32
SONNET.
Pent in the city's darksome walls, I pine
For the pure air of heaven, and mountain breeze;
To hear the fresh winds sigh among the trees,
And gaze once more on nature's face divine.
Alas! in vain; for wearing pain is mine,
Sickness and weariness:—sometimes I think,
That, but for one dear being, on the blink,
I would not ask to linger—to confine
The heart that pants for freedom—to endure
A tortured frame, with every blessing round—
To dream of woods, and waters, and the sound
Of birds most musical—and feel how poor
The town's vain scenes, to one whose steps would be
On mountain wilds, 'mid nature's liberty.
For the pure air of heaven, and mountain breeze;
To hear the fresh winds sigh among the trees,
And gaze once more on nature's face divine.
Alas! in vain; for wearing pain is mine,
Sickness and weariness:—sometimes I think,
That, but for one dear being, on the blink,
I would not ask to linger—to confine
The heart that pants for freedom—to endure
A tortured frame, with every blessing round—
To dream of woods, and waters, and the sound
Of birds most musical—and feel how poor
The town's vain scenes, to one whose steps would be
On mountain wilds, 'mid nature's liberty.
