The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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      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!

THE GOOD PART

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THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY

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      She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side,

       In valleys green and cool;

      And all her hope and all her pride

       Are in the village school.

      Her soul, like the transparent air

       That robes the hills above,

      Though not of earth, encircles there

       All things with arms of love.

      And thus she walks among her girls

       With praise and mild rebukes;

      Subduing e'en rude village churls

       By her angelic looks.

      She reads to them at eventide

       Of One who came to save;

      To cast the captive's chains aside

       And liberate the slave.

      And oft the blessed time foretells

       When all men shall be free;

      And musical, as silver bells,

       Their falling chains shall be.

      And following her beloved Lord,

       In decent poverty,

      She makes her life one sweet record

       And deed of charity.

      For she was rich, and gave up all

       To break the iron bands

      Of those who waited in her hall,

       And labored in her lands.

      Long since beyond the Southern Sea

       Their outbound sails have sped,

      While she, in meek humility,

       Now earns her daily bread.

      It is their prayers, which never cease,

       That clothe her with such grace;

      Their blessing is the light of peace

       That shines upon her face.

THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP

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      In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp

       The hunted Negro lay;

      He saw the fire of the midnight camp,

      And heard at times a horse's tramp

       And a bloodhound's distant bay.

      Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine,

       In bulrush and in brake;

      Where waving mosses shroud the pine,

      And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine

       Is spotted like the snake;

      Where hardly a human foot could pass,

       Or a human heart would dare,

      On the quaking turf of the green morass

      He crouched in the rank and tangled grass,

       Like a wild beast in his lair.

      A poor old slave, infirm and lame;

       Great scars deformed his face;

      On his forehead he bore the brand of shame,

      And the rags, that hid his mangled frame,

       Were the livery of disgrace.

      All things above were bright and fair,

       All things were glad and free;

      Lithe squirrels darted here and there,

      And wild birds filled the echoing air

       With songs of Liberty!

      On him alone was the doom of pain,

       From the morning of his birth;

      On him alone the curse of Cain

      Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain,

       And struck him to the earth!