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THE SLAVE'S DREAM.
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;
With a voice so wild and free,
At their tempestuous glee.
He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
And his lifeless body lay
Had broken and thrown away!
THE GOOD PART,
THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY.
She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side,
In valleys green and cool; And all her hope and all her pride
Are in the village school.
Her soul like the transparent air
That robes the hills above, Though not of earth, encircles there
All things with arms of love.
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;
And liberate the slave.
And oft the blessed time foretells
When all men shall be free; And musical, as silver bells,
Their falling chains shall be.
THE GOOD PART.
And following her beloved Lord,
In decent poverty,
And deed of charity.
For she was rich, and gave up all
To break the iron bands
And labored in her lands.
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.
In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp
The hunted Negro lay;
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;
THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP.
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;
And struck him to the earth!