Poem by Ernest Charles Jones

The Silent Cell

They told me 'twas a fearful thing
  to pine in prison lone:
The brain became a shrivelled scroll,
  the heart a living stone.

Nor solitude, nor silent cell
  The teeming mind can tame:
No tribute needs the granite-well;
  No food the planet-flame.

Denied the fruit of others' thought,
  To write my own denied,
Sweet sisters, Hope and Memory, brought
  Bright volumes to my side.

And oft we trace, with airy pen,
  Full many a word of worth;
For Time will pass, and Freedom then
  Shall flash them on the earth.

They told me that my veins would flag,
  My ardour would decay;
And heavily their fetters drag
  My blood's young strength away.

Like conquerors bounding to the goal,
  Where cold, white marble gleams,
Magnificent red rivers! roll!-
  Roll! all you thousand streams!.

Oft, to passion's stormy gale,
  When sleep I seek in vain,
Fleets of fancy up them sail,
  And anchor in my brain.

But never a wish for base retreat,
  Or thought of a recreant part,
While yet a single pulse shall beat
  Proud marches in my heart.

They'll find me still unchanged and strong,
  when breaks their puny thrall;
With hate-for not one living soul-
  And pity-for them all.

1. Hymn for Lammas Day
2. Too Soon
3. The Life of a Flower
4. The Painter of Florence
5. A Prisoner's Night-Thought

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