The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle :: :: University of Virginia Library

Utíko umkúla gozizulína;
Yebínza inquínquis Nosilimélè.
Umzi wakonána subiziélè,
Umkokéli úa sikokéli tina:
Uénza infáma zenza ga bómi.
Sicána's Hymn.

The storm hath ceased: yet still I hear
The distant thunder sounding,
And from the mountains, far and near,
The headlong torrents bounding.
The jackal shrieks upon the rocks;
The tiger-wolf is howling;
The panther round the folded flocks
With stifled gurr is prowling.

But lay thee down in peace, my child;
God watcheth o'er us midst the wild.

I fear the Bushman is abroad—
He loves the midnight thunder;
The sheeted lightning shows the road,
That leads his feet to plunder:
I'd rather meet the hooded-snake
Than hear his rattling quiver,
When, like an adder, through the brake,
He glides along the river.
But, darling, hush thy heart to sleep—
The Lord our Shepherd watch doth keep.

The Kosa from Luhéri high
Looks down upon our dwelling;
And shakes the vengeful assagai,—
Unto his clansman telling
How he, for us, by grievous wrong,
Hath lost these fertile valleys;
And boasts that now his hand is strong
To pay the debt of malice.
But sleep, my child; a Mightier Arm
Shall shield thee (helpless one!) from harm.

The moon is up; a fleecy cloud
O'er heaven's blue deeps is sailing;
The stream, that lately raved so loud,
Makes now a gentle wailing.
From yonder crags, lit by the moon,
I hear a wild voice crying:
'Tis but the harmless bear-baboon,
Unto his mates replying.
Hush—hush thy dreams, my moaning dove,
And slumber in the arms of love!

The wolf, scared by the watch-dog's bay,
Is to the woods returning;
By his rock-fortress, far away,
The Bushman's fire is burning.
And hark! Sicána's midnight hymn,
Along the valley swelling,
Calls us to stretch the wearied limb,
While kinsmen guard our dwelling:
Though vainly watchmen wake from sleep,
‘Unless the Lord the city keep.’

At dawn, we'll seek, with songs of praise,
Our food on the savannah,
As Israel sought, in ancient days,
The heaven-descended manna;
With gladness from the fertile land
The veld-kost we will gather,
A harvest planted by the hand
Of the Almighty Father—
From thraldom who redeems our race,
To plant them in their ancient place.

Then, let us calmly rest, my child;
Jehovah's arm is round us,
The God, the Father reconciled,
In heathen gloom who found us;
Who to this heart, by sorrow broke,
His wondrous WORD revealing,
Led me, a lost sheep, to the flock,
And to the Fount of Healing.
Oh may the Saviour-Shepherd lead
My darling where his lambs do feed!