Sonnet 4 ('Tis Night; the mercenary tyrants sleep)

'Tis Night; the mercenary tyrants sleepAs undisturbed as Justice! but no moreThe wretched Slave, as on his native shore,Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep!Tho' thro' the toil and anguish of the dayNo tear escap'd him, not one suffering groanBeneath the twisted thong, he weeps aloneIn bitterness; thinking that far awayTho' merriment resounds on Niger's shore,She whom he loves far from the cheerful throngStands sad, and gazes from her lowly doorWith dim grown eye, silent and woe-begone,And weeps for him who will return no more.