On sped the tardy seasons. Need I say
What still the indignant lyre declines to tell?
How, by rude hands, the maiden, borne away,
Was forced amid the invaders' homes to dwell?
Yet no harsh bonds the guiltless prisoner wore,
No sharp constraint her gentle spirit bore,
Held as a hostage in the stranger's cell;
So, to her wayward fate submissive still,
She meekly bow'd her heart to learn a Saviour's will.