His shovel to shovel his way to the hills,
The long leather sack he bears in his hand,
To hold the bright gems he may pick from the sand;
In fancy I see him ascend the steep hill,
Or traverse the plain with his sack empty still;
While down on his head ever scorching-hot rays
Descend from th’ unclouded sun like a blaze,—
Too far from his friends, and too nigh to his foes,
Who welcome the stranger with arrows and bows,
And rifles, and war-clubs, and hatchets of stone,