Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)

BESIDE the ungather’d 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 clasp’d his neck, they kiss’d 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 follow’d 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 crush’d the reeds

Beside some hidden stream;

And it pass’d, 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!

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