I

Slaves.--Good it is to rest the weary body in the light of the moon ’Neath the palms here. Feasting over, our custodian sleeps now; Sit down ’mongst us, tuneful comrade, and thy sweetly sounding strings tune; Let thy song reveal the golden thoughts spun in your dreamy brow.

A Slave Girl.--Sing of flowers and stars!

A Young Slave.--Praise sing thou to a maid’s fair form and eye.

Another.--Ring the bells of jest.

An Old Man.--Disclose the deeds of ages long gone by.

The Bard.--Other themes by far to-day resound through my unhappy soul, Like the roar and rumble of the storms that o’er the heavens roll. Far from these are flowery adornment, girlish grace, and heroes’ pride: Sighs, groans, gnash of teeth and clash of chains now in my themes abide.

Slaves.--Clash of chains is but a common strain to us, yet play and sing; Subdue thy voice, lest our sleeping lords and guard the whip to you bring.