Toussaint L'Ouverture

William Wordsworth

Toussaint! — thou most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling rustic tends his plough
Within thy hearing, or thou liest now
Buried 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 thysclf, 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.