All human archives in this truth accord, That feeble man is Ruin’s mighty lord; States rise and fall as ages roll away, But vice survives, the passio… - Elizabeth Benger

To him the heavens a fearful aspect wear,
Strange are the accents murmur’d in his ear.
He steals no balm from pity’s lenient breath
Hope sheds no gleam, but through the vale of death:
An alien, far from nature’s bosom cast,
He broods on wrongs, the present and the past;
And asks what vengeance shall the wretches wait,
Who bade him mourn within the stranger’s gate.

Devoted victim of the crimes accurst,
By hatred cherish’d, and by av’rice nurs'd;
Crimes that with Europe’s sordid sons began,
The rude barbarian’s gift from polished man.

On the same sod, where (Rapine’s helpless prey,)
The plumed Indian, pin’d his life away,
Enslav’d, degraded, doom’d to vile employ,
Deploring still the rifled hive of joy,
There the poor Negro, shackled with the chain,
Rears, by his sweltering toil, the nectar’d cane;
And, wretched exile from his brighter skies,
Breathes o’er the native’s grave complaining sighs,
Unconscious on what dust he treads, nor knows
Whose place he takes, whose heritage of woes.