How blythe they look, how fresh and debonair,
In this their prison on the seaward air,
On which no lark has soar'd to improvise a prayer.
III.
Have they no memory of the inland grass,—
The fields where breezes pass,
And where the full-eyed children, out at play,
Make all the land so gay?
Have they no thought of dews that, like a tear,
Were shed by Morning on the Night's cold bier,