Will reach it,—a murmur of slow revolt, like the hiss of a rising tide.
No rootlet faint and chill
But shares the quivering thrill;
And mutinous whispers come and go where the thralls of the winter hide.
Ah, despot, hoary and old!
Your fetters are strong and cold,
But stronger the slender slaves they bind, and they shall conquer thee.
A little longer still
You may urge your cruel will,
Then the dungeon-doors shall open wide and the prisoners go free.