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The soft rich breath of breezes comes laden with perfume,
From the dewy groves of citron, and the orange tree in bloom.
In the gardens of the palaces, the hand of Art hath given
A beauty, that might well awake the Turkman's dream of Heaven;
Where the fountain gushes cool beneath the greenly arching vine,
And flowers of magic loveliness, beneath its shadow twine—
Where the wail-note of the prisoned bird tells the story of a land,
Glittering in stolen wealth, retained by stern oppression's hand.
Within that lovely city, of vassalage and power;
Of poverty and wasted wealth—of hovel and of tower,
Are gathered on their kingly pride, a power-abusing band—
The titled heads and iron hearts of Austria's groaning land,
From Presburg's halls and Servia's mines, the prince and noble meet,
To forge anew the chains that bind the serf beneath their feet;
'Midst hearts and feelings like his own, Prince Metternich is there,
A tyrant, that would crush the soul of freedom every where.
