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THE CRIMINAL.

'Tis silence in that cell, and dim the light Gleaming from the sunk lamp; there is one stands Fettered and motionless—so very pale, That were he laid within his winding-sheet And death were on him, yet his cheek could not Wear ghastlier hues; cold damps are on his brow; With intense passion the red veins are swelled; The white lip quivers with suppressed sobs, And his dark eye is glazed with tears which still He is too stern to shed. His countenance Bears wild and fearful traces of the years Which have passed on in guilt; pride, headstrong ire Have left their marks behind; yet, mid this war Of evil elements, some glimpses shine Of better feelings, which, like clouded stars, Soon set in night.—A sullen sound awakes