THE HOTTENTOT.
Mild, melancholy, and sedate, he stands,
Tending another’s flock upon the fields,
His fathers’ once, where now the white man builds
His home, and issues forth his proud commands.
His dark eye flashes not; his listless hands
Lean on the shepherd’s staff; no more he wields
The Libyan bow—but to th’ oppressor yields
Submissively his freedom and his lands.
Has he no courage? Once he had—but, lo!
Harsh servitude hath worn him to the bone.
No enterprise? Alas! the brand, the blow,
Hath humbled him to dust—even hope is gone!
“He’s a base-hearted hound—not worth his food”—
His master cries; “he has no gratitude!”
Thomas Pringle.
THE CAFFER.
Lo! where he crouches by the Kloof’s dark side,
Eyeing the farmer’s lowing herds, afar;
Impatient watching till the evening star
Leads forth the twilight dim, that he may glide
Like panther to the prey. With freeborn pride
He scorns the herdsman, nor regards the scar
Of recent wound—but burnishes for war
His assegai and targe of buffalo hide.
He is a robber? True; it is a strife
Between the black skinned bandit and the white.
A savage?—Yes; though loth to aim at life,
Evil for evil fierce he doth requite.
A heathen?—Teach him, then, thy better creed,
Christian! if thou deserv’st that name indeed.
Thomas Pringle.
THE GHONA WIDOW’S LULLABY.
The storm hath ceased: yet still I hear
The distant thunder sounding,
And from the mountains, far and near,
The headlong torrents bounding.
The jackal shrieks upon the rocks,
The tiger wolf is howling,
The panther round the folded flocks
With stifled gurr is prowling.
But lay thee down in peace, my child,
God watcheth o’er us ’midst the wild.