POEMS.
25
No riches I boast, no comforts I own,
Save those I procure by this strong arm alone.
A tent for my home, and the ground for my bed,
With the giant trees casting their shade o'er my head,
And the summer breeze sighing me softly to sleep—
Oh! monarchs might envy my slumbers so deep.
I am free of the world! I can roam where I will—
Over mountain and sea, over valley and hill.
I enter unquestioned in palace and tower;
To the flattered and high-born in beauty's bower,
I am welcome; nay, more—I am needed to try
My skill in foretelling her destiny;
And she, to the world so disdainful and proud,
With terror and dread to the gipsy has bowed.
None dare to oppose me—the stoutest grows pale,
And the bravest will shrink, as he lists to the tale—
Of the curse I can breathe, of the power that I hold,
Of the spells that I weave round the stately and bold;
And I, the wild son of the mountain and moor,
(Can shake by my presence the rich and the poor.
Ye children of cities, your wealth I despise;
And the titles and lands that so dearly ye prize.
Give me the blue sky, and the rich-tinted trees,
The soft summer air, and the fresh autumn breeze;
Give me the bright picture of streamlet and fell,
The calm silver lake, and the deep forest dell.
Is there aught that can yield me, in castle or tower,
The pleasure I find in my lone greenwood bower?
Save those I procure by this strong arm alone.
A tent for my home, and the ground for my bed,
With the giant trees casting their shade o'er my head,
And the summer breeze sighing me softly to sleep—
Oh! monarchs might envy my slumbers so deep.
I am free of the world! I can roam where I will—
Over mountain and sea, over valley and hill.
I enter unquestioned in palace and tower;
To the flattered and high-born in beauty's bower,
I am welcome; nay, more—I am needed to try
My skill in foretelling her destiny;
And she, to the world so disdainful and proud,
With terror and dread to the gipsy has bowed.
None dare to oppose me—the stoutest grows pale,
And the bravest will shrink, as he lists to the tale—
Of the curse I can breathe, of the power that I hold,
Of the spells that I weave round the stately and bold;
And I, the wild son of the mountain and moor,
(Can shake by my presence the rich and the poor.
Ye children of cities, your wealth I despise;
And the titles and lands that so dearly ye prize.
Give me the blue sky, and the rich-tinted trees,
The soft summer air, and the fresh autumn breeze;
Give me the bright picture of streamlet and fell,
The calm silver lake, and the deep forest dell.
Is there aught that can yield me, in castle or tower,
The pleasure I find in my lone greenwood bower?
