And he went forth alone; not one of all The many whom he loved, nor she whose name Breaking within him now, did come to speak Comfort unto him yea, he went his way, Sick, and heart-broken, and alone. 'Twas noon, The leper knelt beside a stagnant pool Praying that he might be so blessed to die! The stranger gazed awhile, And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!" HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. (b 1807 - d 1882). SHAKSPEARE. A vision as of crowded city streets, Voices of children, and bright flowers that throw THE SLAVE'S DREAM. Beside the ungathered rice he lay, His breast was bare, his matted hair Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams Beneath the palm-trees on the plain Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans He saw once more his dark-eyed queen They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, A tear burst from the sleeper's lids And fell into the sand. 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, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, At night he heard the lion roar, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, The forests, with their myriad tongues, And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, That he started in his sleep and smiled 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 SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR-GLASS. A handfull of red sand, from the hot clime Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, How many weary centuries has it been Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms And singing slow their old Armeniam psalms Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate, These have passed over it, or may have passed! And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand; Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, And onward, and across the setting sun, The column and its broader shadow run, The vision vanishes! These walls again Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain; BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Black shadows fall From the lindens tall, That lift aloft their massive wall Against the southern sky; |