To be a slave, if Love were always keeper,
Were not a fate to grieve for in our earth;
Where Freedom is ofttimes the saddest weeper,
And lonely heart is wed to lofty birth.
And so for those who reverent seek you, flowers,
And win you from your homes in field and grove,
You can forget the primal musing powers,
And fill your day of beauty, all for love.
But here, amid these thronged and stormy places,
Where any hand may bind with chains of gold,
How early droop the lovely waiting faces,
How soon the pluckèd freshness weareth old!
Ah, let not Pride their beauty first discover;
I see them gazing, full of sad surmise,
With wistful looks, that always know their lover,
And praying, "O redeem me," to his eyes.
To him alone her secret each discloses;
(Such charm the painter and the singer use;)
Greek-maiden lily, and queen-captive roses,
And thoughtful pansies, each a different muse.
Not these for me!--amid the splendors lonely,
Yet breathing patient sweetness, no regrets;
I see a group that waiteth for me only;
Yes, I will ransom you, my violets!
