But they, of whose abode
Midst her green valleys earth retain'd no trace,
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod,
A shade of sadness on some kindred face,
A void and silent place
In some sweet home;—thou hadst no wreaths for these,
Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!
The peasant, at his door
Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread,
And songs on every wind!—From thy bright shore
No lovelier vision floated round his head,
Thou wert for nobler dead!
He heard the bounding steps which round him fell,
And sigh'd to bid the festal sun farewell!
The slave, whose very tears
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast
Shut up the woes and burning thoughts of years,
As in the ashes of an urn compress'd;
—He might not be thy guest!
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky
Came o'er his path, and whisper'd "Liberty!"
