Slavery

The grated dungeon and the iron gyves,
     The plated scourge, the allotted task, the marts
     Where ruthless hands tear hearts from bleeding hearts,
With all the enginery that Hell contrives
To aid the oppressor in the trade he drives,
     All make not slavery; but when there darts
No fire along the darkened soul, and strives
     The broken spirit no more within the breast
Scarred by the lash, oh! then the utmost curse
Of Tyranny is perfected, Hate may rest;
Man hath done all, and Hell can do no worse:
     That soulless wreck of being is a slave,
     Whose fetters none can break—no, not th’ Omnipotent Grave.