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    Akra the Slave
    Akra the Slave
    Akra the Slave
    Ebook59 pages35 minutes

    Akra the Slave

    By Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 26, 2013
    Akra the Slave

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      Book preview

      Akra the Slave - Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

      AKRA THE SLAVE

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license.

      Title: Akra the Slave

      Author: Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

      Release Date: February 08, 2013 [EBook #42051]

      Language: English

      Character set encoding: UTF-8

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AKRA THE SLAVE ***

      Produced by Al Haines.

      [image]

      Cover

      AKRA THE SLAVE

      BY

      WILFRID WILSON GIBSON

      LONDON

      ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET

      MCMX

      Six years ago, I wrote this story down,

      While yet the light of Eastern skies

      Was in my eyes,

      And still my heart, aglow with memories

      Of sun-enraptured seas,

      And that old sea-girt town.

      Where, down dark alleys of enchanted night,

      We stole, until we came

      To where the great dome glimmered white.

      And every minaret,

      A shaft of pearly flame,

      Beneath the cloudy moon...

      Six years ago!

      Ah! soon--too soon,

      Our tale, too, will be told:

      And yet, and yet,

      From this old Eastern tale we know,

      Love's story never can grow old,

      Till Love, himself, forget.

      AKRA THE SLAVE

      He thought to see me tremble

      And totter as an oar-snapt reed,

      When he spake death to me--

      My courage, toppled in the dust,

      Even as the head of cactus

      The camel-keeper slashes

      That his beasts may browse, unscathed,

      The succulent, wounded green.

      He thought to have me, broken,

      And grovelling at his feet;

      Mouthing and mumbling to his sandal-ties,

      In stammering dread of death--

      Aye! even as a king,

      Who, having from death's hand,

      Received his crown and kingdom,

      For ever treads in terror of the hour

      When death shall jog his elbow,

      Twitch the purple from his shoulders,

      And claim again the borrowed crown.

      But, little need have I to fear

      The crouching, lean camp-follower,

      Unto whose ever-gaping maw,

      Day after day, I flung

      The spoils of bow and arrow,

      Ere I was taken captive--

      I, who have often, at my mother's breast,

      Awakened in the night-time,

      To see death leering on me from the cave-mouth,

      A gaunt and slinking shape

      That snuffed the dying embers,

      Blotting out the friendly stars--

      I, who, a scarce-weaned boy,

      Have toddled, gay and fearless,

      Down the narrow jungle-track,

      Through bodeful forest-darkness, panther-eyed;

      And have felt cold snakes uncoiling

      And gliding 'neath my naked sole,

      From clammy slumber startled;

      While, with sharp snap and crackle,

      Beast-trodden branches strained behind me,

      My father's hand scarce snatching me

      Before the spring of crouching death!

      But, naught of this the King could know,

      He only knew that, on that far-off morning,

      When first I came before him, captive,

      Among my captive brothers,

      And, as he lightly held, in idle fingers,

      Above my unbowed head,

      In equal poise

      Death's freedom

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