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Son of the
old Moon-mountains African!
Chief of the Pyramid and
Crocodile!
We call thee fruitful, and that very while
A desert fills our seeing's inward span:
Nurse of
swart nations since the world began,
Art thou so
fruitful? or dost thou beguile
Such men to honour
thee, who, worn with toil,
Rest for a space 'twixt
Cairo and Decan?
O may dark fancies err! They surely
do;
'Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste
Of
all beyond itself. Thou dost bedew
Green rushes like
our rivers, and dost taste
The pleasant sunrise.
Green isles hast thou too,
And to the sea as happily
dost haste.
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