Yea, even the wasting locust-swarm, Which mighty nations dread, To me nor terror brings nor harm— Thus I am lord of the Desert Land, To be a hound, and watch the flocks, And none who there his sting provokes, THE LIOU AND GIRAFFE. WOULDST thou view the Lion's den? Search afar from haunts of men Where the reed-encircled rill Oozes from the rocky hill, By its verdure far descried 'Mid the desert brown and wide. Close beside the sedgy brim The tall Giraffe stoops down to drink: With clanging sound of desperate strife— To shake the tyrant to the ground, He shrieks he rushes through the waste, For life-the victim's utmost speed Is mustered in the hour of need: For life for life-his giant might He strains, and pours his soul in flight; And, mad with terror, thirst, and pain, Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain. 'Tis vain; the thirsty sands are drinking His streaming blood-his strength is sinking; The victor's fangs are in his veins His flanks are streaked with sanguine stains His panting breast in foam and gore THE HOTTENTOI. MILD, melancholy, and sedate, he stands, His fathers' once, where now the White Man builds Lean on the shepherd's staff; no more he wields Has he no courage? Once he had-but, lo! No enterprise? Alas! the brand, the blow, "OUR native Land-our native Vale A long and last adieu! And Cheviot-mountains blue! "Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes, "The battle-mound, the Border-tower, That Scotia's annals tell; The martyr's grave, the lover's bowerTo each to all-farewell! "Home of our hearts! our fathers' home! Land of the brave and free! The keel is flashing through the foam That bears us far from thee: "We seek a wild and distant shore We leave thee to return no more, "But may dishonor blight our fame, And quench our household fires, When we, or ours, forget thy name, Green Island of our Sires! "Our native Land-our native Vale A long, a last adieu! Farewell to Bonny Lynden-dale, And Scotland's mountains blue." |