A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is gone, Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave, But see, along that mountain's slope, a fiery horseman ride; Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at his side. His spurs are buried rowel-deep, he rides with loosened rein, There's blood upon his charger's flank and foam upon the mane; He speeds him toward the olive-grove, along that shaded hill : God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should mean her ill! And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I hear THE AFRICAN CHIEF. CHAINED in the market-place he stood, A man of giant frame, Amid the gathering multitude That shrunk to hear his name All stern of look and strong of limb, His dark eye on the ground: : And silently they gazed on him, As on a lion bound. Vainly, but well, that chief had fought, He was a captive now, Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, Was written on his brow. The scars his dark broad bosom wore, Showed warrior true and brave; A prince among his tribe before, He could not be a slave. Then to his conqueror he spake― "My brother is a king; Undo this necklace from my neck, And take this bracelet ring, And send me where my brother reigns, And I will fill thy hands With store of ivory from the plains, And gold-dust from the sands." "Not for thy ivory nor thy gold A price thy nation never gave For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, In lands beyond the sea." Then wept the warrior chief, and bade To shred his locks away; And one by one, each heavy braid Before the victor lay. Thick were the platted locks, and long, And closely hidden there Shone many a wedge of gold among The dark and crisped hair. "Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold Long kept for sorest need: Р Take it-thou askest sums untold, And say that I am freed. Take it—my wife, the long, long day, Weeps by the cocoa-tree, And my young children leave their play, And ask in vain for me." "I take thy gold-but I have made And ween that by the cocoa shade His heart was broken-crazed his brain: He struggled fiercely with his chain, Yet wore not long those fatal bands, The foul hyena's prey. SPRING IN TOWN. THE Country ever has a lagging Spring, Within the city's bounds the time of flowers Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May, For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then |