Where hardly a human foot could pass,
Or a human heart would dare,—

On the quaking turf of the green morass
He crouched in the rank and tangled grass,
Like a wild beast in his lair.

A poor old slave, infirm and lame ;-
Great scars deformed his face ;

On his forehead he bore the brand of shame,
And the rags, that hid his mangled frame,
Were the livery of disgrace.

All things above were bright and fair;
All things were glad and free ;
Lithe squirrels darted here and there,
And wild birds filled the echoing air
With songs of Liberty!

On him alone was the doom of pain,
From the morning of his birth ;

On him alone the curse of Cain

Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain,
And struck him to the earth!

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;

THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. 27

They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand!-

A tear burst from the sleeper's lids,
And fell into the sand.

And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank ;

His bridle-reins were golden chains,

And, with a martial clank,

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,

Shouted of liberty;

And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,

That he startled in his sleep, and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.

He did not fear the driver's whip,

Nor the burning heat of day;

For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay

A worn-out fetter, that the soul

Had broken and thrown away!

THE TELL-TALE FACE.

BY WILLIAM CUTTER.

I HATE the frigid notions,

Which seem to count it sin,

To show the kind emotions

True kindness works within ; Those manners cold and guarded With words dealt out by rule, Pronounced just as mamma did,

I wonder how the ladies,

Dear angels that they are!

Can live where so much shade is

Their loveliness to mar!

Were they fairer than the graces,
And wiser than the light,
Such cold, such moonlight faces,
Would put young love to flight.

I love the playful fancies

Of an unsuspecting heart,
That speak in songs and glances,
Unchecked by rules of art;

I love the face, that speaketh
Of all that's in the mind;
The brow, the eye, that taketh
Its hue from what's behind.

These are the voice of nature,
The language of the soul;
Words change, but o'er the feature,
Guile may not have control :
The tongue may tell of feelings,
Which may be- -or may not ;
But the eye hath sure revealings
Of the deeply hidden thought.

I love that quick expression,
Which flashes the full eye,
When truth would make confession,
While modesty would lie ;

Those warm, those heavenly blushes,

That crimson brow and cheek, When feeling's fountain gushes

With thoughts it dares not speak.