The Slave's Dreamby Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Beside the ungathered rice he lay,

His sickle in his hand;

His breast was bare,

his matted hairWas buried in the sand.

Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,

He saw his Native Land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams

The lordly Niger flowed;

Beneath the palm-trees on the plainOnce more a king he strode;

And heard the tinkling caravansDescend the moutain road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen

Among her children stand;

They clasped his neck,

the kissed his cheeks,

They held him by the hand!

--A tear burst from the sleeper's lidsAnd fell onto 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 steelSmiting 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 hyena scream,

And the river-horse,

as he crushed the reedsBeside some hidden stream;

And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,T

hrough the triumph of his dream.

The forests, whith their myriad tongues,

Shouted of liberty;

And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,

With a voice so wild and free,

That he started in his sleep and smiledAt their temptestuous 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 layA worn-out fetter,

that the soulHad broken and thrown away!