’Tis I who summon men to arms.
To man a slave, though free as air,
I grind his corn, his food prepare;
Should he to foreign climes proceed,
He yokes me like the neighing steed,
And, by my quick but easy motion,
He traverses the stormy ocean.
His children, too, my presence court,
To give them toys, and make them sport:
Without my aid, their kites would lie