THE DUNGEONED ANARCHIST.

He crouches, voiceless, in his tomb-like cell,

Forgot of all things save his jailer's hate

That turns the daylight from his iron grate

To make his prison more and more a hell;

For him no coming day or hour shall spell

Deliverance, or bid his soul await

The hand of Mercy at his dungeon gate:

He would not know even though a kingdom fell!

The black night hides his hand before his eyes,—

That grim, clenched hand still burning with the sting

Of royal blood; he holds it like a prize,

Waiting the hour when he at last shall fling

The stain in God's face, shrieking as he dies:

"Behold the unconquered arm that slew a king!"

[27]

[27]

AT THE PLAY.

The poet painted a woman's soul,

Human, trusting and kind,

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