THE SLAVE'S DREAM. BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His breast was bare, his matted hair Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, Wide through the landscape of his dreams He saw once more his dark-eyed queen They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, A tear burst from the sleeper's lids And fell into the sand. And then at furious speed he rode His bridle-reins were golden chains, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank. Before him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew; From morn till night he followed their flight, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view. At night he heard the lion roar, And the hyæna scream, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds Beside some hidden stream; And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, Through the triumph of his dream. The forests, with their myriad tongues, And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, He did not feel the driver's whip, For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! THE GOOD PART, THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, Her soul, like the transparent air Though not of earth, encircles there VOL. I. 10 And thus she walks among her girls She reads to them at eventide And oft the blessed time foretells And following her beloved Lord, She makes her life one sweet record For she was rich, and gave up all Long since beyond the Southern Sea Their outbound sails have sped, While she, in meek humility, Now earns her daily bread. It is their prayers, which never cease, That clothe her with such grace; Their blessing is the light of peace That shines upon her face. THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp He saw the fire of the midnight camp, Where will-o'-the-wisps and glowworms shine, Where waving mosses shroud the pine, Where hardly a human foot could pass, On the quaking turf of the green morass A poor old slave, infirm and lame; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, All things above were bright and fair, On him alone was the doom of pain, Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT, LOUD he sang the psalm of David! He, a Negro and enslaved, Sang of Israel's victory, Sang of Zion, bright and free. In that hour, when night is calmest, Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, And the voice of his devotion Paul and Silas, in their prison, But, alas! what holy angel |