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Rh Beware, O ye who follow after me, Of how ye deal with this, mine Africa!

Methinks I hear some solemn state palaver, Held in the grand unwall'd assembling-place, Thatch'd with bamboos and branches, when blue morn Glows golden, while cool shadows at the doors Of a leaf-bower'd village minish fast. Morn lies a lake of light amid the bloom And billowy wealth of forest foliage; Young Sun, ascending, shines on thatch like snow, Revealing veins of herbs, and draining them; Glancing among high senatorial boughs Of feathery tamarind, or mahogany; While dews of slumber rustle rainbow rain In sylvan, solitary silences Of Nature's own cathedral sanctuary. A spear is in the dusky orator's hand, And spears are planted black athwart the day; Dark bearded elders hearken solemnly, Resting on logs, all polish'd from long use.