The Felon

Oh mark his wan and hollow cheeks,

and mark his eye-balls glare,

and mark his teeth in anguish clinched,

the anguish of despair.

Know, since three days, his penance o'er,

yon felon left a jail,

and since three days no food has past

those lips so parch'd and pale.

"Where shall I turn?" the wretch exclaims,

"where hide my shameful head,

how fly from scorn, or how contrive

to earn an honest bread?

This branded hand would gladly toil,

but when for work I pray,

who views this mark, 'A felon!' cries

and loathing turns away.

My heart has greatly erred, but now

would fain return to good!

My hand has deeply sinned, but yet

has ne'er been stained with blood.

For alms or work in vain I sue,

the scorners both deny;

I starve and starve, and what remains?

This choice: to sin or die.

Here virtue spurns me with disdain,

there pleasure spreads her snare;

strong habit drags me back to vice,

and, urged by fierce despair,

I strive, while hunger gnaws my heart,

to fly from shame in vain;

world, 'tis thy cruel will! I yield

and plunge in guilt again.

There's mercy in each ray of light

that mortal eyes e'er saw!

There's mercy in each breath of air,

that mortal lips e'er draw!

There's mercy both for bird and beast

in God's indulgent plan,

there's mercy for each creeping thing,

but man has none for man.

Ye proudly honest, when you heard

my wounded conscience groan,

had generous hand or feeling heart

one glimse of mercy shown,

that act had made from burning eyes

sweet tears of virtue roll,

had fix'd my heart, assured my faith,

and heaven had gained a soul.