Down beside the loathly Pitch Lake, In the stately Morichal, Sat an ancient Spanish Indian, Peering through the columns tall.
Watching vainly for the flashing Of the jewelled colibris; Listening vainly for their humming Round the honey-blossomed trees.
‘ Few,’ he sighed,‘ they come, and fewer, To the cocorite bowers; Murdered, madly, through the forests Which of yore were theirs — and ours
By there came a negro hunter, Lithe and lusty, sleek and strong, Rolling round his sparkling eyeballs, As he loped and lounged along.
Rusty firelock on his shoulder; Rusty cutlass on his thigh; Never jollier British subject Rollicked underneath the sky.
British law to give him safety, British fleets to guard his shore, And a square of British freehold — He had all we have, and more.
Fattening through the endless summer, Like his own provision ground, He had reached the summum bonum Which our latest wits have found.
So he thought; and in his hammock Gnawed his junk of sugar-cane, Toasted plantains at the fire-stick, Gnawed, and dozed, and gnawed again.
Had a wife in his ajoupa — Or, at least, what did instead; Children, too, who died so early, He'd no need to earn their bread.
Never stole, save what he needed, From the Crown woods round about; Never lied, except when summoned — Let the warden find him out.
Never drank, except at market; Never beat his sturdy mate; She could hit as hard as he could, And had just as hard a pate.
Had no care for priest nor parson, Hope of heaven nor fear of hell; And in all his views of nature Held with Comte and Peter Bell.
Healthy, happy, silly, kindly, Neither care nor toil had he, Save to work an hour at sunrise, And then hunt the colibri.
Not a bad man; not a good man: Scarce a man at all, one fears, If the Man be that within us Which is born of fire and tears.
Round the palm-stems, round the creepers, Flashed a feathered jewel past, Ruby-crested, topaz-throated, Plucked the cocorite bast,
Plucked the fallen ceiba-cotton, Whirred away to build his nest, Hung at last, with happy humming, Round some flower he fancied best.
Up then went the rusty muzzle, ‘ Dat de tenth I shot to-day:’ But out sprang the Indian shouting, Balked the negro of his prey.
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