Mysterious dulness acts her part, "Oh let me, in your forests wild, Or mountains hoar, or deserts vast, I said-upborne by genius high, I range the vale, the glen, the woods, O'er giant mountains lost in sky, And streams that roll their ocean floods: With savage tribes I wander free -Too well I note, and loathing turn For Europe's climes again I burn, The silent moon, the stars, the skies, Enough for him, in ignorance bred, Enough for him the clay-built hut With leaves and matting tempest-proof, When, safe within his cabin shut, The whirlwinds whistle o'er his roof; There, surly monarch of a shed, For treachery oft in ambush lurks To rob his scant and wretched store, And vengeance, bent on murderous works, Embrues her hand in kindred gore; No blooming bride, in warm delight, No pulse ecstatic throbs to bliss, Nor love's soft thrills inform the breast, Nor balmy lips that meet the kiss, Nor thoughts half-utter'd, half repress'd. To toil, and stripes, and misery bred, The female droops beneath her doom; Untimely hoar-frosts strew her head, And wrinkles mark her withered bloom; For the bright smile of Albion's fair, The toil-worn arm, and hollow brow; Her's the dead eye, that fix'd awhile Or brightens to an idiot smile, For loathing more than love design'd; By her the soothing arts untried That gives a sentiment to sound: For music's breath and sounds of glee, Rude yells proclaim the dire decree That seals in blood a captive's doom: And dim and pale the night fire glows Where long some tortur'd chief has bled, Where ghastly heaps of mangled foes The weak with supplicating eye In vain for shelter sue the strong; Age wrings her hands in agony, And dies dishonour'd by the young. Weak men, what ills our peace annoy! How full the fountains of our tears! SONG. How light was the yoke, and how sweet the employ, My limbs were unfetter'd, my hands were unbound, To a service so blissful, oh bid me return; Return (and, dear Mary, release me no more!) To each fear, every care, every tender concern, And each gentle rebuke that endeared it before. For who that a captive had yielded to thee, Of that sweet enthraldom could ever complain? Or who could in freedom enjoy to be free, Who had bowed to thy yoke, and remembered thy chain? K |