The Prisoners Of Naples

I have been thinking of the victims bound     In Naples, dying for the lack of air     And sunshine, in their close, damp cells of pain,     Where hope is not, and innocence in vain     Appeals against the torture and the chain!     Unfortunates! whose crime it was to share     Our common love of freedom, and to dare,     In its behalf, Rome's harlot triple-crowned,     And her base pander, the most hateful thing     Who upon Christian or on Pagan ground     Makes vile the old heroic name of king.     O God most merciful! Father just and kind!     Whom man hath bound let thy right hand unbind.     Or, if thy purposes of good behind     Their ills lie hidden, let the sufferers find     Strong consolations; leave them not to doubt     Thy providential care, nor yet without     The hope which all thy attributes inspire,     That not in vain the martyr's robe of fire     Is worn, nor the sad prisoner's fretting chain;     Since all who suffer for thy truth send forth,     Electrical, with every throb of pain,     Unquenchable sparks, thy own baptismal rain     Of fire and spirit over all the earth,     Making the dead in slavery live again.     Let this great hope be with them, as they lie     Shut from the light, the greenness, and the sky;     From the cool waters and the pleasant breeze,     The smell of flowers, and shade of summer trees;     Bound with the felon lepers, whom disease     And sins abhorred make loathsome; let them share     Pellico's faith, Foresti's strength to bear     Years of unutterable torment, stern and still,     As the chained Titan victor through his will!     Comfort them with thy future; let them see     The day-dawn of Italian liberty;     For that, with all good things, is hid with Thee,     And, perfect in thy thought, awaits its time to be!     I, who have spoken for freedom at the cost     Of some weak friendships, or some paltry prize     Of name or place, and more than I have lost     Have gained in wider reach of sympathies,     And free communion with the good and wise;     May God forbid that I should ever boast     Such easy self-denial, or repine     That the strong pulse of health no more is mine;     That, overworn at noonday, I must yield     To other hands the gleaning of the field;     A tired on-looker through the day's decline.     For blest beyond deserving still, and knowing     That kindly Providence its care is showing     In the withdrawal as in the bestowing,     Scarcely I dare for more or less to pray.     Beautiful yet for me this autumn day     Melts on its sunset hills; and, far away,     For me the Ocean lifts its solemn psalm,     To me the pine-woods whisper; and for me     Yon river, winding through its vales of calm,     By greenest banks, with asters purple-starred,     And gentian bloom and golden-rod made gay,     Flows down in silent gladness to the sea,     Like a pure spirit to its great reward!     Nor lack I friends, long-tried and near and dear,     Whose love is round me like this atmosphere,     Warm, soft, and golden. For such gifts to me     What shall I render, O my God, to thee?     Let me not dwell upon my lighter share     Of pain and ill that human life must bear;     Save me from selfish pining; let my heart,     Drawn from itself in sympathy, forget     The bitter longings of a vain regret,     The anguish of its own peculiar smart.     Remembering others, as I have to-day,     In their great sorrows, let me live alway     Not for myself alone, but have a part,     Such as a frail and erring spirit may,     In love which is of Thee, and which indeed Thou art