THE SIBERIAN EXILE.
Coldly the winds blew o'er the barren heath,
Where wrapt in garments made of reindeer-skin,
That scarce sufficed to shield his limbs, he stood,
The lone Siberian exile. On his brow
The lapse of years had left full many a trace
Of their sad progress—and his sunken eye
Gazed vacantly on objects, that to him,
Brought no associations of sweet thoughts
To wake a kindred feeling in his heart.
And what was there around him that could call,
To life and light one pleasurable glow
Within his bosom, and awake the strings
Of that sweet harp within it, to yield forth
One trembling tone of ecstacy and love;
Not the cold skies above him, nor the winds
That swept in fitful gusts the wintry waste,
Around his miserable dwelling; not
His sad companions in that dismal land,
Who passed their days in gathering bitterness?
From each sweet flower that memory treasured deep
Within her spirit-cells!
Where wrapt in garments made of reindeer-skin,
That scarce sufficed to shield his limbs, he stood,
The lone Siberian exile. On his brow
The lapse of years had left full many a trace
Of their sad progress—and his sunken eye
Gazed vacantly on objects, that to him,
Brought no associations of sweet thoughts
To wake a kindred feeling in his heart.
And what was there around him that could call,
To life and light one pleasurable glow
Within his bosom, and awake the strings
Of that sweet harp within it, to yield forth
One trembling tone of ecstacy and love;
Not the cold skies above him, nor the winds
That swept in fitful gusts the wintry waste,
Around his miserable dwelling; not
His sad companions in that dismal land,
Who passed their days in gathering bitterness?
From each sweet flower that memory treasured deep
Within her spirit-cells!
