 | Poems |  |
27
THE PRAYER OF THE CAPTIVE.
“Oh pomp and pride are nought to me,
But my soul yearns for liberty.”
Dale.
But my soul yearns for liberty.”
Dale.
Let me depart! let me depart!
O'er my native hills to roam;
Why would ye hold me so far away
From my own hearth and home?
Oh, tell me not that the land is fair,
The captive's spirit must loathe the air
That shines upon his chain;
He would far rather be wandering free,
Than the lord of yon proud earth and sea,
Dominlon and domain!
O'er my native hills to roam;
Why would ye hold me so far away
From my own hearth and home?
Oh, tell me not that the land is fair,
The captive's spirit must loathe the air
That shines upon his chain;
He would far rather be wandering free,
Than the lord of yon proud earth and sea,
Dominlon and domain!
28
Let me depart! let me depart!—
There are voices in the air;
The sweet, soft tones of those I love
Are ever, ever there.
Oh, tell me not there are glorious things
In this land of proud imaginings,
What doth the captive care
For the mouldering wrecks of the olden time,
The boast of this bright southern clime.
There are voices in the air;
The sweet, soft tones of those I love
Are ever, ever there.
Oh, tell me not there are glorious things
In this land of proud imaginings,
What doth the captive care
For the mouldering wrecks of the olden time,
The boast of this bright southern clime.
Old Rome may rear its column stones
Still haughtily on high,
And point its lordly pinnacles
Unto the deep blue sky;
But what are these while endless snow,
Sits on the high Alps' noble brow,
Far, far above them all;
And what is the fountain's silvery flow
To the mountain stream hurl'd down below,
Or the dash of the waterfall?
Still haughtily on high,
And point its lordly pinnacles
Unto the deep blue sky;
But what are these while endless snow,
Sits on the high Alps' noble brow,
Far, far above them all;
And what is the fountain's silvery flow
To the mountain stream hurl'd down below,
Or the dash of the waterfall?
29
Let me depart! let me depart!
Ye do not know how dear
Those wild and stormy places are
Unto my heart and ear.
Ye do not know the deathless ties,
The chain of endless sympathies,
That bind me heart and hand,
To each lone cliff, and rugged rock,
That battles with the thunder-shock,
In my own native land.
Ye do not know how dear
Those wild and stormy places are
Unto my heart and ear.
Ye do not know the deathless ties,
The chain of endless sympathies,
That bind me heart and hand,
To each lone cliff, and rugged rock,
That battles with the thunder-shock,
In my own native land.
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