Читать книгу The Poetry of South Africa - Various - Страница 17

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The Bushman sleeps within his black-browed den,

In the lone wilderness. Around him lie

His wife and little ones unfearingly—

For they are far away from “Christian men.”

No herds, loud lowing, call him down the glen:

He fears no foe but famine; and may try

To wear away the hot noon slumberingly;

Then rise to search for roots—and dance again.

But he shall dance no more! His secret lair,

Surrounded, echoes to the thundering gun,

And the wild shriek of anguish and despair!

He dies—yet, ere life’s ebbing sands are run,

Leaves to his sons a curse, should they be friends

With the proud “Christian men,”—for they are fiends!

Thomas Pringle.