. . .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.

THE CAPE OF STORMS. O Cape of Storms! although thy front be dark,
And bleak thy naked cliffs and cheerless vales,
And perilous thy fierce and faithless gales
To staunchest mariner and stoutest bark;
And though along thy coasts with grief I mark
The servile and the slave, and him who wails
An exile’s lot—and blush to hear thy tales
Of sin and s. . . Read More