34 
T H E BOUQUET. 
Their way within the prison bound 
’Twere vain to tell;—with kind intent, 
Perchance some friend of better days 
Had these sweet missionaries sent, 
Repentance for the past to raise ; 
Perchance that love, (it oft hath given 
Such token of its deathless powers) 
Had with a pity, born of Heaven, 
Thus sought to soothe the weary hours 
Of the lone wretch.—Needless to know 
How those fair flowers he gain’d, 
Be mine the pleasant task to show 
With what a holy power they reign’d 
O’er the sad heritor of shame. 
Long had he paced the prison floor 
And eyed the narrow boundery o’er 
With glance like lightning’s flame, 
While thoughts of evil, dark and dire, 
Awoke his soul to vengeful ire, 
And curses deep and dreadful fell 
Like muttering thunders round the cell. 
Until it seem’d the gloomy lair 
Of some dark demon of despair. 
But now a sudden change is wrought 
In the fierce current of his thought; 
Those flowers have touch’d the only chord 
Yet tuneful in his rugged breast 
And feeling’s fount is strangely stirr’d, 
Like waters in the storm’s unrest. 
That one pure spark which never dies 
E’en in the coldest, hardest hearts, 
Which gleams, like Stars in clouded skies, 
Thro’ all the gloom that sin imparts, 
