Poems (Acton)/The Lay of the Gipsy
THE LAY OF THE GIPSY.
List ye to me! list ye to me!
Do ye not envy my life, so free?
Do ye not envy my boundless range,
From city to city, in varying change?
All ye who are tied to your homes so tame,
Where each lagging moment is still the same,
Away with such bondage! no life for me,
Save that which is led by the gipsy free.
No riches I boast, no comforts I own,
Save those I procure by this strong arm alone.
A tent for my home, and the ground for my bed,
With the giant trees casting their shade o'er my head,
And the summer breeze sighing me softly to sleep—
Oh! monarchs might envy my slumbers so deep.
I am free of the world! I can roam where I will—
Over mountain and sea, over valley and hill.
I enter unquestioned in palace and tower;
To the flattered and high-born in beauty's bower,
I am welcome; nay, more—I am needed to try
My skill in foretelling her destiny;
And she, to the world so disdainful and proud,
With terror and dread to the gipsy has bowed.
None dare to oppose me—the stoutest grows pale,
And the bravest will shrink, as he lists to the tale—
Of the curse I can breathe, of the power that I hold,
Of the spells that I weave round the stately and bold;
And I, the wild son of the mountain and moor,
(Can shake by my presence the rich and the poor.
Ye children of cities, your wealth I despise;
And the titles and lands that so dearly ye prize.
Give me the blue sky, and the rich-tinted trees,
The soft summer air, and the fresh autumn breeze;
Give me the bright picture of streamlet and fell,
The calm silver lake, and the deep forest dell.
Is there aught that can yield me, in castle or tower,
The pleasure I find in my lone greenwood bower?
Where I bask in the sun's golden lustre all day,
Or watch the pale moon as she glides on her way,
With none to molest me, no law save my own.
I am monarch and lord in the forest alone,
And I would not exchange one old tree from my haunt
For a score of those gems which so proudly ye vaunt;
I covet them not—1 can look on as bright,
When the dew-drops are tinting the flowers with light,
Or the glow-worm is shining the fresh leaves between,
When the sunset has passed o'er the wild woodland scene.
Have ye aught to bestow, 'midst the riches ye own,
Like the star-lighted roof of my free sylvan throne?
Ye have not, ye have not; your treasures I spurn!
From all that ye cherish so fondly I turn.
Let me live, let me die, 'midst the scenes that I love—
The bright earth beneath, and the blue sky above;
The dance neath the moonlight, the feast in the dell,
The joyous excitement by forest and fell;
The right to pass onward, unquestioned and free,
And the bold daring life of the Gipsy for me.
H. A.
Do ye not envy my life, so free?
Do ye not envy my boundless range,
From city to city, in varying change?
All ye who are tied to your homes so tame,
Where each lagging moment is still the same,
Away with such bondage! no life for me,
Save that which is led by the gipsy free.
No riches I boast, no comforts I own,
Save those I procure by this strong arm alone.
A tent for my home, and the ground for my bed,
With the giant trees casting their shade o'er my head,
And the summer breeze sighing me softly to sleep—
Oh! monarchs might envy my slumbers so deep.
I am free of the world! I can roam where I will—
Over mountain and sea, over valley and hill.
I enter unquestioned in palace and tower;
To the flattered and high-born in beauty's bower,
I am welcome; nay, more—I am needed to try
My skill in foretelling her destiny;
And she, to the world so disdainful and proud,
With terror and dread to the gipsy has bowed.
None dare to oppose me—the stoutest grows pale,
And the bravest will shrink, as he lists to the tale—
Of the curse I can breathe, of the power that I hold,
Of the spells that I weave round the stately and bold;
And I, the wild son of the mountain and moor,
(Can shake by my presence the rich and the poor.
Ye children of cities, your wealth I despise;
And the titles and lands that so dearly ye prize.
Give me the blue sky, and the rich-tinted trees,
The soft summer air, and the fresh autumn breeze;
Give me the bright picture of streamlet and fell,
The calm silver lake, and the deep forest dell.
Is there aught that can yield me, in castle or tower,
The pleasure I find in my lone greenwood bower?
Where I bask in the sun's golden lustre all day,
Or watch the pale moon as she glides on her way,
With none to molest me, no law save my own.
I am monarch and lord in the forest alone,
And I would not exchange one old tree from my haunt
For a score of those gems which so proudly ye vaunt;
I covet them not—1 can look on as bright,
When the dew-drops are tinting the flowers with light,
Or the glow-worm is shining the fresh leaves between,
When the sunset has passed o'er the wild woodland scene.
Have ye aught to bestow, 'midst the riches ye own,
Like the star-lighted roof of my free sylvan throne?
Ye have not, ye have not; your treasures I spurn!
From all that ye cherish so fondly I turn.
Let me live, let me die, 'midst the scenes that I love—
The bright earth beneath, and the blue sky above;
The dance neath the moonlight, the feast in the dell,
The joyous excitement by forest and fell;
The right to pass onward, unquestioned and free,
And the bold daring life of the Gipsy for me.
H. A.