 | Sketches of Natural History |  |
137
THE OSTRICH.
Not in the land of a thousand flowers,
Not in the glorious Spice-wood bowers;
Not in fair islands by bright seas embraced,
Lives the wild Ostrich, the bird of the waste.
Come on to the Desert, his dwelling is there,
Where the breath of the simoom is hot in the air;
To the Desert, where never a green blade grew,
Where never its shadow a broad tree threw,
Where sands rise up, and in columns are wheeled
By the winds of the Desert, like hosts in the field;
Where the Wild Ass sends forth a lone, dissonant bray,
And the herds of the Wild Horse speed on through the day—
The creatures unbroken, with manes flying free,
Like the steeds of the whirlwind, if such there may be.
Yes, there in the Desert, like armies for war,
The flocks of the Ostrich are seen from afar,
Speeding on, speeding on o'er the desolate plain,
While the fleet mounted Arab pursueth in vain!
But 'tis joy to the traveller who toils through that land,
The egg of the Ostrich to find in the sand;
'Tis sustenance for him when his store is low,
And weary with travel he journeyeth slow
To the well of the Desert, and finds it at last
Seven days' journey from that he hath passed.
Not in the glorious Spice-wood bowers;
Not in fair islands by bright seas embraced,
Lives the wild Ostrich, the bird of the waste.
Come on to the Desert, his dwelling is there,
Where the breath of the simoom is hot in the air;
To the Desert, where never a green blade grew,
Where never its shadow a broad tree threw,
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By the winds of the Desert, like hosts in the field;
Where the Wild Ass sends forth a lone, dissonant bray,
And the herds of the Wild Horse speed on through the day—
The creatures unbroken, with manes flying free,
Like the steeds of the whirlwind, if such there may be.
Yes, there in the Desert, like armies for war,
The flocks of the Ostrich are seen from afar,
Speeding on, speeding on o'er the desolate plain,
While the fleet mounted Arab pursueth in vain!
139
The egg of the Ostrich to find in the sand;
'Tis sustenance for him when his store is low,
And weary with travel he journeyeth slow
To the well of the Desert, and finds it at last
Seven days' journey from that he hath passed.
Or go to the Caffre-land,—what if you meet
A print in the sand, of the strong Lion's feet!
He is down in the thicket, asleep in his lair;
Come on to the Desert, the Ostrich is there—
There, there! where the Zebras are flying in haste,
The herd of the Ostrich comes down o'er the waste—
Half running, half flying—what progress they make!
Twang the bow! not the arrow their flight can o'ertake!
A print in the sand, of the strong Lion's feet!
He is down in the thicket, asleep in his lair;
Come on to the Desert, the Ostrich is there—
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The herd of the Ostrich comes down o'er the waste—
Half running, half flying—what progress they make!
Twang the bow! not the arrow their flight can o'ertake!
Strong bird of the Wild, thou art gone like the wind,
And thou leavest the cloud of thy speeding behind;
Fare thee well! in thy desolate region, farewell,
With the Giraffe and Lion, we leave thee to dwell!
And thou leavest the cloud of thy speeding behind;
Fare thee well! in thy desolate region, farewell,
With the Giraffe and Lion, we leave thee to dwell!
| Sketches of Natural History | |