Wet with her blood your whips—o’ertask her frame,
Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame,
Her patience shall not fail!
Cheers for the turbaned Bey
Of robber-peopled Tunis! he hath torn
The dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne
Their inmates into day:
But our poor slave in vain
Turns to the Christian shrine her aching eyes—
Its rites will only swell her market price,