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.