Up! and arm for life's struggle,
We shall conquer in the fight,
If we arm us for the battle
With the weapons Truth and Right;
To me the sky looks bluer,
And the green grass greener still,
And earth's flowers seem more lovely
As they bloom on heath and hill.
Hark to the bell of sorrow! - 'tis awak'ning up again
Each broken spirit from its brief forgetfulness of pain.
Its sad sound seems to me to be a deathwail from the past,
An elegy for buried joys too pure and bright to last.
'Twas night, and the moonbeams palely fell
On the gloomy walls of a cheerless cell,
Where a captive sought a brief repose
From the bitter pangs of his waking woes.
It is not in a prison drear
Where all around is gloom,
That I would end life's wild career,
And sink into the tomb,
Sing not to me a song of beauty bright,
Nor festive scenes of dazzling light;
Nor of gorgeous pageant in palace hall
Begemmed with many a coronal;
I'm out in the world once more,
And I mean to run the rig,
For I've learned from the prison lore
That the pauper fares worse than the prig.
Fame surrounds us with a glory,
Dazzling as the noon-day sun,
And upon the page of story,
Blazons deeds of greatness done.
Mother! Darling mother, you are seeking me I know,
And I feel thy love will follow through the world where'er I go;
But I cannot come, dear mother; I am sadly altered now:
The once fair wreath of innocence that garlanded my brow