The freeman’s veins are firm as veins of granite;
The bondman’s weak as tendrils of the vine,
And his heart too despairing and repining—
The free heart has life’s tingling breath to fan it.
Quick pulse, clear vision, are the freeman’s treasure;
The unfree, to kindness and affection dead,
Has no more wealth than tears of his own shedding
And those glib words he has in such good measure.
Bondman and free can never come to accord:
One is the heavens’ lackey, one their lord. |
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