Write! and tell out this bloody tale; Record this dire eclipse, This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, This dread Apocalypse! BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, THE SLAVE'S DREAM. Wide through the landscape of his dreams The lordly Niger flowed; Beneath the palm trees on the plain Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans Descend the mountain road. 89 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 then at furious speed he rode 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. M 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, That he started in his sleep and smiled He did not feel 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 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 And thus she walks among her girls With praise and mild rebukes; Subduing e'en rude village churls By her angelic looks. She reads to them at eventide Of One who came to save; To cast the captive's chains aside, And oft the blessed time foretells When all men shall be free; And musical, as silver bells, Their falling chains shall be. And following her beloved Lord, In decent poverty, She makes her life one sweet record For she was rich, and gave up all Of those who waited in her hall, Long since beyond the Southern Sea While she, in meek humility, Now earns her daily bread. It is their prayers, which never cease, Their blessing is the light of peace THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. IN dark fens of the Dismal Swamp The hunted Negro lay; He saw the fire of the midnight camp, And a bloodhound's distant bay. |