VII.—THE SONG OF HOPE.
Droop not, my brothers! I hear a glad strain—
We shall burst forth like streams from the winter night's chain;
A flag is unfurl'd, a bright star of the sea,
A ransom approaches—we yet shall be free!
Where the pines wave, where the light chamois leaps,
Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps;
Where the snows glisten, the mountain-rills foam,
Free as the falcon's wing, yet shall we roam.
Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks are met,
Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet!
Crossing the desert, o'ersweeping the sea—
Droop not, my Brothers! we yet shall be free!
