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.