Nor saw therein the dullard scorn
That made his heavenliness a crime;
When, musing o’er the Poets olden,
His soul did like a sun upstart
To shoot its arrows, clear and golden,
Through slavery’s cold and darksome heart.
Alas! too soon the veil is lifted
That hangs between the soul and pain,
Too soon the morning-red hath drifted
Into dull cloud, or fallen in rain!