IN FRENCH FIELDS.
245
Sonnet.—FREEDOM.
By iron bars the lion proud hemmed round,
The sovereign lion with the terrible eyes,
Vanquished, yet still invincible, defies
Not by vain efforts, but a calm profound.
Idle he sits, as wont, upon the ground,
His claws drawn in their sheath, and none descries
In his unchanging front the rage that lies
Deep in his bosom, without sign or sound.
'Tis sometimes only, when he snuffs the storm
Sweeping afar, he stirs and lifts his form,
Savage, magnificent. Then to hear his roar
The gaolers tremble—but he drops anew;
Not long has he to pine on dungeon-floor;
He chokes for freedom: death must soon ensue.
