From The Sun, July 12, 1914. By George T. Marsh.
Exiles, they tread their narrow bounds
Behind the iron bars.
Where’er they turn the hand of man
Their straining vision mars,
Save only when at night they gaze
Upon the friendly stars.
See! There a golden eagle broods
With glazed, unseeing eyes
That never more will sweep the snows
Where blue Sierras rise;
And there, sick for his native hills,
A sullen panther lies.
What dreams of silent polar nights
Disturb the white bear’s sleep?
Roams he once more unfettered where
Eternal ice flows sweep?
What memories of the jungle’s ways
Does that gaunt tiger keep?
Such wistful eyes the hartebeest turn
Beyond their cramped domain.
They seem to see the yellowing leagues
Of wind swept veldt again.
And look, a springbok lifts his head
As though he smelled the plain.
Exiles, they tread their narrow bounds
Behind the iron bars.
For thus the ruthless hand of man
Each God-made creature mars.
But oh, what hungry eyes they raise
Up to the friendly stars!