Beneath the icy pressure of his chains,
How soon his sounding wing hangs listless there;—
And oft, as o’er their galling links he broods,
Dreaming of the bright hours when he was free,
He looks up through those shining solitudes,
And shrieks—the bitter shriek of Slavery.
If thus ’tis, from the eagle to the dove,
Say, how can we upon our fetters smile,
Save those that, woven by the hand of Love,
Are round us flung with many a tender wile?