And he told of better things.
And he led them forth to the towered town,
And forth to the fields of corn,
And told of the ampler work ahead,
For which his race was born.
And he whispers to men of those hills he sees
In the blush of the misty west;
And they look to the heights of his lifted eye—
And they hate the name of rest.
In the light of that eye does the slave behold