The Slave

Naked and wretched, with the vilest cheer,
Such slave am I—my body bears the signs—
Born free upon the gulf whose beauty shines
Where Hybla's honeyed slopes their summits rear.

Alas! I left the happy isle ... Ah! shouldst thou steer
Thy course to Syracuse's bees and vines,
Following the swans as winter's cold declines,
Good host, acquaint thee with my loved dear.

Shall I ne'er see her pure, deep-violet eye
Reflecting, brimmed with smiles, her natal sky
Beneath her dark-hued brow's victorious bow?

Have pity!—Find my Clearista, pray;
Tell her I live once more her face to know;
Thou canst not miss her, for she's sad alway.