390. To Toussaint L’Ouverture

William Wordsworth (1770—1850)

  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.