They are food for the cotton-field and the deadly sugar-mill.

Mark the sad procession as it moves wearily along, and the inhuman wretch who drives them.

Hear his savage yells and his blood-chilling oaths, as he hurries on his affrighted captives.

There, see the old man, with locks thinned and gray.

Cast one glance, if you please, upon that young mother, whose shoulders are bare to the scorching sun, her briny tears falling on the brow of the babe in her arms.