Until my spirit walked with those who now
Are hailed, as brethren, by archangels:—Yet,
Have I come home a slave—a thing for chains
And scourges—ay, a dog,
Crouching, and spurned, and spit upon.
In fine contrast to this picture, is the following one of Italy, as Italy was four centuries ago.
’Tis free; and want, fear, shame, are aliens there.
In that blest land the tiller is a prince.
No ruffian lord breaks spring’s fair promises;
And summer’s toils—for freedom watches o’er them—