The Convict William Wordsworth

The glory of evening was spread through the west;
   —On the slope of a mountain I stood;
While the joy that precedes the calm season of rest
  Rang loud through the meadow and wood.

"And must we then part from a dwelling so fair?"
  In the pain of my spirit I said,
And with a deep sadness I turned, to repair
  To the cell where the convict is laid.

The thick-ribbed walls that o'ershadow the gate
  Resound; and the dungeons unfold:
I pause; and at length, through the glimmering grate,
  That outcast of pity behold.

His black matted head on his shoulder is bent,
  And deep is the sigh of his breath,
And with stedfast dejection his eyes are intent
  On the fetters that link him to death.

'Tis sorrow enough on that visage to gaze.
  That body dismiss'd from his care;
Yet my fancy has pierced to his heart, and pourtrays
  More terrible images there.

His bones are consumed, and his life-blood is dried,
  With wishes the past to undo;
And his crime, through the pains that o'erwhelm him, descried,
  Still blackens and grows on his view.