Classic Poem

When from this gloomy cell I peep
With heavy eye,
And see the little Songsters sweep
In gladness by; —
There's nothing can my grief assuage,
I feel a bird within the cage
Of misery.

I gaze around, and there I see
The lovely — gay,
Who move about at liberty
Where sun-beams play; —
Such scenes but harrow up my soul.
And I have no one to condole
In sympathy.

And when I view the glittering stream,
Where Anglers line;
I almost fancy 'tis a dream
Such joys were mine; —
And pondering o'er my luckless fate,
I envy much their happy state,
And sadly pine.

Then, why am I bereft of those —
Why withering here?
Why through the iron grating flows
This wo-born tear?
Why fixed within this small domain,
Exciter of my growing pain,
And growing fear?

Ah! 'tis a mournful story mine —
A heart-sick tale;
And whilst I trace its sable line,
My spirits fail;
For I was once as free of guile,
As is the little infant's smile, —
With cheek unpale.

But, vile associates led me off
From virtue's track;
And taught my simple tongue to scoff
With easy knack;
And soon I loved their evil ways,
And drank the fulsome cup of praise, —
My rashest act.

But when I suffer for this crime —
The first I've done;
And pace yon fields in future time —
A pardoned one;
Those base corrupting foes I'll spurn,
And to my virtuous path return,
And evil shun.