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 scab
bard 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 gleed.
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!