Poems (Truesdell)/The Captive Warrior's Lament

by Helen Truesdell

THE CAPTIVE WARRIOR'S LAMENT.

"My limbs are bowed, though not with toil,
 But rusted with a vile repose;
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
 And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
 Are banned and barred—forbidden fare."
Byron—Prisoner of Chillon.

Again the morning sun returns,
 To gild the Eastern sky,
Yet still, a captive lone I pine,
 A captive must I die!

Oh! shall I never tread again,
 With step and spirit free,
The hills I've trod a thousand times,
 In days' of boyhood's glee?

The poorest serf can idly roam,
 And none will ask him why;
Whilst I, a warrior true and tried,
 A helpless captive lie!

Oh! for my steed, my noble steed,
 My good and gallant gray,
To bear me to the battle-field,
 Or perish by the way!

Methinks it is a glorious death,
 In freedom's cause to die,
While shouts of victory round us peal,
 And foes before us fly;

But thus to linger day by day,
 Amid this dungeon's gloom,
This sepulcher of all my hopes,
 This worse than living tomb!

What! drops of weakness, will ye come?
 No shame that ye should start;
The tear that stains a warrior's cheek
 Is from a patriot's heart.