CHORUS.
307
What though not yet his day of pride be flown,
Though yet Heaven's vengeance spare his towering crest,
Well hath it mark'd him—and ordain'd the hour
When his last sigh shall own its mightier power.
Are we not creatures of one hand divine?
Form'd in one mould, to one redemption born?
Kindred alike, where'er our skies may shine,
Where'er our sight first drank the vital morn?
Brothers! one bond around our souls should twine,
And woe to him by whom that bond is torn!
Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth,
Who bears down spirits of immortal birth!
X 2
