 | Sonnets, Lyrics and Translations |  |
68
THE PRISONER.
His was a chamber in the topmost tower—A small unsightly cell with grated bars;
And wearily went on each irksome hour
Of dim captivity and moody cares;
Against such visitants he was not strong,
But sat with laden heart and brow of woe;
And every morn he heard the stir and song
Of birds in royal gardens far below,
Telling of bowers and dewy lawns unseen,
Drench'd with the silver steam that night had shed;
Part blossom-white, part exquisitely green,
By little warblers roam'd and tenanted,
Blending their glad wild notes to greet the sheen
Of the May Dawn, that gleam'd upon his bed.
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