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Toussaint,
the most unhappy Man of Men!
Whether the whistling
Rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy
head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless
den; -
O miserable Chieftain! where and when
Wilt
thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather
in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen Thyself,
never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou
hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air,
earth, and skies;
There's not a breathing of the
common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great
allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And
love, and Man's unconquerable mind.
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