THE CHIEF.
Down in the low, dim lands, where forest trees
Hung shadow curtains out across the sky,
And only branches whispering in the breeze
Awoke the echo's sigh;
Down through the gardens, where dark shadows pass
Unchallenged and unhindered year by year,
Tottering, past the tufts of yellow grass,
He came—a Chief pour rire.
Lord of a land where famine lurked amid
The nibbled mealie-cobs that strewed the ground,
King of a realm where fell disease, half-hid,
Bred hideous shadows round.
Monarch, perhaps, of half a hundred huts,
One of the relics of a vanished day,
Hedged in with all the mockery that shuts
The king with feet of clay.
His garb?—A blanket dragging in the sand
For kingly robes, a band of bark for crown,
Necklet of beads for royal insignia, and
A rein to belt his gown.
His retinue?—A brother-relic strayed
Some steps behind, bearing a gourd with care,
Some remnant of humanity decayed,
With fat-anointed hair.
