THE LITTLE SLAVE'S WISH.

I wish I was that little bird

Up in the bright blue sky,

That sings and flies just where he will,

And no one asks him why.

I wish I was that little brook

That runs so swift along,

Through pretty flowers, and shining stones,

Singing a merry song.

I wish I was a butterfly,

Without a fear or care,

Spreading my many-colored wings,

Like a flower in the air.

I wish I was that wild, wild deer,

That I saw the other day,

Who through the dark green forest flew,

Like an arrow far away.

I wish I was that little cloud

By the gentle south-wind driven,

Floating along so calm and bright

Up to the gates of heaven.

I'd rather be a savage beast,

And dwell in a gloomy cave,

And shake the forest when I roared,

Than what I am,— a slave.

My mother calls me her good boy,

My father calls me brave;

What wicked action have I done

That I should be a slave?

They tell me God is very good.

That his right arm can save;

O, is it, can it, be his will

That I should be a slave?

O, how much better‘ tis to die,

And lie down in the grave,

Than‘ tis to be what I am now,—

A little negro slave!