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THE SLAVE. 197
His efforts, all his efforts fail
These chainless thoughts to bind,
Or fetter the intense desires Of an immortal mind.
" But mind itself is only free
To tell me of my fate, While I am chain'd to servitude
And wholly desolate. My God, I look above, around—
No gleam of hope I see, Save the faint whisper of my soul
That Death shall set me free!"
He ceased ; and still upon the stream there lay The same soft glories of departing day, The earth was radiant with the same rich smile, The stars look'd down serenely, softly mild, Yet he pass'd on through shadows dark and
dim— Nature could yield no happiness to him. Shall man refuse the sympathizing heart— Refuse the aid he can so well impart ? My country! why do not Heaven's curses rest With fearful blackness on thy guilty breast ?