Is hers, and her august and stately form
Towers o’er the storm and tempest like a god
Serene in power. ’Tis Religion—yes,
Woman thy homage is well paid to her,
Who shall be as a mother to thy race;
When in his dungeon the lone prisoner weeps
Deserted by his kindred; hunted down
Like a wild beast of prey by man, and left
Year after year to count the lingering time
By the slow pulse of his own failing heart;