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,