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 thro' the landscape of his dream,
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.
At night he heard the lion roar,
And the fierce 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;
He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day,--
For death hath illumined the land of sleep;
And his lifeless body lay
A worn out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away.