Beside the ungathered rice he lay, <br />His sickle in his hand; <br />His breast was bare, his matted hair <br />Was buried in the sand. <br />Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, <br />He saw his Native Land. <br /> <br />Wide through the landscape of his dreams <br />The lordly Niger flowed; <br />Beneath the palm-trees on the plain <br />Once more a king he strode; <br />And heard the tinkling caravans <br />Descend the mountain-road. <br /> <br />He saw once more his dark-eyed queen <br />Among her children stand; <br />They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, <br />They held him by the hand!-- <br />A tear burst from the sleeper's lids <br />And fell into the sand. <br /> <br />And then at furious speed he rode <br />Along the Niger's bank; <br />His bridle-reins were golden chains, <br />And, with a martial clank, <br />At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel <br />Smiting his stallion's flank. <br /> <br />Before him, like a blood-red flag, <br />The bright flamingoes flew; <br />>From morn till night he followed their flight, <br />O'er plains where the tamarind grew, <br />Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, <br />And the ocean rose to view. <br /> <br />At night he heard the lion roar, <br />And the hyena scream, <br />And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds <br />Beside some hidden stream; <br />And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, <br />Through the triumph of his dream. <br /> <br />The forests, with their myriad tongues, <br />Shouted of liberty; <br />And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, <br />With a voice so wild and free, <br />That he started in his sleep and smiled <br />At their tempestuous glee. <br /> <br />He did not feel the driver's whip, <br />Nor the burning heat of day; <br />For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, <br />And his lifeless body lay <br />A worn-out fetter, that the soul <br />Had broken and thrown away!<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-slave-s-dream/
