What though not yet his day of pride be flown,
Though yet heaven’s vengeance spare his haughty crest,
Well hath it mark’d him—and decreed the hour,
When his last sigh shall own the terror of its power.
Are we not creatures of one hand divine,
Form’d in one mould, to one redemption born?
Kindred alike where’er our skies may shine,
Where’er our sight first drank the vital morn?
Brothers! one bond around our souls should twine,
And woe to him by whom that bond is torn!