Page:A Treasury of South African Poetry.djvu/190

Weasel or hawk or writhing snake;
Light swinging, as the breezes wake,
Like the ripe fruit we like to see
Upon the rich pomegranate tree.

But lo! the sun's descending car
Sinks o'er Mount Dunion's peaks afar;
And now along the dusky vale
The homeward herds and flocks I hail,
Returning from their pastures dry
Amid the stony uplands high.
First, the brown Herder with his flock
Comes winding round my hermit-rock:
His mien and gait and gesture tell,
No shepherd he from Scottish fell;
For crook the guardian gun he bears,
For plaid the sheepskin mantle wears;
Sauntering languidly along;
Nor flute has he, nor merry song,
Nor book, nor tale, nor rustic lay,
To cheer him through his listless day.
His look is dull, his soul is dark;
He feels not Hope's electric spark;
But, born the white man's servile thrall,
Knows that he cannot lower fall.
Next the stout Neat-herd passes by,
With bolder step and blither eye;
Humming low his tuneless song,
Or whistling to the horned throng.
From the destroying foeman fled,—
He serves the colonist for bread:
yet this poor heathen Bechuan
Bears on his brow the port of man;