The wild bee and the butterfly Are bright and happy things to see; Living beneath a summer sky, And nestling in an orange tree.
The eagle, monarch of the rocks, Soars nobly in his lonely flight, 'Mid lightning streams and thunder shocks; The bird of freedom, strength, and might.
The graceful chamois, bounding, leaps Where other steps would pause and shrink; He spans the gulf, he climbs the steeps, And sports upon the topmost brink.
Blest things of earth, the bright, the brave, In lands of serfdom still the free! Yet not one privilege ye have Is sought or coveted by me.
But I have heard an eastern tale— Of creature patient, mild, and fair; Whose faith is never known to fail Till man gives more than brute should bear.
Then, meekly proud, its head is bowed, With wrong and suffering oppressed; To breathe its gentle life away, And sink at once in death and rest.
This is the privilege I'd ask— When throbbing pulse and aching brow Betray how sadly dark the task The soul may have to learn below.
Oh, I have lived through many an hour That bade my writhing spirit cry— "Give me the Lama's fabled power: Break, break, my heart, and let me die!"
