While the Spirit within me awakens to song,[1]

The strain, lovely Freedom! to thee shall belong ;

Where’er thou art fetter’d, where’er thou art free,

While I waken the lyre, it shall murmur of thee.

Though rude be the strain, and harsh is the tone

Of my lyre, the theme to each bosom is known,

And, heard on the mountain or over the wave,

Is sweet as the whisper of hope to the slave.

And, oh! may this band, if it turn from the theme,

Which melts in the heart like the joy of a dream,

Be numb’d, in its vileness , while touching the chord ,

Whose music would mirth to a tyrant afford.

[1] Charles Cole, A Poetical Address to his Grace the Duke of Wellington (London, 1835), 122.