The dusky adder rears his crest,
And, with a sudden measured stroke,
Darts on the Secretary's breast,
That dares his secret haunt molest;
But soon those poisonous fangs shall rest
In death themselves provoke.
No singing bird is in the land!
Nor haunt of man, nor scattered farm,
No fierce, maurading Kafir band,
With war-song booming o'er the sand,
Shall sound the dread alarm!
But wandering Bushman lonely glide,
Exulting in his desert air;
Whose pigmy form, with antic stride,
His nimble-footed drudge beside,
Still drums his shield of toughened hide
Across the lion's lair.
And rav'ning beast and bird of prey,
The gaunt retainers of the wild,
Afar perceive the welt'ring clay—
The fleet gazelle, in hopeless play,
Fall in the gorging lion's way,
The desert's royal child.
The vulture, soaring overhead,
With gurgling, gutt'ral-throated cry,
By instinct taught, or habit led,
In aerial circles, spiral-spread,
Winds upward, on ethereal thread,
His prey afar to spy.
