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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=431132" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Prisoner</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THERE, where the swift Rhone's waters flow <br> Its verdant banks between; <br>Where fragrant myrtles bending grow, <br> And Rhone reflects their green; <br>There, where the vineyards deck the hills, <br> And o'er the valleys spread, <br>Which golden citrons' fragrance fills, <br> And plantains rear their head— </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There stood, as sunk the lord of day, <br> Upon the smiling shore, <br>One who long watch'd the waters play, <br> And thought his sorrows o'er; <br>A Russian hero— stolen by war, <br> The honour of the Don; <br>Divided from his friends afar, <br> He wander'd there alone. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'O roll!' he sang, 'ye waters roll— <br> Flow in your glory on; <br>Your waves shall waken on my soul <br> The memory of the Don. <br>My days pass by without an aim, <br> Amidst life's busy roar; <br>For what is life without its fame, <br> Or the bright world?— 'tis poor. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Now nature wears its spring-tide dress, <br> The sun shines splendidly; <br>All liberty and loveliness— <br> O! why am I not free? <br>O roll, ye waters! rage, thou Rhone! <br> And waken, as ye roll, <br>The thoughts of my domestic zone <br> Within my troubled soul. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'The maidens here are fair and bright, <br> Their glance is full of fire; <br>And their all-graceful smiles of light <br> Might satisfy desire <br>'But what is love in foreign lands, <br> Or joy?— I only know <br>The joy and love that bless our sands, <br> Midst forests and midst snow. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Give me my freedom— let me tread <br> Once more my country's strand; <br>With frost and storm all overspread— <br> My home— my father-land! <br>Deep is the snow around my door; <br> But give me my own steed, <br>And day and night, the mountains o'er, <br> Me to my home he'll lead. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'At home, there's one who sits and keeps <br> The memory of her love; <br>And often to the window creeps, <br> And pours her prayers above. <br>She guards the thoughts of him whose mind <br> Guards every thought of her; <br>She pats the horse I left behind— <br> How privileged to be there! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'O roll, thou Rhone! ye waters roll— <br> Rush in your glory on; <br>Your waves still waken in my soul <br> The memory of the Don. <br>Come, winds! come hither from the north, <br> Come, in your freshness, come: <br>And thou bright pole-star blazen forth, <br> Memento of my home!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So spake the prisoner, as he turn'd <br> To Lyons his tired eye, <br>When long in exile's chains he mourn'd <br> His hapless destiny. <br>He sang— the Rhone roll'd proudly on, <br> The moon oft kiss'd its tide; <br>And oft on Lyons' turrets shone <br> The sun in all his pride.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Konstantin+Nikolaevich+Batiushkov">Konstantin Nikolaevich Batiushkov</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=431132" data-title="The Prisoner de Konstantin Nikolaevich Batiushkov" data-description="THERE, where the swift Rhone's waters flow 
 Its verdant banks between; 
Where fragrant myrtles bending grow, 
 And Rhone reflects their green; 
There, where the vineyards deck the hills, 
 And o'er the valleys spread, 
Which golden citrons' fragr..."></div>
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