That with sweet concord sets the greenwood ringing,
And gazes eager round, and is full fain
To mark the warbler fair, yet gazes still in vain,—
“So I, being melted to my inmost soul
By this thy noble plaint for Freedom’s sake,
Do grieve that ocean-tides between us roll,
And that I ne’er can see thee strive to break
The shackles, e’en more harsh than those that bind
The slave-born limbs,—the shackles of the mind.
“Go on, brave heart! and faint not, though thy way