To Maria

 Deep in the lonesome dungeon’s gloom
The captive oft forgets his pains,
And dances to the sound of chains
With hope of liberty to come.

 Gaily observe the sea boy sport
Upon the giddy topmast high
He mocks the willows and the sky
To reach at last his dear-lov’d port.

 Tho’ fierce, the lion spurns the soil
And red with fire his eyeballs glow
The hunter braves his angry foe
To win the glorious trophied spoil.

 And yonder sordid wretch behold
Who toiling in the noxious mine
Scorns not in misery to pine
Urg’d by th’ insatiate thirst for gold.

 Thro’ fields of death the warrior flies
And rushes on with mad career
Stranger to pity and to fear
To gain the victor’s envied prize.

 Whilst I unkind Maria’s slave
A hopeless fate am doom’d to prove
Shunn’d by the cruel maid I love —
My lot despair, my rest the grave.