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Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton - The Rebel
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WITH none to heed or mark 
The prisoner in his cell, 
In a dungeon, lone and dark, 
He tuned his wild farewell. 
The harp whose strings might never breathe again 
The joyous sounds it gave to Freedom`s strain, 
With hurried chords, his trembling fingers woke; 
And thus the brave, but captive rebel spoke :-- 

Farewell! mine own dear land! 
That I have loved thee well, 
This faint, but blood-red hand, 
These iron fetters tell: 
And if I weep, it is not for the breeze, 
At summer evenings whispered thro` the trees; 
Though I would die to breathe that air again-- 
I weep, to think upon my country`s chain! 

Farewell to those I loved, 
Whom I no more shall see; 
And, oh! in sorrow proved, 
To those who once loved me, 
With whom beneath the chesnut`s spreading shade 
In happy days of infancy, I played; 
Who never more will hear the rebel`s name 
Without a blush, a crimson blush, of shame. 

Oh! I am young to die, 
Forsaken thus by all: 
With none to hear me sigh, 
With none to weep my fall. 
How my heart yearns for joys for ever flown-- 
My mother`s hand--my sister`s gentle tone! 
And wishes wild within my bosom swell, 
In sorrow`s broken tones to bid farewell! 

Land of untrodden hills! 
Where still, in happy dreams, 
I hear the mountain rills, 
Leap forth in gushing streams: 
I love thee so, that fearfully I shrink 
From death, whose power will burst each galling link; 
And sigh to live, though life no more be free, 
Lest, in the grave, I dream no more of thee!
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