II
Well then, burst through lips obstructing,
Storms, that through my bosom roll,
Thoughts, that flash like rays of lightning
Through the darkness of my soul,
Fire of Shame and Wrathful Teeming,
Rouse my string from idle dreaming
And its heavy swoon control!
Hatched my songs not in a nest weighed
With scented tresses softly pressed,
Warmed them not the heart of maid
Dreaming sweetly on my breast.
Flashed were they through weary head
When ’neath haughty blows of fists, red
Flushed the cheek with blood compressed.
Yea of blood and tears and gall,
When times were bad, they were born;
When I saw the tyrant install
Tortures on my brothers forlorn;
When I gnashed my teeth in vain
As the brutal beadle in disdain
Laughed at us suffering and worn.
I know there’ll be no gratitude,
I know many of you will say,
In the tortured croaking rude
There’s no art or beauty’s lay,
Above troubled turmoil’s time
Should the singer strive to climb,
To the sunny height’s clear way.
’Tis the truth perhaps, but freely
How may soar one to the sky,
When on breast he feels painfully
Heavy night’s hobgoblin lie?
No other strain with me abides
Until storm in soul subsides;
Sing no other strain can I.