Where hardly a human foot could pass, On the quaking turf of the green morass A poor old slave, infirm and lame ;- On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, All things above were bright and fair; On him alone was the doom of pain, On him alone the curse of Cain Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, He saw once more his dark-eyed queen THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. 27 They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, A tear burst from the sleeper's lids, And then at furious speed he rode 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, 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; And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, That he startled in his sleep, and smiled He did not fear 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! THE TELL-TALE FACE. BY WILLIAM CUTTER. I HATE the frigid notions, Which seem to count it sin, To show the kind emotions True kindness works within ; Those manners cold and guarded With words dealt out by rule, Pronounced just as mamma did, I wonder how the ladies, Dear angels that they are! Can live where so much shade is Their loveliness to mar! Were they fairer than the graces, I love the playful fancies Of an unsuspecting heart, I love the face, that speaketh These are the voice of nature, I love that quick expression, Those warm, those heavenly blushes, That crimson brow and cheek, When feeling's fountain gushes With thoughts it dares not speak. |