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

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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!

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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.

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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!

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      Loud he sang the psalm of David! He, a Negro and enslaved, Sang of Israel's victory, Sang of Zion, bright and free.

      In that hour, when night is calmest, Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, In a voice so sweet and clear That I could not choose but hear,

      Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, Such as reached the swart Egyptians, When upon the Red Sea coast Perished Pharaoh and his host.

      And the voice of his devotion Filled my soul with strange emotion; For its tones by turns were glad, Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.

      Paul and Silas, in their prison, Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, And an earthquake's arm of might Broke their dungeon-gates at night.

      But, alas! what holy angel Brings the Slave this glad evangel? And what earthquake's arm of might Breaks his dungeon-gates at night?

      

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