In conclusion, permit me to call the attention of all benevolent and pious minds, to the deplorable condition of those whose crimes have justly cut them off from the sweets of liberty and the endearments of social life, and consigned them to a living death within the gloomy walls of a State Prison. With an emphasis that might pierce the soul, they say to you,--"Have pity upon us! have pity upon us, O ye our friends! for the hand of God hath touched us!" But this plaintive cry is heard only to be forgotten. If any class of darkened, perverted, and ruined humanity, has any claim on the sympathies of Christians, this is that class. This Howard felt, and, by his efforts to meliorate their condition, he became the acknowledged prince of philanthropists, and earned an immortal and sacred fame. Our State Prisons, it is true, are not the dark subterranean hells of Europe; but they are, in the fullest American sense of that term,--State Prisons. And why will not some American Howard, some baptized and heavenly spirit, take a thorough and christian survey of these places, and become a christian Howard by causing all the means of grace, like so many rivers from the throne of God, to roll their pure, and comforting, and saving waters, through all their gloomy abodes. THE AUTHOR'S FAREWELL TO LIBERTY AND HIS FRIENDS. Published after he had been confined _nine years_, and a few months before he received his pardon. "_We hung our harps upon the willows._"--CAPTIVE ISRAEL. Farewell, enchanting goddess, Whose smile all nature cheers, And pours the light of heaven Around sublunar years. Adieu, thou seraph beauty; With blushing roses crown'd, Thy breath no more inspires me, Thy flowers no more surround, No more, with thee conversing, I spend the joyous day, While hours of laughing pleasure, Unheeded dance away. Thy fields, by spring enamell'd, These feet no more can tread, Nor in poetic rambles, To whisp'ring rills be led. Long on the leafless willow, My tuneless harp has hung, The themes are all forgotten, On which its numbers rung. Ye groves, with music sounding, Ye vales, in smiling bloom, Ye deep and waving forests, The seats of pleasing gloom; Ye lov'd and honor'd circles, Where peace and friendship dwell-- To all these scenes of pleasure, How can I say--FAREWELL? How can I, honour'd Mother, Whose mem'ry I adore, Endure the thought, so painful, Of seeing you no more? You form'd my heart to virtue, My infant mind to truth, And led me, pure and blameless, Amid the snares of youth. From you the dear idea Of God I first receiv'd, And charm'd by your example, I in his name believ'd. To that adored Being You taught these lips to pray, And bless'd my painful childhood With views of heavenly day.