THE CAPTIVE’S COMPLAINT.
(Inscribed to Anna.)
Hark, the chains rattle round as I turn on my side,
And the pains of captivity now are my doom;
My cell and my bed are scarcely as wide
As yon willow-tree grave I discern through the gloom.
I was borne from my home, the frail child of despair,
O’er the main I was driv’n, whose limits are wide;
The winds and the waves all augmented my care,