The bird, when he pineth, may cease his song,
Till the hour when his heart shall again be strong;
But thou—wilt thou turn in thy woe aside,
And weep midst thy brethren?—no, not for pride!
May the fiery word from thy lip find way,
When the thought burning in thee would rush to day?—
May the love or the grief of thy haunted breast,
Look forth from thy features, the banquet's guest?—
No! with the shaft in thy bosom borne,
Thou must hide the wound from the eye of scorn,
Thou must fold the mantle that none may see,
And mask thee with laughter, and say thou art free.
Free!—thou art bound, till thy race is run,
By the might of all on the soul of one!
On thy heart, on thy lip, must the fetter be—
Dreamer, fond dreamer! oh! who is free?
Page:Felicia Hemans in The Keepsake 1829.pdf/3
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