Ii

Well then, burst through lips obstructing, Storms, that through my bosom roll, Thoughts, that flash like rays of lightning Through the darkness of my soul, Fire of Shame and Wrathful Teeming, Rouse my string from idle dreaming And its heavy swoon control!

Hatched my songs not in a nest weighed With scented tresses softly pressed, Warmed them not the heart of maid Dreaming sweetly on my breast. Flashed were they through weary head When ’neath haughty blows of fists, red Flushed the cheek with blood compressed.

Yea of blood and tears and gall, When times were bad, they were born; When I saw the tyrant install Tortures on my brothers forlorn; When I gnashed my teeth in vain As the brutal beadle in disdain Laughed at us suffering and worn.

I know there’ll be no gratitude, I know many of you will say, In the tortured croaking rude There’s no art or beauty’s lay, Above troubled turmoil’s time Should the singer strive to climb, To the sunny height’s clear way.

’Tis the truth perhaps, but freely How may soar one to the sky, When on breast he feels painfully Heavy night’s hobgoblin lie? No other strain with me abides Until storm in soul subsides; Sing no other strain can I.