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. SONG.--"WHEN THE THORN IS WHITE WITH BLOSSOM."--WEBER. MRS. WOKIE. When the thorn is white with blossom, And the fountain flows again, Tell me, mother, must I fly him If he seek me on the plain; Or the meadow where the primrose first is found, And beneath the spreading beeches Many a violet decks the ground, When the thorn is white with blossom And the fountain flows again. Should I at the fall of twilight Hear afar his flute's soft lays,-- Mother, must I close the lattice If I know for me he plays; On the willow where engrav'd I find my name, If I linger long to read it, Shall I hear my mother blame; When the thorn is white with blossom, And the fountain flows again. Tell me if a dewy garland Hang beside thy summer bower, Twin'd with leaves of fragrant myrtle, And each fairest early flower, Must it wither, if I know he placed it there? Mother, tell me, would you chide me, If I bound it round my hair? When the thorn is white with blossom, And the fountain flows again. _Variations, Violin._ "Hillì Milli Puniah," (an East Indian air,) VALDARES. SONG.--"THE VISION OF THE NEGRO SLAVE." MISS GREENFIELD. Tortured to death by lash-inflicted wound; His head bowed down, and sunk upon the ground; Sad was his soul, oppress'd by heavy care. Far, far from his home, his heart--deep, dark despair: When lo! a vision broke before his sight, A vision holy, beautiful, and bright; The thorn-crown'd brow, with calm pale look resigned Of one who suffered for mankind.