The Slave In The Dismal Swamp.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

　　

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In dark fens of the Dismal SwampThe hunted Negro lay;He saw the fire of the midnight camp,And heard at times a horse's trampAnd a bloodhound's distant bay.Where will-o'-the-wisps and glowworms shine,In bulrush and in brake;Where waving mosses shroud the pine,And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vineIs spotted like the snake;[Pg 19]Where hardly a human foot could pass,Or a human heart would dare,On the quaking turf of the green morassHe 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 airWith songs of Liberty![Pg 20]On him alone was the doom of pain,From the morning of his birth;On him alone the curse of CainFell, like a flail on the garnered grain,And struck him to the earth!

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