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196 FOBEST MELODIES.
The day look'd dim upon Potomac's breast, When a lone being sat him down to rest Beside the sparkling waters: nature smiled, But not for him—he was misfortune's child. Rich were the flowers that shed their perfume
■ there, Mild were the skies and soft the balmy air; But that worn spirit saw no beauteous ray In all the brightness round his weary way. Raising his dark brow toward the eastern sky, He pour'd out thus his secret agony:—
" Ah! was I form'd to be oppress'd, .
Though all around is free ? The sky-lark, on his airy wing,
The happy, murm'ring bee— All living things in earth or sky,
'Have freedom for their dower; But I, alas! poor, wretched I,
Must feel the' oppressor's power.
" Well knows that tyrant, that my soul Has powers and rights like his,
Though writhing on the lance of woe, And pining after bliss.