_Captivity._ [Illustration: text decoration] The lion remembers the forest, The lion in chains; To the bird that is captive a vision Of woodland remains. One strains with his strength at the fetter, In impotent rage; One flutters in flights of a moment, And beats at the cage. If the lion were loosed from the fetter, To wander again; He would seek the wide silence and shadow Of his jungle in vain. He would rage in his fury, destroying; Let him rage, let him roam! Shall he traverse the pitiless mountain, Or swim through the foam? If they opened the cage and the casement, And the bird flew away; He would come back at evening, heartbroken, A captive for aye. Would come if his kindred had spared him, Free birds from afar-- There was wrought what is stronger than iron In fetter and bar. I cannot remember my country, The land whence I came; Whence they brought me and chained me and made me Nor wild thing nor tame. This only I know of my country, This only repeat:-- It was free as the forest, and sweeter Than woodland retreat. When the chain shall at last be broken, The window set wide; And I step in the largeness and freedom Of sunlight outside; Shall I wander in vain for my country? Shall I seek and not find? Shall I cry for the bars that encage me, The fetters that bind? _The Two Terrors._ [Illustration: text decoration] Two terrors fright my soul by night and day: The first is Life, and with her come the years; A weary, winding train of maidens they, With forward-fronting eyes, too sad for tears; Upon whose kindred faces, blank and grey, The shadow of a kindred woe appears. Death is the second terror; who shall say What form beneath the shrouding mantle nears? Which way she turn, my soul finds no relief, My smitten soul may not be comforted; Alternately she swings from grief to grief, And, poised between them, sways from dread to dread. For there she dreads because she knows; and here, Because she knows not, inly faints with fear. _The Promise of Sleep._ Put the sweet thoughts from out thy mind, The dreams from out thy breast; No joy for thee--but thou shalt find Thy rest. All day I could not work for woe, I could not work nor rest; The trouble drove me to and fro, Like a leaf on the storm’s breast. Night came and saw my sorrow cease; Sleep in the chamber stole; Peace crept about my limbs, and peace Fell on my stormy soul. And now I think of only this,-- How I again may woo The gentle sleep--who promises That death is gentle too. _The Last Judgment._ [Illustration: text decoration]