THE YOUNG CAPTIVE.
The budding shoot ripens unharmed by the scythe,
Without fear of the press, on vine-branches lithe,
Through spring-tide the green clusters bloom.
Is’t strange, then, that I in my life's morning hour,
Though troubles like clouds on the dark present lower,
Half-frighted shrink back from my doom?
Let the stern—hearted stoic run boldly on death!
I—I weep and I hope; to the north wind's chill breath
I bend,—then erect is my form!
If days there are bitter, there are days also sweet,
Enjoyment unmixed where on earth may we meet?
What ocean has never a storm?
Illusions the fairest assuage half my pain,
The walls of a prison enclose me in vain,
The strong wings of hope bear me far;
So escapes from the net of the fowler the bird,
So darts he through ether, while his music is heard
Like showers of sweet sound from a star.
Comes Death unto me? I sleep tranquil and calm,
And Peace when I waken stands by with her balm,
Remorse is the offspring of crimes;
My welcome each morning smiles forth in all eyes,
My presence is here, to sad brows, a surprise
Which kindles to pleasure at times.
