Oh, recreant sires, who doomed me then
To earn so few--with Pen and Ink!

Where it hath fallen the tree must lie.
'Tis over late for ME to roam,
Yet the caged bird who hears the cry
Of his wild fellows fleeting home,
May feel no sharper pang than mine,
Who seem to hear, whene'er I think,
Spate in the stream, and wind in pine,
Call me to quit dull Pen and Ink.

For then the spirit wandering,
That slept within the blood, awakes;
For then the summer and the spring
I fain would meet by streams and lakes;
But ah, my Birthright long is sold,
But custom chains me, link on link,
And I must get me, as of old,
Back to my tools, to Pen and Ink.



A DREAM.



Why will you haunt my sleep?
You know it may not be,
The grave is wide and deep,