* * *

Of desert lands the freedom planter,
Before the star I rose to sow;
Into the soil enslaved and scanter
My pure and guiltless hand would throw
The seeds of vigor and fruition —
But only wasted good ambition
And time and labor doing so...

Graze on your pasture, peaceful nations!
Miss honor's call, in slumber's grip —
Why freedom? Herds have these vocations:
Be meat to slay or wool to clip.
They pass along through generations
A yoke with rattles and a whip.