Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men!
  Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
  Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon’s earless den;—
O miserable Chieftain! where and when        
  Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
  Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
  Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;      
There’s not a breathing of the common wind
  That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
  And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.


 = Julian Lopez Morillas