Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run <br /> Down his dark cheek; hold--hold thy merciless hand, <br /> Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command <br />O'erwearied Nature sinks. The scorching Sun, <br />As pityless as proud Prosperity, <br /> Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies <br /> Arraigning with his looks the patient skies, <br />While that inhuman trader lifts on high <br /> The mangling scourge. Oh ye who at your ease <br /> Sip the blood-sweeten'd beverage! thoughts like these <br />Haply ye scorn: I thank thee Gracious God! <br /> That I do feel upon my cheek the glow <br />Of indignation, when beneath the rod <br /> A sable brother writhes in silent woe.<br /><br />Robert Southey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poems-on-the-slave-trade-sonnet-iii/
