The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, THE QUADROON GIRL. BY LONGFELLOW. THE Slaver in the broad lagoon Under the shore his boat was tied, Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, The Planter, under his roof of thatch, He said, "My ship at anchor rides I only wait the evening tides, Before them, with her face upraised, Like one half-curious, half-amazed, Her eyes were large, and full of light, And on her lips there played a smile, As lights in some cathedral aisle The features of a saint. "The soil is barren-the farm is old," His heart within him was at strife For he knew whose passions gave her life, But the voice of nature was too weak,- Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, Her hands as icy cold. The Slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand, To be his slave and paramour THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.* BY BYRON. THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride ; And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail: And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, * See 2 Chron. xxxii. THE SLAVE'S DREAM. BY LONGFELLOW. BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His breast was bare, his matted hair Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, Wide through the landscape of his dreams 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, 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 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, 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 BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR, AT CAEN IN NORMANDY-1087.* BY MRS. HEMANS. LOWLY upon his bier The royal Conqueror lay; Baron and chief stood near, Silent in war-array. * "The Conqueror was buried in the church of St. Stephen, which he had built, but his funeral was singularly interrupted. At the moment that the coffin was being lowered into the grave, a man of low degree, raising himself from the crowd, exclaimed, 'Clerks, Bishops, this land is mine; it was the site of my father's house; the man for whom you pray took it from me by force to build his church. I have not sold my ground, I have not pawned it, I have not given it; it is my right, and I claim it. |