She looks not on the smiling sky,
The wide expanse blue, far and high,
She looks not on the stars above
Throbbing like bosoms breathing love;
Nor lists she to the breeze so gay,
Which whispers round in wanton play,
And stirs soft waves of starry gleam
To wake her from that moody dream.
The moon-light's on yon frowning pile.
But oh! how faint and pale its smile!
Methinks yon high and gloomy tow'r
And battlement and faded bow'r,
With awful hush and solitude
Have chill'd its soft and joyous mood.
This fortress is the prison of the captive princess whose guards deplore the duty that keeps them from the more active service of their time:—
You tell me that yon captive lone
Would grace the proudest monarch's throne,
And that from regal bowers she came,
And halls whose splendour has no name,
Because she lov'd some chief whose pride
Would stoop not, e'en to win his bride,
To her proud father; for his hand
Could wield as well the warrior brand,
And his the race who ne'er hath shown
Submission to a stranger's throne;
And ne'er hath lowly bent the knee
To Powers of this wide earth that be!
I grieve to hear her piteous tale;
And must such cruel fate bewail;
I grieve to hear that maiden fair
Should shed the tear of dark Despair,
