And make the sighing captive, while he weeps
His own hard wrongs, lift his chained hands, and pray
For his oppressor more than for himself.
Thou, too, my soul, if wearing years have left
Aught of high feeling in thy wasted powers,
Of gratitude for mercies undeserved,
Or hope of future favors, here and now,
Upon this breezy hill-top, in the eye
Of the bright day-god rising from his sleep,
Perform thine orisons: