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!