AH me! the earth is very beautiful: Far down below my prison-tower I trace The eager river broadening to the sea, Between its sudden crags and fir-coned heights, Far off I see the long blue mountain range All mellowed with the early morning mists, The pallid brow of the white giant warm With the full glory of the morning beams; In long expanse I see the sloping fields, The waving barley yellowing in the sun,-- A golden sea upon the laughing earth,-- I hear the merry mowers in the meads Sing, to the burden of the busy scythe, A happy song of Home and Fatherland. --Of Home and Fatherland! Oh! blessèd Christ, Although I know how near my life death is,-- I cannot read it written in my heart That home and fatherland are now for me A past beyond all hope for ever past; I cannot, I that should but think of death, Keep back my brain from happy phantasies; I picture to myself my glad descent Along the little rock-path by the shore, How I would tarry for a moment's glance, Where the light tamarisk branches from the crag High up behind our little vine-wreathed home, And I should shroud among its feathery green To learn if all my dear ones yet were left, And I should see them in the quiet eve, The children playing by the low-rimmed wall, My little Paul and baby Beatrice, Throwing small pebbles in the fringing sea-- Oh! blue blue sea, these seas have no such blue; The others sitting on the cypressed bank, My father kingly in the youth of age, And my sweet mother with her silvered hair, Silvered too soon in her despair for me, And my fair sister my loved Angela, And Nina, oh! my Nina, best beloved, My little Nina, my deep-eyed desire, My young true wife, she would be with them too; And they would speak low-voiced and I should know That they were talking mournfully of me, And I should bound along the slanting ledge Upon them unawares, and there would be Such joy as should redeem all foregone pain. Oh, weakness thus to trifle from the truth, Soon, very soon, before the eastern sun Slants its warm rays upon the vine-clad slope, I shall be sleeping with the quiet dead. Oh, God! forgive me that I cannot yet Call back my spirit from the dreams of life, Life that throbs on so strongly through my veins, That half it seems a thing impossible That life and I should not be wholly one, Inseparably one. I will not look, Save in farewell when the last moment comes, Out on the brightness of the happy earth That laughs my thoughts away from needful gloom Smile on, fair skies, I shall not see you more, Dance on, gold stream, I shall not see you more, I will but look upon the dank blotched walls, And think of Death. I do not fear to die; It is no idle boast, why should I fear? Have I not suffered torments and despair, Yea, all the agonies of living death; Have they not penned me far from all I loved, And anguished me with misery of dread, Of dread most dreadful, lest, because my tongue Refused with Judas-words to minister To their foul thirst for blood and count their names, My brethren in our just and holy cause, And, yielding them to an unrighteous doom, Blight fatally our country's budding hope, The hellish might of angered tyranny Should wreak its threatened vengeance on the heads Of my belovèd ones, and torture them As I was tortured? Have I not endured All pain of flesh and spirit that cold hate, With voice deliberate and rigid smile, Could press upon my life? How should I fear? For I had seen the shadow of this death Far off, and grown familiar with its shape, When first my step was on the rugged path, Where It stood threatening my bold advance. So let it come, I shall have quiet rest From this long hateful prison weariness; What horror could there be in silent death, Like the dull horror of a long decline Through lagging prisoned years to helpless age, To feel the falling power of the numbed brain, Palsied by sickness of monotony, Droop into dotage, or perchance grow wild In madness? Surely they grow merciful; I thought that they had doomed me to such fate, And I should linger in a living tomb, A life less conscious of life's energies Than the brown spider crouching on the walls Upon the long-blurred patch, my fancy shaped To Nina's waving tresses. So, the strong blue fly, Bursting the fragile mesh, has marred its web: It hurries down-- Strange that I trifle thus! My wilful thoughts as in a clueless maze Keep wandering fondly from my purposed goal, My sight, that should be dim in trance of prayer, Has keenest knowledge of all circumstance, Seems even to count o'er the very motes In the kind sunbeam that has found its way Through narrow bars to bring me ere I die A sweet farewell from the fair outer world. The small-orbed past revolves before my soul, Darkening the greater future's mystic sphere From her strained eyes. Yet needs it that I fit Myself with calm devotions for mine end Before he comes who very soon will come, The wordy priest who shrived me yesternight, A good man doubtless, but he vexes me With much continuance of servile prate Of homage due to loving governors Whom I have wronged--I wronged! Wronged Them Whose hateful yoke has wrung my bleeding land!-- Ah! He forgave, whose dying agonies Are sculptured on this ivory crucifix, Once Nina's. Mary mother, while I kiss These piercèd feet, do thou pray Him for me, And calm my spirit into happy prayer. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WRITTEN [OR LINES] IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM by THOMAS HOOD A BALLADE OF LAWN TENNIS by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE MALLARDS PASS UNHARMED by LAURA FRANCES ALEXANDER THE RUNAWAY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |