AT length the tyrant stays his iron rod,
At length the iron rod can hurt no more;
The slave soft slumbers 'neath this verdant sod,
And all his years of misery are o'er.
Perchance, his soul was framed of finest mould,
His heart to goodness feelingly aspir'd;
Perchance, strong sense his every word controul'd,
And glow'd his breast with heat seraphic fir'd.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem