SONNET IV

‘ Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep

As undisturb'd as Justice! but no more

The wretched Slave, as on his native shore,

Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep!

Tho’ thro’ the toil and anguish of the day

No tear escap'd him, not one suffering groan

Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone

In bitterness; thinking that far away

Tho’ the gay negroes join the midnight song,

Tho’ merriment resounds on Niger's shore,

She whom he loves far from the chearful throng

Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door

With dim grown eye, silent and woe-begone,

And weeps for him who will return no more.