President Davis.

By Jane T. H. Cross.

Published in the New York News, 1865.

The cell is lonely, and the night Has filled it with a darker gloom; The little rays of friendly light, Which through each crack and chink found room To press in with their noiseless feet, All merciful and fleet, And bring, like Noah's trembling dove, God's silent messages of love-- These, too, are gone, Shut out, and gone, And that great heart is left alone.

Alone, with darkness and with woe, Around him Freedom's temple lies, Its arches crushed, its columns low, The night-wind through its ruin sighs; Rash, cruel hands that temple razed, Then stood the world amazed! And now those hands--ah, ruthless deeds! Their captive pierce--his brave heart bleeds; And yet no groan Is heard, no groan! He suffers silently, alone.

For all his bright and happy home, He has that cell, so drear and dark, The narrow walls, for heaven's blue dome, The clank of chains, for song of lark; And for the grateful voice of friends-- That voice which ever lends Its charm where human hearts are found-- He hears the key's dull, grating sound; No heart is near, No kind heart near, No sigh of sympathy, no tear!

Oh, dream not thus, thou true and good! Unnumbered hearts on thee await, By thee invisibly have stood, Have crowded through thy prison-gate; Nor dungeon bolts, nor dungeon bars, Nor floating "stripes and stars," Nor glittering gun or bayonet, Can ever cause us to forget Our faith to thee, Our love to thee, Thou glorious soul! thou strong! thou free!