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(The Moorish Slave, at Fidala, Morocco)

is something so beseeching in the attitude of sleep, A pathetic resignation, most appealing to the heart. There must surely be some secret that the eyes in slumber keep, Which the lips, on their awakening, could not, if they would, impart.

See yon Slave from Sus, recumbent, with his ebon arms outspread On the marigolds he crushes to a sheet of golden flowers, How the mystery of dreaming lends a halo to his head, And exalts him to a level never reached in waking hours.

In the form that lies impassive, while the sea-wind comes and goes And uplifts his rags in pity, on its cool refreshing breath, There is something so prophetic of the Last and Great Repose: Sleep has borrowed, in its quietude, the Dignity of Death.

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