THE SIBERIAN EXILE.
61
Should be fate's plaything for a little hour!
Weep for the noble soldier bound in chains,
Compelled to look upon his bleeding bands,
And wasted country—and forbid to aid
The arms of one, or share the other's fate!
Weep for the noble soldier bound in chains,
Compelled to look upon his bleeding bands,
And wasted country—and forbid to aid
The arms of one, or share the other's fate!
And weep that Patriotism thus should meet
Her guardian! Not upon the battle-plains,
With banners streaming o'er him, and the shouts
Of victory swelling in his dying ear,
But friendless, solitary, and unknown,
A stranger in inhospitable clime,
Whose heart, by drinking deep of poisoned springs.
Is dying, but not dead!
And shed a tear
Of unfeigned sorrow, that the chosen spot
From which he started, led to such a goal!
Her guardian! Not upon the battle-plains,
With banners streaming o'er him, and the shouts
Of victory swelling in his dying ear,
But friendless, solitary, and unknown,
A stranger in inhospitable clime,
Whose heart, by drinking deep of poisoned springs.
Is dying, but not dead!
And shed a tear
Of unfeigned sorrow, that the chosen spot
From which he started, led to such a goal!
And weep, alas! for him, whose heart long since
Has ceased to yield its customary store
Of love to fellow-man! nor treasured in
Kindly affections, like the dews of heaven,
Invigorating all they breathe upon!
Nor felt the clasp of kindred hand in his,
Nor met the glance of loving eyes whose light
Was ever turned on him, as turns the flower
Towards the sun it worships! and whose tongue
Has ceased to yield its customary store
Of love to fellow-man! nor treasured in
Kindly affections, like the dews of heaven,
Invigorating all they breathe upon!
Nor felt the clasp of kindred hand in his,
Nor met the glance of loving eyes whose light
Was ever turned on him, as turns the flower
Towards the sun it worships! and whose tongue
