Rise up and drag his clinking chain

Of stars around the starry main.

What lines of yoked and patient steers!

What weary thousands pushing west!

What restless pilgrims seeking rest,

As if from out the edge of years!

What great yoked brutes with briskets low,

With wrinkled necks like buffalo,

With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes,

That turn'd so slow and sad to you,