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Rh What the savage at the stump, his eye-sockets empty,
 * his mouth spirting whoops and defiance,

What stills the traveller come to the vault at Mount
 * Vernon,

What sobers the Brooklyn boy as he looks down the
 * shores of the Wallabout and remembers the
 * Prison Ships,

What burnt the gums of the red-coat at Saratoga
 * when he surrendered his brigades,

These become mine and me every one—and they are
 * but little,

I become as much more as I like.

I become any presence or truth of humanity here,
 * See myself in prison shaped like another man,
 * And feel the dull unintermitted pain.

For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their
 * carbines and keep watch,

It is I let out in the morning and barred at night.

Not a mutineer walks hand-cuffed to the jail, but I
 * am hand-cuffed to him and walk by his side,

I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one,
 * with sweat on my twitching lips.

Not a youngster is taken for larceny, but I go up too,
 * and am tried and sentenced.

Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp, but I also
 * lie at the last gasp,

My face is ash-colored—my sinews gnarl—away
 * from me people retreat.