Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/255

Rh

I may urge through the desert my foaming steed, The wings of the morning shall lend him speed; I may meet the storm in its rushing glee— Its blasts and its lightnings are not more free!

Captive! and hast thou then rent thy chain? Art thou free in the wilderness, free on the main? Yes! there thy spirit may proudly soar, But must thou not mingle with throngs the more?

The bird when he pineth, may hush his song, Till the hour when his heart shall again be strong But thou, canst thou turn in thy woe aside, And weep 'midst thy brethren—no, not for pride.

May the fiery word from thy lip find way, When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring to day? May the care that sits in thy weary breast Look forth from thine aspect, the revel's guest?