THE SLAVE'S DREAM.
BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
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
* * * *
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 be started in his sleep, and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.
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!
LONGFELLOW.