ese strange enchanted rooms we met. One look
Told that we knew each other. Sudden thrills,
As of two lovers reading the same book,
Ran through our hurried grasp. But when we turned,
The scene around was smitten with a change:
The lamps with lurid fire-light flared and burned;
And through the wreaths and flowers,--oh, mockery strange!--
The prison-walls with ghastly horror frowned;
Scarce hidden by vine-leaves and clusters thick,
A grim cold iron grating closed around.
Then from our silken couches leaping quick,
We hurried past the dancers and the lights,
Nor heeded the entrancing music then,
Nor the fair women scattering delights
In flower-like flush of dress,--nor paused till when,
Leaning against our prison-bars, we gazed
Into the dark, and wondered where we were.
Speak to me, brothers, for ye stand amazed!
I come, your secret burthen here to share!

III.

I know not this mysterious land around.
Black giant trees loom up in form obscure.
Odors of gardens and of woods profound
Blow in from out the darkness, fresh and pure.
Faint sounds of friendly voices come and go,
That seem to lure us forth into the air;
But whence they come perchance no ear may know,
And where they go perchance no foot may dare.

IV.

A realm of shadowy forms out yonder lies.
Beauty and Power, fair dreams pursued by Fate,
Wheel in unceasing vortex; and the skies
Flash with strange lights that bear no name nor date.
Sweet winds are breathing that just fan the hair,
And fitful gusts that howl against the bars,
And harp-like songs, and groans of wild despair,
And angry clouds that chase the trembling stars.
And on the iron grating the hot cheek
We press, and forth into the night we call,
And thrust our arms, that, manacled and weak,
Clutch but the empty air, and powerless fall.

V.

And yet, O brothers! we, who cannot share
This life of lies, this stifling day in night,--
Know we not well, that, if we did but dare
Break from our cell, and trust our manhood's might,
When once our feet should venture on these wilds,
The night would prove a sweet, still solitude,--
Not dark for eyes that, earnest as a child's,
Strove in the chaos but for truth and good?
And oh, sweet liberty, though wizar