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Soft western wind, with music fraught,
Of all to heart most dear;
Of birds that sing in greenest glade,
Of streams that run so clear;
Why pour thy sweetness o'er the heart
That wastes in dungeon drear?
The sunshine's for the jocund heart,
The breeze is for the free;
They be for those who bend stout bow
Beneath the greenwood tree.
Sun ne'er should shine, breeze never blow,
For fettered slave like me.
I hear the hawk's scream in the wood,
The brayings of gaunt hound,
The sharp sough of the feathered shaft,
The bugle's thrilling sound;
I hear them; and, Oh God, these limbs
With Spanish irons bound!
Strike these foul fetters from my wrist,
These shackles from my knee,
Set this foot 'gainst an earthfast stone,
This back 'gainst broad oak tree;
