The Slave's Dream. ESIDE the ungather'd rice he lay, His breast was bare, his matted hair Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, Wide through the landscape of his dreams Once more a king he strode, He saw once more his dark-eyed queen They clasp'd his neck, they kiss'd his cheeks, A tear burst from the sleeper's lids, And fell into 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 steel Smiting his stallion's flank. NIGER-A river in west Africa. Before him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew ; From morn till night he follow'd their flight, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, At night he heard the lion roar, And the river-horse, as he crush'd the reeds And it pass'd, like a glorious roll of drums, The forests, with their myriad tongues, And the blast of the desert cried aloud, He did not feel the driver's whip, For death had illumined the land of sleep, A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! The Bridge. STOOD on the Bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church-tower. I saw her bright reflection And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long, black rafters And the current that came from the ocean As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The sea-weed floated wide. And like those waters rushing A flood of thoughts came o'er me, How often-Oh how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky! How often-Oh how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom, O'er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, Yet whenever I cross the river, On its bridge with wooden piers, I And I think how many thousands Each bearing his burden of sorrow, I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And for ever and for ever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, The moon and its broken reflection |