The Dungeon

Though not a breath can enter here,
I know the wind blows fresh and free;
I know the sun is shining clear
Though not a gleam can visit me.

They thought while I in darkness lay
'Twere pity that I should not know
How all the earth is smiling gay,
How fresh the vernal breezes blow.

They knew such tidings to impart
Would pierce my weary spirit through;
And could they better read my heart,
They'd tell me she was smiling too.

They need not, for I know it well,
Methinks I see her even now,
No sigh disturbs her bosom's swell,
No shade o'ercasts her angel brow.

Unmarred by grief her matchless voice,
Whence sparkling wit, and wisdom flow:
And others in its sound rejoice,
And taste the joys I must not know;

Drink rapture from her soft dark eye,
And sunshine from her heavenly smile;
On wings of bliss their moments fly
And I am pining here the while!

Oh! tell me, does she never give
To my distress a single sigh?
She smiles on them, but does she grieve
One moment, when they are not by?

When she beholds the sunny skies,
And feels the wind of heaven blow;
Has she no tear for him that lies
In dungeon-gloom so far below?

While others gladly round her press,
And at her side their hours beguile,
Has she no sigh for his distress,
Who cannot see a single smile,

Nor hear one word, nor read a line
That her belovèd hand might write;
Who banished from her face must pine,
Each day a long, a lonely night?