See where the allied armies camped, 
Where plumed and painted dancers tramped-- 
'Tis still the same, the same wild scene, 
As though the ploughshare ne'er had been. 
Grey Tomboritha still the skies 
With bold and massy front defies; 
And gorge, and chasm, and long-ledged rocks 
Echo the ever-thundering shocks 
Of waters dashed with headlong force, 
Wild cataracts leaping on their course. 
In dark Maroka's vale the stream 
Reflects the slanting solar beam; 
There the proud lyre-bird* spreads his tail, 
And mocks the notes of hill and dale-- 
Whether the wild dog's plaintive howl 
Or cry of piping waterfowl, 
Or the shrill parrot's answering scream, 
As, gem-like, dangling o'er the stream 
He hears, re-echoed from the rock 
The whirlwind whistle of the flock. 
Alas! and what a change is there! 
And yet the landscape still is fair. 
There smiled the woodland by the rill: 
'Tis gone--the waters turn a mill. 
There the Mirbango village lay: 
Mirbango maidens, where? O say, 
Where the tall braves, whose warrior songs 
Once wooed the dark-eyed Darakongs. 
Yon sheltered hollow, 'neath the steep, 
Now dotted o'er with browsing sheep, 
Holds the last graves the dark man owns-- 
The treasure of his father's bones. 
All else, alas! has passed, is o'er; 
Time's wing has swept hill, vale, and shore; 
All, hence to farthest northern strand, 
Obeys the white, "the blood-stained hand;" 
And grey-beards by the fire at night, 
Warm, basking in its ruddy light, 
The young, in solemn tones, advise 
To shun all stranger-women's eyes. 
"Our fathers," quoth they, "as we trace, 
Thus lost a country--doomed a race."