Yet here I breathe, unhappy,
No hope of freedom see—
O! when, enchanting goddess,
Shall I return to thee?
Thron'd on thy native mountain,
Beneath the ample sky,
Thou heedest not my anguish,
Nor hear'st my frequent sigh.
Against embattled legions
Thy panoply I bore,
And from the brow of victors,
The wreath of vict'ry tore.
But thou hast me deserted,
And left to weep in vain,
In this all-gloomy dungeon
To clank my galling chain!
But cease my guilty murmurs,
My punishment is right;
I forc'd my way to ruin,
Against the clearest light.
An angel, sent from heaven,
Inform'd my op'ning mind,
And to the side of virtue,
My shooting thoughts inclin'd.
Religion—always lovely—
Appear'd more lovely still,
While with its heavenly spirit,
She strove my heart to fill.
Of vice the awful features
Her faithful pencil drew,
And from the horrid image
My frighted eyes withdrew.
O! had I wisely cherish'd
These seeds, so timely sown,
The tears of vain repentance
These eyes had never known.
In all the charms of virtue,
Unfallen I had stood,
By keen remorse unwither'd,
Respected by the good.