Write! and tell out this bloody tale; This lay of wrath, this endless wail, THE SLAVE'S DREAM. BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his native land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams. Beneath the palm-trees on the plain Descend the mountain-road. 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, 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, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, 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, That he started in his sleep and smiled N 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, Are in the village school. Her soul, like the transparent air All things with arms of love. And thus she walks among her girls With praise and mild rebukes; 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 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 And deed of charity. For she was rich, and gave up all Of those who waited in her hall, 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 The hunted Negro lay; He saw the fire of the midnight camp, And heard at times a horse's tramp And a bloodhound's distant bay. Where will-o'-the-wisps and glowworms shine, In bulrush and in brake; Where waving mosses shroud the pine, And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine Is spotted like the snake; 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, |