The Bushman

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!