| |
|
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.
Wide through the
landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king
he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend
the mountain-road.
He saw once more his dark-eyed
queen
Among her children stand;
They clasped his
neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the
hand! -
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.
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 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;
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That he 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!
|
|
|
