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James Henry Leigh Hunt - The Negro Boy
Work rating: Low

Cold blows the wind, and while the tear
   Bursts trembling from my swollen eyes,
The rain`s big drop, quick meets it there,
   And on my naked bosom flies!
                     O pity, all ye sons of Joy,
                     The little wand`ring Negro-boy.

These tatter`d clothes, this ice-cold breast
   By Winter harden`d into steel,
These eyes, that know not soothing rest,
   But speak the half of what I feel!
                     Long, long, I never new one joy,
                     The little wand`ring Negro-boy!


Cannot the sigh of early grief
   Move but one charitable mind?
Cannot one hand afford relief?
   One Christian pity, and be kind?
                     Weep, weep, for thine was never joy,
                     O little wand`ring Negro-boy!


Is there a good which men call Pleasure?
   O Ozmyn, would that it were thine!
Give me this only precious treasure;
   How it would soften grief like mine!
                     Then Ozmyn might be call`d, with joy,
                     The little wand`ring Negro-boy!


My limbs these twelve long years have borne
   The rage of ev`ry angry wind:
Yet still does Ozmyn weep and mourn,
   Yet still no ease, no rest can find!
                     Then death, alas, must soon destroy
                     The little wand`ring Negro-boy!


No sorrow e`er disturbs the rest,
   That dwells within the lonely grave;
Thou best resource, the wo-wrung breast
   E`er ask`d of Heav`n, or Heav`n e`er gave!
                     Ah then, farewell, vain world, with joy
                     I die the happy Negro-boy!
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