The continuous noise of a rock being struck,
Multiplying hundreds of times.
The pick on stone, like the hammer that strikes,
on a clock that forever chimes.

The well muscled arms, and the sweating backs,
toiled onwards with not a thirst slaked.
These stolen men, harshly chained to a line,
Oh, how their shattered bodies ached.

White dust seeped into each eye and dry mouth,
beneath that cruel blistering heat.
From sunrise they‘d work until past sunset,
with barely a moment to eat.

For wealth they were seized, captive they’d remain,
No status within our country.
And in history books, lies a huge stain,
of the evil of slavery.

Ernestine Northover

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/there-lies-a-stain/