Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run

    Down his dark cheek; hold—hold thy merciless hand,

    Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command

  O'erwearied Nature sinks. The scorching Sun,

  As pityless as proud Prosperity,

    Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies

    Arraigning with his looks the patient skies,

  While that inhuman trader lifts on high

    The mangling scourge. Oh ye who at your ease

    Sip the blood-sweeten'd beverage! thoughts like these

  Haply ye scorn: I thank thee Gracious God!

    That I do feel upon my cheek the glow

  Of indignation, when beneath the rod

    A sable brother writhes in silent woe.