The Legend of St. Loy | ||
V.
Said I ye, Seasons, have beheld me hereWhole days? — O rather I should say, and true,
Ye strangers are to me, and I to you,
For I, unhoused, meet you abroad but rare,
Blithe bounding o'er the field or up the hill,
Fanned by the breeze, and drinking purest air,
Soothed by the murmuring of a purling rill,
Charmed by the circling objects of delight,
Which Nature loves to press upon the sight,
And through the heart and joyous spirit thrill.—
No! — but the Sun upon my window glows;
I feel his warmth, — I feel the breeze that blows, —
Which, as in scorn, seem to invite me forth,
To gaze upon the enchantments of the earth!
Thus shine the sun-beams through the abhorred grate,
That mars them with its shade, of prison-gate,
Whose hinge shall never turn t' enlarge a limb
Of the sad victim, but where scoffing him,
Bare stands Captivity with laughter grim,
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Where he can enter not, to vex his eye, —
Yet mine is more — his thoughts can revel wide;
And though the dreams of trouble may annoy,
Yet he can gaily image those of joy —
But this stern Trade hath unto me denied!
Mine is the heavy durance of the soul,
Which would in everlasting rapture roll —
Chains that the body and the mind control!
For I am like a lark in cage confined,
Who feels his wings, and thinks to mount the wind;
I spread my plumes, and then attempt to soar, —
But Disappointment makes my sorrows more!
The Legend of St. Loy | ||