windows opening east;
I heard you sigh,—"When will the dawn's dull ashes
⁠Kindle their fires behind yon fir-fringed height?
When will the prophet clouds with golden flashes
⁠Unroll their mystic scrolls of crimson light?"
Fain would I come and sit beside you here,
⁠And silent press your hands, and with you lean
Into the midnight, mingling hope and fear,
⁠Or pining for the days that might have been!

II.

Are we not brothers? In the throng that fills
⁠These strange enchanted rooms we met. One look
Told that we knew each other. Sudden thrills,
⁠As of two lovers reading the same book,
Ran through our hurried grasp. But when we turned,
⁠The scene around was smitten with a change:
The lamps with lurid fire-light flared and burned;
⁠And through the wreaths and flowers,—oh, mockery strange!—
The prison-walls with ghastly horror frowned;
⁠Scarce hidden by vine-leaves and clusters thick,
A grim cold iron grating closed around.
⁠Then from our silken couches leaping quick,
We hurried past the dancers and the lights,
⁠Nor heeded the entrancing music then,
Nor the fair women scattering delights
⁠In flower-like flush of dress,—nor paused till when,
Leaning against our prison-bars, we gazed
⁠Into the dark, and wondered where we were.
Speak to me, brothers, for ye stand amazed!
⁠I come, your secret burthen here to share!

III.

I know not this mysterious land around.
⁠Black giant trees loom up in form obscure.
Odors of gardens and of woods profound
⁠Blow in from out the darkness, fresh and pure.
Faint sounds of friendly voices come and go,
⁠That seem to lure us forth into the air;
But whence they come perchance no ear may know,
⁠And where they go perchance no foot may dare.

IV.

A realm of shadowy forms out yonder lies.
⁠Beauty and Power, fair dreams pursued by Fate,
Wheel in unceasing vortex; and the skies
⁠Flash with strange lights that bear no name nor date.
Sweet winds are breathing that just fan the hair,
⁠And fitful gusts that howl against the bars,
And harp-like songs, and groans of wild despair,
⁠And angry clouds that chase the trembling stars.
And on the iron grating the hot cheek
⁠We press, and forth into the night we call,
And thrust our arms, that, manacled and weak,
⁠Clutch but the empty air, and powerless fall.

V.

And yet, O brothers! we, who cannot share
⁠This life of lies, this stifling day in night,—
Know we not well, that, if we did but dare
⁠Break from our cell, and trust our manhood's might,
When once our feet should venture on these wilds,
⁠The night would prove a sweet, still solitude,—
Not dark for eyes that, earnest as a child's,
⁠Strove in the chaos but for truth and good?
And oh, sweet liberty, though wizard gleams
⁠And elfin shapes should frighten or allure,
To find the pathway of our hopes and dreams,—
⁠By toil to sweeten what we should endure,—
To journey on, though but a little way,
⁠Towards the morning and the fir-clad heights,—
To follow the sweet voices, till the day
⁠Bloomed in its flush of colors and of lights,—
To look back on the valley and the prison,
⁠The windows smouldering still with midnight fires,
And know the joy and triumph to have risen
⁠Out of that falsehood into new desires!
O friends! it may be hard our chains to burst,
⁠To scale the ramparts, pass the sentinels;
Dark is the night; but we are not the first
⁠Who break from the enchanter's evil spells.
Though they pursue us with their scoffs and darts,
⁠Though they allure us with their siren song,
Trust we alone the light within our hearts!
⁠Forth to the air! Freedom will dawn ere long!

 

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1. 1 Peter, iii. 19.