Menella Bute Smedley (Менелла Бьют Смедли)
Francis the First at Liberty
AFTER THAT SHAMEFUL IMPRISONMENT WHICH WAS THE RESULT OF HIS DEFEAT AT PAVIAI am once more a king! Wave forth my pennon fair! My foot is on mine own dear soil, I am free as my native air! Spring on, my gallant steed, Thou mayst bound blithely on, For thou bear'st to his home a warrior freed, And a king to his crown and throne! Leap from thy sheath, my sword! I may wield thee once again; I could not brook on thy sheen to look While writhing in a chain. I will not bid thee shine To venge thy master's wrongs, For, oh, to a heart as light as mine No bitterness belongs! These are thy vales, fair France! Mine, mine, this matchless land! Dearer than gold, in heaps untold, Or aught save faith and brand. The song of thy birds is sweet, Thy glens seem doubly fair, And, oh, how my heart leaps forth to meet Each breath of thy balmy air! Play on my brow, cool breeze, For thou wakenest in my heart High thoughts and generous sympathies, Which long have slept apart. It is the voice of France Which breathes upon me now; I will open my breast to thy glad advance,— Play lightly on my brow! I am free! I am free! I am free! I may give my full heart way; Its fire represt, hath scorch'd my breast, It pants for the open day. I am free! I am free! I am free! Oh, is it a dream of joy? Or do I stand, on my native land, And look on mine own blue sky? I do, I do! for when Did a Spaniard's icy brow Shine in the light of smiles so bright As those which meet me now? Mine own—ye are all mine own! I laugh at treason's darts; For my people's love is my loftiest throne, My surest fence their hearts. And, by mine own true sword, No wrong shall e'er abase The soul on which your love is pour'd, To do that love disgrace! Still in my changeless breast Dwells one unsullied spring; Free, chained, exalted, or opprest, My soul is still a king!
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