poems on the slave trade - sonnet 3 - robert southey - richard mitchley lyrics
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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 brothеr writhes in silent woe
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