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Normale Version: The Hottentot 2
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The Hottentot 2

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 the 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."
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