 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
V.
“Now, tell me youth, how, without dread,
Thou darest by night these hills of storm?
Why on the cliff-stone rest thy head,
On the cold snows thy pallid form?
Say what the unmitigable woe
That gnaws within that aching brain?
Who is the tyrant—who the foe—
The author of thy pain?
Thou darest by night these hills of storm?
Why on the cliff-stone rest thy head,
On the cold snows thy pallid form?
Say what the unmitigable woe
That gnaws within that aching brain?
Who is the tyrant—who the foe—
The author of thy pain?
“If of the tyrant thou hast fear,
Proclaim him, let the warning sound;
Ten thousand patriot hands will rear
Their standard from this rocky ground:
Ten thousand warriors will arise,
Like thee opprest, like thee subdued;
And Freedom's glorious sacrifice
Be charter'd with their blood!
“Or say—hath Love's entrancing chain
Thee vanquish'd, that hath vanquish'd all?
Even then thy hope shall spring again,
The prouder for its fall.”
Proclaim him, let the warning sound;
Ten thousand patriot hands will rear
Their standard from this rocky ground:
Ten thousand warriors will arise,
Like thee opprest, like thee subdued;
And Freedom's glorious sacrifice
Be charter'd with their blood!
9
Thee vanquish'd, that hath vanquish'd all?
Even then thy hope shall spring again,
The prouder for its fall.”
| The bard, and minor poems | |