THE CAFFER.

Lo! where he crouches by the Kloof’s dark side, Eyeing the farmer’s lowing herds, afar; Impatient watching till the evening star Leads forth the twilight dim, that he may glide Like panther to the prey. With freeborn pride He scorns the herdsman, nor regards the scar Of recent wound—but burnishes for war His assegai and targe of buffalo hide. He is a robber? True; it is a strife Between the black skinned bandit and the white. A savage?—Yes; though loth to aim at life, Evil for evil fierce he doth requite. A heathen?—Teach him, then, thy better creed, Christian! if thou deserv’st that name indeed. Thomas Pringle.