Chess: A Poem
THE WRETCHED captive in the dungeon laid,
His body wasted and his mind decay'd,
Unwept, unfriended, comfortless, alone,
With nought but horror now to call his own,
Pines o'er his limbs with ruthless bonds confin'd,
But most deplores th' enthralment of his mind.
Yet yield him here the luxury of Chess,
To soothe his sorrows and abate distress.
And lo! once more dear Freedom's breath he draws,
Tho' clasp'd his chains, and barr'd his prison doors
His soul unshackled and his fancy free
He broods no more on his captivity.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Written by a member of the Cambridge University Chess Club: