 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
THE IMPRISONED
He started from his sleep,—the chain
Clanked on his stirring limb,
The fatal truth came back again,
Like an echoed curse to him.
Chained and alone—his proud heart rose,
Like a tided river then,
And his curse went forth as the Samiel goes,
To the doomed abodes of men.
Clanked on his stirring limb,
The fatal truth came back again,
Like an echoed curse to him.
Chained and alone—his proud heart rose,
Like a tided river then,
And his curse went forth as the Samiel goes,
To the doomed abodes of men.
Ye've bound your gyves upon the hand,
And fettered down the form,
And trampled on the freeman's land,
With his father's blood yet warm.
Ye've bound me where the sun is not,
Where the star-light never falls,
But ye humble not the kingly thought
That mocks your guarded walls.
And fettered down the form,
And trampled on the freeman's land,
With his father's blood yet warm.
Ye've bound me where the sun is not,
Where the star-light never falls,
But ye humble not the kingly thought
That mocks your guarded walls.
The soul—the godlike soul is free,
Its glory is not dim,
It gathers sterner energy
From every tortured limb.
Dream ye that feelings nursed as mine—
Are touched by human ill?
The form beneath its chains may pine,
The soul is mighty still.
Its glory is not dim,
It gathers sterner energy
From every tortured limb.
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Are touched by human ill?
The form beneath its chains may pine,
The soul is mighty still.
And heavier ye may bind the chain—
My spirit shall not quail,
Though madness revel on my brain
The heart shall never fail.
Ye cannot crush it—for the deep,
And burning sense of wrong,
Through every weary hour shall keep
Its thirst of vengeance strong.
My spirit shall not quail,
Though madness revel on my brain
The heart shall never fail.
Ye cannot crush it—for the deep,
And burning sense of wrong,
Through every weary hour shall keep
Its thirst of vengeance strong.
That sleepless vengeance! it will come—
A whirlwind upon earth.
The dungeon stone—the very tomb
Shall send its summons forth.
The injured spirit sleepeth not,—
It may not be confined—
The tyrant's hand hath never wrought
A fetter for the mind.
A whirlwind upon earth.
The dungeon stone—the very tomb
Shall send its summons forth.
The injured spirit sleepeth not,—
It may not be confined—
The tyrant's hand hath never wrought
A fetter for the mind.
Haverhill Gazette, July 11, 1829 (From American Manufacturer)
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |