Yea, even the wasting locust-swarm,

Which mighty nations dread,

To me nor terror brings nor harm—
For I make of them my bread.

Thus I am lord of the Desert Land,
And I will not leave my bounds,
To crouch beneath the Christian's hand,
And kennel with his hounds:

To be a hound, and watch the flocks,
For the cruel White Man's gain—
No! the brown Serpent of the Rocks
His den doth yet retain;

And none who there his sting provokes,
Shall find its poison vain!

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
Couchant lurks the Lion grim;
Watching till the close of day
Brings the death-devoted prey.
Heedless, at the ambushed brink

The tall Giraffe stoops down to drink:
Upon him straight the savage springs
With cruel joy. The desert rings

With clanging sound of desperate strife—
The prey is strong and he strives for life.
Plunging oft with frantic bound,

To shake the tyrant to the ground,

He shrieks he rushes through the waste,
With glaring eye and headlong haste:
In vain!-the spoiler on his prize
Rides proudly-tearing as he flies.

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
Is bathed he reels-his race is o'er:
He falls-and, with convulsive throe,
Resigns his throat to the ravening foe!
-And lo! ere quivering life has fled,
The vultures, wheeling overhead,
Swoop down, to watch, in gaunt array,
Till the gorged tyrant quits his prey.

THE HOTTENTOI.

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,
Have 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!"

"OUR native Land-our native Vale

A long and last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Lynden-dale,

And Cheviot-mountains blue!

"Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renowned in song;
Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads.
Our hearts have loved so long.

Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes,
O'erhung with birk and sloe.

"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
Beyond the Atlantic main;

We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again:

"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."