Page:Livingstone in Africa.djvu/94

72 Hem with some thorn, or fish-bone for a needle, And fibres of a leaf; weave grassy cloths In looms, or spin with immemorial spindle. Some men have gone with quiver, targe, and spear, To hunt the beast for food; some loll at ease, Like their own gourds, luxuriously idle; Listless and vacant dumb black animals, Who spurn the accursèd joke of thought and toil— They never roll the stone of Sisyphus! No fool's ambition ever goads their lives To rouse a restless rumour, while they roll Into fate's mortal darkness, and to leave A hollow murmur for a little time In some poor space of insignificant earth!

Now Sun steals westward; and his fading light Glows golden, while cool shadows at the doors Of leaf-embower'd villages are long. Burning he falls into the forest sea, Inflames leaf-billows with purpureal fire; Drawing down souls to caves of the under-world; Whence in twelve hours he royal will arise