Elizabeth Benger quotes

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. (Elizabeth Benger)