The Hottentot

Mild, melancholy, and sedate, he stands,
    Tending another's flock upon the fields,
    His father's once, where now the White Man builds
    His home, and issues forth his proud commands.
    His dark eye flashes not; his listless hands
    Lean on the shepherd's staff; no more he wields
    The Libyan bow — but to th' oppressor yields
    Submissively his freedom and his lands.
    Has he no courage? Once he had — but, lo!
  Harsh Servitude hath worn him to the bone.
  No enterprise? Alas! the brand, the blow,
  Have humbled him to dust — even hope is gone!
  "He's a base-hearted hound — not worth his food" —
His Master cries — "he has no gratitude!"