The trees all bathed in tears of Night,
    Seemed deck’d with gems of Ophir’s gold,
  And lilies, in pure vestal white
    Their spotless fragrant leaves unfold.

  In gentlest breath the night-winds sigh,
    While fleecy clouds like Angel’s wings,
  Light sailing o’er the azure sky,
    Their shadows cast o’er earthly things.

  O who could deem that aught so fair,
    So filled with beauty and perfume: 
  Was but a mighty sepulchre,
    A vast, capacious mould’ring tomb?

  Or who could deem that mis’ry dwelt
    Within a paradise so fair,
  That want and pain and woe and guilt
    Mingled as sad companions there?

  But see where yonder moonbeams creep
    In that lone crevice, low and small,
  And throws a struggling, sickly beam
    Upon the cold, damp dungeon’s wall.

  See by that feeble, glimm’ring ray,
    Low seated on the damp chill ground
  A mother sits, whose tearful eye
    Is cast in gloomy sadness round.

  Beside her lies her only son: 
    Her lap the pillow for his head. 
  That son must meet the convict’s doom,
    When the brief hours of night have fled.

  The mother speaks:  “Oh see, my son,
    Light breaks upon your dungeon wall! 
  It is a messenger to thee;
    Methinks it is thy Saviour’s call.

  “Dost thou not feel it on thy soul? 
    And wilt thou not His call obey? 
  His blood alone can cleanse from sin,
    And wash thy guilty stains away.”

  “Oh, Mother, yes, I feel His power,
    E’en as I see yon gentle ray;
  His blessed voice now says ’Thoul’t be
    In Paradise with me this day.’”

  Joy filled this waiting mother’s heart;
    “Let us to God the glory give.” 
  They knelt in humble, grateful prayer,
    For Jesus bade that sinner live.

  And Angels hov’ring o’er the scene,
    Clapped their glad wings and flew to Heav’n
  To strike anew their golden harps,
    For peace on earth and sin forgiv’n.

  And the rapt seraphs round the throne,
    Loud anthems to the Saviour raise;
  While cherubims with transport burn,
    And Heav’ns high dome resounds with praise.

  And when the hangman’s task was done,
    Joy filled the stricken mother’s breast. 
  She felt her dear misguided son,
    Through Jesus’ blood, had sunk to rest.

  And while she linger’d on the earth,
    Glory to God was hourly given,
  For that mysterious spirit’s birth,
    That makes the soul an heir of Heav’n.

Picture No.  IV.

  In agony a mother knelt
    Beside her wasted pulseless child;
  “Give, oh, give him back to me,”
    She cried, in accents stern and wild.

  That prayer was heard, the answer came: 
    The feeble pulse revived again;
  And quick the crimson tide of life
    Flowed warmly back through every vein.