A PRISON LAY.

New Zealander, Volume 7, Issue 597, 3 January 1852, Page 3

A PRISON LAY.

Tuc roLi ovrrN-o lines wnar, wrutln by Thomas Francis Mlaciieii i* Clonmel gaol a itw d vys ah Lit his slnu.nck: — 1 love, I lovp these grey, old walls ! Although a chil'mg shadow falls Along the iron-gated halls, And in the silent, narrow cells, Brooding darkly ever dwells. Oh ! still I love them — for the hours Within them, spent, are set with flowers That blossom, of wind and showers, And though that sbivlow, dull and cold, Emit their snarLs oi blue and gold. Bnght flows of mirth ! — flint wildly spring fcroni ire^u young hearts, f<nd o'er them (hug Likelndiaa birdj with spaiklmg wm<r, Secdb of sweetness, giains all flowing Sun gilt leaves, with dew-diops flowing. And hopes as blight, that softly gleam, Like slurs which o'er the church yard stream A beauty on each forded dream — Mingling the light they purely shed With other hopes, whose light has fleJ. Fond, meia'riei, too, undimrned -with sighs Whose fragrant sunshino tiavur dies, Whose summoi song-bud never flics — ■ Tliese, too, ore chasing, hour by hour, The clouds which leund this prison lower. Ami thus from hour to hour, I've grown To lo\ c these walls, though dark and lone, And fondly prize each grey old stono, Which flings the shadow, deep and chill Across my ieUered footsteps still. • Yet let these raem'iies fall and flow Within my heart like waves that glow Unseen in spangled caved below The foam which fiets, tlie mists which sweep The changeful surface of the deep. Not so the many hopes that bloom Amid this* voiceless waste and gloom Strewing my path-way to the tomb As though it wvre a bndal bed And not the prison of the dead. I would those hopes woie traced in firo, Beyond these walls — above that spire— Amid yon blue and stairy choir Whose sounds play lound us with the streams Winch glitter in the white moon's beams. I'd twine those hopes above our Isle, Above the rath and ruined pile, Above each gleu, and rough defile — The holy — well — the Diuid's shrine — vlbove them all, these hopes I'd twine ! So should I triumph o'er my fate And teach this poor, desponding state, l.i signs of tenderness, not hato, Still to think of her old story, Still to hope for future glory. Within these walls, these hopes have been The mubic sweet, the light serene, Which softly o'er this silent scene, How like the autumn streamlets flowed, And like the Autumn sunshine glowed. And thus fjom hour to hour I've grown To love tliese walls though dark and lone, And fondly prize each grey old stone That flings the shadow, deep and chill, Across my fettered footsteps still.