I.
Must I grind in this prison for ever?
No respite from morn till night;
Shall I never again, oh, never!
Commune with the spirits of light
That dwell by the crystalline river
Which flows by the Sibylline height?—
Which sings near the Sibylline height?
II.
I sigh for that region romantic,
Far away from the turmoil and strife
Of cities that render men frantic
In a desperate struggle for life;
For ’tis here that ambition gigantic
Cuts into the heart like a knife,—
Lies cold on the heart like a knife.
III.
There Beauty sits thronéd in glory,
The bards kiss her brow and adore,
Then tell to the world the sweet story
That millions repeat evermore;
The youth and the patriarch hoary
Bend over the musical lore,—
Never tire of the mystical lore.
IV.
It is there the perpetual graces,
Inhabiting bowers of bliss,
Give welcome to wearisome faces
That ’scape from a region like this,
A world in whose gaudiest places
The serpent is sure to hiss,—
The black-crested serpent will hiss.
V.
I know now the fate of Ixion
As I never could know it before;
And under the eyes of Orion,—
Storm-bound on a desolate shore,—
Or under the paws of the Lion,
I sigh for the sorrows he bore;—
I know, too, what Sisyphus bore.
VI.
Must I grind in this dungeon for ever!
Will the day of release never dawn?
Come, spirits of light, and deliver
My soul which I ventured to pawn;
Oh, bear her away to the river
That flows by the Sibylline lawn,—
The sylph-haunted Sibylline lawn.