Page:A Treasury of South African Poetry.djvu/201

 Through his clasp'd hands the tears fall fast,
 * And wet the earth, where stood

His humble home, in ashes laid,
 * Red with his kindred's blood.

And curses, struggling with his grief,
 * Die on his quiv'ring lips;

And tight he grasps the assegai,
 * Which still with life-blood drips.

Then, starting to his feet, he cast
 * An impious look on high:

"God of the whites," he cries, "who dwell'st
 * Beyond yon azure sky,

"Thy children are a cruel race
 * Of murderers and thieves.

Give back to me my warriors brave,
 * Fall'n thick as autumn leaves

"Before the hot blast of their guns,
 * Which, with its hailstorm, rode

O'er all our ranks, and made us fall
 * Like corn when it is mow'd.

"They say Thou art a God of peace—
 * Thy rebel children lie;

They say Thou art a righteous judge:
 * For vengeance dread I cry!

"Avenge the wrongs we've suffered
 * For those who call on Thee;

If Thou art just, then root out those
 * Who live by treachery!"