  The Bushman sleeps within his black-browed den, In the lone wilderness. Around him lie His wife and little ones unfearingly— For they are far away from “Christian men.” No herds, loud lowing, call him down the glen: He fears no foe but famine; and may try To wear away the hot noon slumberingly; Then rise to search for roots—and dance again. But he shall dance no more! His secret lair, Surrounded, echoes to the thundering gun, And the wild shriek of anguish and despair! He dies—yet, ere life’s ebbing sands are run, Leaves to his sons a curse, should they be friends With the proud “Christian men,”—for they are fiends! Thomas Pringle. [Image of decorative bar not available.] |
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