THE BUSHMAN'S CAVE.
I stand behind the waterfall
That downward shoots, till spent in spray,
It clinging clasps the rocky wall
That beetles o'er the river way;
A secret cave is here fast hid
In swathing bands of forest dense,
A casket with a rocky lid,
Within the stream's circumference.
'Tis here the vanished bushman dwelt—
He, with his brood, long years ago—
Beneath this ledge; and deftly spelt,
In pictures that still freshly glow,
The wild-wood creatures, not more wild
Than he, who, hiding thus apart,
His idle days and hours beguiled
At his strange, harmless limning art.
Here human creatures hoped and loved,
And feared and hated in their turn—
Rejoiced when fortune kindly proved,
And over life's despites did mourn;
Here women nursed their babes, here maids
Oft listened to their lovers rude;
Here death has thrown a deeper shade
Of darkness o'er the gloomy wood.
