IV.
WRITTEN IN EXILE.
1.
With the mild sound of clear swift waves the Danube's arms of foam
Circle a verdant isle which Peace has made her chosen home;
Where the fond poet might repair from weariness and strife,
And in the sunshine of sweet song consume his happy life.
Here evermore the smiling Spring goes scattering odorous flowers,
And nightingales and turtle-doves in depth of myrtle bowers,
Turn disappointment into hope, turn sadness to delight,
With magic of their fond laments, which cease not day nor night.
2.
Here am I placed, or sooth to say, alone, 'neath foreign skies
Forced in arrest, and easy 'tis in such a paradise
To force a meditative man, whose own desires would doom
Himself with pleasure to a world all redolence and bloom.
One thought alone distresses me, if I whilst banished sink
'Midst such misfortunes to the grave, lest haply they should think
It was my complicated ills that caused my death, when I
Know well that if I die 'twill be because I wish to die.
3.
My person's in the power and hands of him who can require,
And at his sovereign pleasure do what else he may desire,
But he shall ne'er have power to force my discontents to stay,
Whilst nothing more of me than this is subject to his sway.
When now the' inevitable doom shall come, my fatal hour,
And find me in the self-same place, the prisoner of his power,
Another thing more keen than death it is will deal the blow,
As whosoever has endured the like too well must know.