Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillow’d in some deep dungeon’s earless den:
Oh, 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