Ho! thou dark and weary stranger
From the tropic’s palmy strand,
Bowed with toil, with mind benighted,
What wouldst thou upon our land?
Am I not, O man, thy brother?
Spake the stranger, patiently,
All that makes thee, man, immortal,
Tell me, dwells it not in me?
I, like thee, have joy, have sorrow;
I, like thee, have love and fear;