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.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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