Page:Poems - Southey (1799) volume 1.djvu/51

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35

SONNET III.

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 commandO'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 theseHaply ye scorn: I thank thee Gracious God  That I do feel upon my cheek the glowOf indignation, when beneath the rod  A sable brother writhes in silent woe.
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