Locked.  
The Pilgrim

A rich and lovely country wide unrolled,
A fair face by me, heavens where white clouds sail,
Why does my heart forever still bewail
Far-distant lands, more distant days of old?
Litwa! your roaring forests sang more bold
Than Salhir maid, Baydary nightingale;
I'd rather walk your marshes than this vale
Of mulberries, and ( Read more... )