The Captive: I. Prologue

The captive raised her face it was as soit

and mild

As sculptured marble saint, or slumbering unwean'd child

It was so soit and mild, it was so sweet and fair, Pain could not trace a line, nor grief a shadow there!

The captive raised her hand and pressed it to her brow

'I have been struck she said, 'and I am

suffering now

Yet these are little worth, your bolts and irons

strong

And, were they forged in steel, they cou Id not hold me long:

 ..

A messenger of Hope cornes every night to me, And of/ers for short lite, eternal liberty.