"Thou'rt not where wild flowers wave
O'er crag and sparry cave;
Thou'rt not where pines are sounding,
Or joyous torrents bounding—
Alas, my brother'
"Thou'rt not where green, on high,
The brighter pastures lie;
Ev'n those, thine own wild places,
Bear of our chain dark traces:—
Alas, my brother!
"Far hath the sunbeam spread,
Nor found thy lonely bed;
Long hath the fresh wind sought thee,
Nor one sweet whisper brought thee—
Alas, my brother!
"Thou, that for joy wert born,
Free as the wings of morn!
Will aught thy young life cherish,
Where the Alpine rose would perish?
Alas, my brother!
"Canst thou be singing still,
As once on every hill?
Is not thy soul forsaken,
And the bright gift from thee taken?—
Alas, alas, my brother!"
And was the bright gift from the captive fled?
Like the fire on his hearth, was his spirit dead?
Not so!—but as rooted in stillness deep,
The pure stream-lily its place will keep,
Though its tearful urns to the blast may quiver,
While the red waves rush down the foaming river,
So freedom's faith in his bosom lay,
Trembling, yet not to be borne away!
