Classic Poem

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-floes sweep?
What memories of the jungle's ways
Does that gaunt tiger keep?

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!