172
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE.
I have dreamt thou wert
A captive in thy hopelessness; afar
From the sweet home of thy young infancy,
Whose image unto thee is as a dream
Of fire and slaughter; I can see thee wasting,
Sick for thy native air.
L. E. L.
The champions had come from their fields of war,
Over the crests of the billows far,
They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores,
Where the deep had foam'd to their flashing oars.
They sat at their feast round the Norse-king's board,
By the glare of the torch-light the mead was pour’d,
The hearth was heap'd with the pine-boughs high,
And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by.
