Page:Poet Lore, volume 27, 1916.djvu/130

 I deemed that yon somewhere Triumphs ’neath the heav’ns there, Flies our hallo at last, Freedom’s sunny song.

When my head I would lift, Low again would it drift; On in shame and sorrow Years succession gave. Clings the yoke still to me And the eye waits vainly Dawn’s redemptory glow: I will die a slave.

My head e’en now bends low, White locks my temples show; Hopes no longer attain Autumn’s riper hue,— Shackled my hands I know Cursèd the yoke I’ll never o'erthrow,— In my grave shall that chain Rest beside me too.