human
Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men! Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillow'd 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.