Of Captives, ’neath a Tyrant’s durance laid;
Never, to view the sun’s bright face again;
Never to breathe the air, of free, wild hill and plain.
The moon had risen, a host of stars among,
When, to th’ embattled castle walls, drew nigh
A wand’ring minstrel, from his shoulders hung
A harp, sweet instrument of melody.
He paus’d awhile, beneath the turret high,
Then took his harp, and all [folio 3] the sweet chords swept,
Till a sound swell’d beneath the silent sky,