Page:Slavery, a poem.pdf/14

Rh A sense of worth, a conscience of desert, A high, unbroken haughtiness of heart; That self-same stuff which erst proud empires sway'd, Of which the conquerors of the world were made. Capricious fate of man! that very pride In Afric scourg'd, in Rome was deify'd.
 * No Muse, O Qua-shi! shall thy deeds relate,

No statue snatch thee from oblivious fate!