 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle |  |
xv
AFRICAN SKETCHES.
Rude Rymes, the which a rustic Muse did weave
In salvadge soyl, far from Parnasso Mount,
And roughly wrought in an vnlearned loome.
Spenser.
In salvadge soyl, far from Parnasso Mount,
And roughly wrought in an vnlearned loome.
Spenser.
Avia Pieridum peragro, loca nullius ante
Trita solo: juvat integros accedere fontes,
Atque haurire; juvatque novos decerpere flores.
Lucret.
Trita solo: juvat integros accedere fontes,
Atque haurire; juvatque novos decerpere flores.
Lucret.
xvi
TO SIR WALTER SCOTT.
FROM DESERTS WILD AND MANY A PATHLESS WOODOF SAVAGE CLIMES WHERE I HAVE WANDERED LONG,
WHOSE HILLS AND STREAMS ARE YET UNGRACED BY SONG,
I BRING, ILLUSTRIOUS FRIEND, THIS GARLAND RUDE:
THE OFFERING, THOUGH UNCOUTH, IN KINDLY MOOD
THOU WILT REGARD, IF HAPLY THERE SHOULD BE,
'MONG MEANER THINGS, THE FLOWER SIMPLICITY,
FRESH FROM COY NATURE'S VIRGIN SOLITUDE.
ACCEPT THIS FRAIL MEMORIAL, HONOURED SCOTT,
OF FAVOURED INTERCOURSE IN FORMER DAY—
OF WORDS OF KINDNESS I HAVE NE'ER FORGOT—
OF ACTS OF FRIENDSHIP I CAN NE'ER REPAY.
FOR I HAVE FOUND (AND WHEREFORE SAY IT NOT?)
THE MINSTREL'S HEART AS NOBLE AS HIS LAY.
January, 1828.
3
THE BECHUANA BOY.
I sat at noontide in my tent,
And looked across the Desert dun,
Beneath the cloudless firmament
Far gleaming in the sun,
When from the bosom of the waste
A swarthy Stripling came in haste,
With foot unshod and naked limb;
And a tame springbok followed him.
And looked across the Desert dun,
Beneath the cloudless firmament
Far gleaming in the sun,
When from the bosom of the waste
A swarthy Stripling came in haste,
With foot unshod and naked limb;
And a tame springbok followed him.
With open aspect, frank yet bland,
And with a modest mien he stood,
Caressing with a gentle hand
That beast of gentle brood;
Then, meekly gazing in my face,
Said in the language of his race,
With smiling look yet pensive tone,
“Stranger—I'm in the world alone!”
And with a modest mien he stood,
Caressing with a gentle hand
That beast of gentle brood;
Then, meekly gazing in my face,
Said in the language of his race,
With smiling look yet pensive tone,
“Stranger—I'm in the world alone!”
4
“Poor boy!” I said, “thy native home
Lies far beyond the Stormberg blue:
Why hast thou left it, boy! to roam
This desolate Karroo?”
His face grew sadder while I spoke;
The smile forsook it; and he broke
Short silence with a sob-like sigh,
And told his hapless history.
Lies far beyond the Stormberg blue:
Why hast thou left it, boy! to roam
This desolate Karroo?”
His face grew sadder while I spoke;
The smile forsook it; and he broke
Short silence with a sob-like sigh,
And told his hapless history.
“I have no home!” replied the boy:
“The Bergenaars—by night they came,
And raised their wolfish howl of joy,
While o'er our huts the flame
Resistless rushed; and aye their yell
Pealed louder as our warriors fell
In helpless heaps beneath their shot:
—One living man they left us not!
“The Bergenaars—by night they came,
And raised their wolfish howl of joy,
While o'er our huts the flame
Resistless rushed; and aye their yell
Pealed louder as our warriors fell
In helpless heaps beneath their shot:
—One living man they left us not!
“The slaughter o'er, they gave the slain
To feast the foul-beaked birds of prey;
And, with our herds, across the plain
They hurried us away—
The widowed mothers and their brood.
Oft, in despair, for drink and food
We vainly cried: they heeded not,
But with sharp lash the captive smote.
To feast the foul-beaked birds of prey;
And, with our herds, across the plain
They hurried us away—
The widowed mothers and their brood.
Oft, in despair, for drink and food
We vainly cried: they heeded not,
But with sharp lash the captive smote.
“Three days we tracked that dreary wild,
Where thirst and anguish pressed us sore;
And many a mother and her child
Lay down to rise no more.
Behind us, on the desert brown,
We saw the vultures swooping down:
And heard, as the grim night was falling,
The wolf to his gorged comrade calling.
Where thirst and anguish pressed us sore;
And many a mother and her child
Lay down to rise no more.
Behind us, on the desert brown,
We saw the vultures swooping down:
And heard, as the grim night was falling,
The wolf to his gorged comrade calling.
5
“At length was heard a river sounding
'Midst that dry and dismal land,
And, like a troop of wild deer bounding,
We hurried to its strand—
Among the maddened cattle rushing;
The crowd behind still forward pushing,
Till in the flood our limbs were drenched,
And the fierce rage of thirst was quenched.
'Midst that dry and dismal land,
And, like a troop of wild deer bounding,
We hurried to its strand—
Among the maddened cattle rushing;
The crowd behind still forward pushing,
Till in the flood our limbs were drenched,
And the fierce rage of thirst was quenched.
“Hoarse-roaring, dark, the broad Gareep
In turbid streams was sweeping fast,
Huge sea-cows in its eddies deep
Loud snorting as we passed;
But that relentless robber-clan
Right through those waters wild and wan
Drove on like sheep our wearied band:
—Some never reached the farther strand.
In turbid streams was sweeping fast,
Huge sea-cows in its eddies deep
Loud snorting as we passed;
But that relentless robber-clan
Right through those waters wild and wan
Drove on like sheep our wearied band:
—Some never reached the farther strand.
“All shivering from the foaming flood,
We stood upon the stranger's ground,
When, with proud looks and gestures rude,
The White Men gathered round:
And there, like cattle from the fold,
By Christians we were bought and sold,
'Midst laughter loud and looks of scorn—
And roughly from each other torn.
We stood upon the stranger's ground,
When, with proud looks and gestures rude,
The White Men gathered round:
And there, like cattle from the fold,
By Christians we were bought and sold,
'Midst laughter loud and looks of scorn—
And roughly from each other torn.
“My Mother's scream, so long and shrill,
My little Sister's wailing cry,
(In dreams I often hear them still!)
Rose wildly to the sky.
A tiger's heart came to me then,
And fiercely on those ruthless men
I sprang.—Alas! dashed on the sand,
Bleeding, they bound me foot and hand.
My little Sister's wailing cry,
(In dreams I often hear them still!)
Rose wildly to the sky.
A tiger's heart came to me then,
And fiercely on those ruthless men
I sprang.—Alas! dashed on the sand,
Bleeding, they bound me foot and hand.
6
“Away—away on prancing steeds
The stout man-stealers blithely go,
Through long low valleys fringed with reeds,
O'er mountains capped with snow,
Each with his captive, far and fast;
Until yon rock-bound ridge we passed,
And distant stripes of cultured soil
Bespoke the land of tears and toil.
The stout man-stealers blithely go,
Through long low valleys fringed with reeds,
O'er mountains capped with snow,
Each with his captive, far and fast;
Until yon rock-bound ridge we passed,
And distant stripes of cultured soil
Bespoke the land of tears and toil.
“And tears and toil have been my lot
Since I the White Man's thrall became,
And sorer griefs I wish forgot—
Harsh blows, and scorn, and shame!
Oh, Englishman! thou ne'er canst know
The injured bondman's bitter woe,
When round his breast, like scorpions, cling
Black thoughts that madden while they sting!
Since I the White Man's thrall became,
And sorer griefs I wish forgot—
Harsh blows, and scorn, and shame!
Oh, Englishman! thou ne'er canst know
The injured bondman's bitter woe,
When round his breast, like scorpions, cling
Black thoughts that madden while they sting!
“Yet this hard fate I might have borne,
And taught in time my soul to bend,
Had my sad yearning heart forlorn
But found a single friend:
My race extinct or far removed,
The Boor's rough brood I could have loved;
But each to whom my bosom turned
Even like a hound the black boy spurned.
And taught in time my soul to bend,
Had my sad yearning heart forlorn
But found a single friend:
My race extinct or far removed,
The Boor's rough brood I could have loved;
But each to whom my bosom turned
Even like a hound the black boy spurned.
“While, friendless thus, my master's flocks
I tended on the upland waste,
It chanced this fawn leapt from the rocks,
By wolfish wild-dogs chased:
I rescued it, though wounded sore
And dabbled in its mother's gore:
And nursed it in a cavern wild,
Until it loved me like a child.
I tended on the upland waste,
It chanced this fawn leapt from the rocks,
By wolfish wild-dogs chased:
I rescued it, though wounded sore
And dabbled in its mother's gore:
And nursed it in a cavern wild,
Until it loved me like a child.
7
“Gently I nursed it; for I thought
(Its hapless fate so like to mine)
By good Utíko it was brought
To bid me not repine,—
Since in this world of wrong and ill
One creature lived that loved me still,
Although its dark and dazzling eye
Beamed not with human sympathy.
(Its hapless fate so like to mine)
By good Utíko it was brought
To bid me not repine,—
Since in this world of wrong and ill
One creature lived that loved me still,
Although its dark and dazzling eye
Beamed not with human sympathy.
“Thus lived I, a lone orphan lad,
My task the proud Boor's flocks to tend;
And this poor fawn was all I had
To love, or call my friend;
When suddenly, with haughty look
And taunting words, that tyrant took
My playmate for his pampered boy,
Who envied me my only joy.
My task the proud Boor's flocks to tend;
And this poor fawn was all I had
To love, or call my friend;
When suddenly, with haughty look
And taunting words, that tyrant took
My playmate for his pampered boy,
Who envied me my only joy.
“High swelled my heart!—But when the star
Of midnight gleamed, I softly led
My bounding favourite forth, and far
Into the Desert fled.
And here, from human kind exiled,
Three moons on roots and berries wild
I've fared; and braved the beasts of prey,
To 'scape from spoilers worse than they.
Of midnight gleamed, I softly led
My bounding favourite forth, and far
Into the Desert fled.
And here, from human kind exiled,
Three moons on roots and berries wild
I've fared; and braved the beasts of prey,
To 'scape from spoilers worse than they.
“But yester morn a Bushman brought
The tidings that thy tents were near;
And now with hasty foot I've sought
Thy presence, void of fear;
Because they say, O English Chief,
Thou scornest not the Captive's grief:
Then let me serve thee, as thine own—
For I am in the world alone!”
The tidings that thy tents were near;
And now with hasty foot I've sought
Thy presence, void of fear;
Because they say, O English Chief,
Thou scornest not the Captive's grief:
Then let me serve thee, as thine own—
For I am in the world alone!”
8
Such was Marossi's touching tale.
Our breasts they were not made of stone;
His words, his winning looks prevail—
We took him for ‘our own.’
And One, with woman's gentle art,
Unlocked the fountains of his heart;
And love gushed forth—till he became
Her Child in every thing but name.
Our breasts they were not made of stone;
His words, his winning looks prevail—
We took him for ‘our own.’
And One, with woman's gentle art,
Unlocked the fountains of his heart;
And love gushed forth—till he became
Her Child in every thing but name.
AFAR IN THE DESERT.
Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years;
And shadows of things that have long since fled
Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead:
Bright visions of glory—that vanished too soon;
Day-dreams—that departed ere manhood's noon;
Attachments—by fate or by falsehood reft;
Companions of early days—lost or left;
And my Native Land—whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time
When the feelings were young and the world was new,
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view;
All—all now forsaken—forgotten—foregone!
And I—a lone exile remembered of none—
My high aims abandoned,—my good acts undone,—
A weary of all that is under the sun,—
With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan,
I fly to the Desert afar from man!
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years;
And shadows of things that have long since fled
Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead:
Bright visions of glory—that vanished too soon;
Day-dreams—that departed ere manhood's noon;
Attachments—by fate or by falsehood reft;
Companions of early days—lost or left;
And my Native Land—whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time
When the feelings were young and the world was new,
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view;
All—all now forsaken—forgotten—foregone!
And I—a lone exile remembered of none—
9
A weary of all that is under the sun,—
With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan,
I fly to the Desert afar from man!
Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife—
The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear,—
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear,—
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly,
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh—
Oh! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride,
Afar in the Desert alone to ride!
There is rapture to vault on the champing steed,
And to bound away with the eagle's speed,
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand—
The only law of the Desert Land!
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife—
The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear,—
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear,—
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly,
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh—
Oh! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride,
Afar in the Desert alone to ride!
There is rapture to vault on the champing steed,
And to bound away with the eagle's speed,
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand—
The only law of the Desert Land!
Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
Away—away from the dwellings of men,
By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen;
By valleys remote where the oribi plays,
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartèbeest graze,
And the kùdù and eland unhunted recline
By the skirts of grey forests o'erhung with wild-vine;
Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood,
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood,
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will
In the fen where the wild-ass is drinking his fill.
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
Away—away from the dwellings of men,
By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen;
By valleys remote where the oribi plays,
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartèbeest graze,
And the kùdù and eland unhunted recline
By the skirts of grey forests o'erhung with wild-vine;
Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood,
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood,
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will
In the fen where the wild-ass is drinking his fill.
10
Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
O'er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cry
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively;
And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh
Is heard by the fountain at twilight grey;
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane,
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste,
Hieing away to the home of her rest,
Where she and her mate have scooped their nest,
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view
In the pathless depths of the parched Karroo.
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
O'er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cry
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively;
And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh
Is heard by the fountain at twilight grey;
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane,
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste,
Hieing away to the home of her rest,
Where she and her mate have scooped their nest,
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view
In the pathless depths of the parched Karroo.
Afar in the Desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
Away—away—in the Wilderness vast,
Where the White Man's foot hath never passed,
And the quivered Coránna or Bechuán
Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan:
A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
Which Man hath abandoned from famine and fear;
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone;
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot;
And the bitter-melon, for food and drink,
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink:
A region of drought, where no river glides,
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides;
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,
Appears, to refresh the aching eye:
But the barren earth and the burning sky,
And the blank horizon, round and round,
Spread—void of living sight or sound.
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
Away—away—in the Wilderness vast,
Where the White Man's foot hath never passed,
And the quivered Coránna or Bechuán
Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan:
A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
Which Man hath abandoned from famine and fear;
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone;
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot;
And the bitter-melon, for food and drink,
Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink:
A region of drought, where no river glides,
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides;
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,
Appears, to refresh the aching eye:
But the barren earth and the burning sky,
11
Spread—void of living sight or sound.
And here, while the night-winds round me sigh,
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,
As I sit apart by the desert stone,
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone,
‘A still small voice’ comes through the wild
(Like a Father consoling his fretful Child),
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,—
Saying—Man is distant, but God is near!
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,
As I sit apart by the desert stone,
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone,
‘A still small voice’ comes through the wild
(Like a Father consoling his fretful Child),
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,—
Saying—Man is distant, but God is near!
SONG OF THE WILD BUSHMAN.
Let the proud White Man boast his flocks,
And fields of foodful grain;
My home is 'mid the mountain rocks,
The Desert my domain.
I plant no herbs nor pleasant fruits,
I toil not for my cheer;
The Desert yields me juicy roots,
And herds of bounding deer.
And fields of foodful grain;
My home is 'mid the mountain rocks,
The Desert my domain.
I plant no herbs nor pleasant fruits,
I toil not for my cheer;
The Desert yields me juicy roots,
And herds of bounding deer.
The countless springboks are my flock,
Spread o'er the unbounded plain;
The buffalo bendeth to my yoke,
The wild-horse to my rein;
My yoke is the quivering assagai,
My rein the tough bow-string;
My bridle curb is a slender barb—
Yet it quells the forest-king.
Spread o'er the unbounded plain;
The buffalo bendeth to my yoke,
The wild-horse to my rein;
My yoke is the quivering assagai,
My rein the tough bow-string;
My bridle curb is a slender barb—
Yet it quells the forest-king.
12
The crested adder honoureth me,
And yields at my command
His poison-bag, like the honey-bee,
When I seize him on the sand.
Yea, even the wasting locust-swarm,
Which mighty nations dread,
To me nor terror brings nor harm—
For I make of them my bread.
And yields at my command
His poison-bag, like the honey-bee,
When I seize him on the sand.
Yea, even the wasting locust-swarm,
Which mighty nations dread,
To me nor terror brings nor harm—
For I make of them my bread.
Thus I am lord of the Desert Land,
And I will not leave my bounds,
To crouch beneath the Christian's hand,
And kennel with his hounds:
To be a hound, and watch the flocks,
For the cruel White Man's gain—
No! the brown Serpent of the Rocks
His den doth yet retain;
And none who there his sting provokes,
Shall find its poison vain!
And I will not leave my bounds,
To crouch beneath the Christian's hand,
And kennel with his hounds:
To be a hound, and watch the flocks,
For the cruel White Man's gain—
No! the brown Serpent of the Rocks
His den doth yet retain;
And none who there his sting provokes,
Shall find its poison vain!
THE CORANNA.
Fast by his wild resounding RiverThe listless Córan lingers ever;
Still drives his heifers forth to feed,
Soothed by the gorrah's humming reed;
A rover still unchecked will range,
As humour calls, or seasons change;
His tent of mats and leathern gear
All packed upon the patient steer.
'Mid all his wanderings hating toil,
He never tills the stubborn soil;
13
And what spontaneous earth supplies.
Or, should long-parching droughts prevail,
And milk, and bulbs, and locusts fail,
He lays him down to sleep away
In languid trance the weary day;
Oft as he feels gaunt hunger's stound,
Still tightening famine's girdle round;
Lulled by the sound of the Gareep,
Beneath the willows murmuring deep:
Till thunder-clouds, surcharged with rain,
Pour verdure o'er the panting plain;
And call the famished Dreamer from his trance,
To feast on milk and game, and wake the moon-light dance.
THE KOSA.
The free-born Kosa still doth hold
The fields his fathers held of old;
With club and spear, in jocund ranks,
Still hunts the elk by Chumi's banks:
By Keisi's meads his herds are lowing;
On Debè's slopes his gardens glowing,
Where laughing maids at sunset roam,
To bear the juicy melons home:
And striplings from Kalumna's wood
Bring wild grapes and the pigeon's brood,
With fragrant hoard of honey-bee
Rifled from the hollow tree:
And herdsmen shout from rock to rock;
And through the glen the hamlets smoke:
And children gambol round the kraal,
To greet their sires at evening-fall:
And matrons sweep the cabin floor,
And spread the mat beside the door,
And with dry faggots wake the flame
To dress the wearied huntsman's game.
The fields his fathers held of old;
With club and spear, in jocund ranks,
Still hunts the elk by Chumi's banks:
By Keisi's meads his herds are lowing;
On Debè's slopes his gardens glowing,
Where laughing maids at sunset roam,
To bear the juicy melons home:
And striplings from Kalumna's wood
Bring wild grapes and the pigeon's brood,
With fragrant hoard of honey-bee
Rifled from the hollow tree:
14
And through the glen the hamlets smoke:
And children gambol round the kraal,
To greet their sires at evening-fall:
And matrons sweep the cabin floor,
And spread the mat beside the door,
And with dry faggots wake the flame
To dress the wearied huntsman's game.
Bright gleams the fire: its ruddy blaze
On many a dusky visage plays.
On forkèd twigs the game is drest;
The neighbours share the simple feast:
The honey-mead, the millet-ale,
Flow round—and flow the jest and tale;
Wild legends of the ancient day,
Of hunting feat, of warlike fray;
And now come smiles, and now come sighs,
As mirth and grief alternate rise.
Or should a sterner strain awake,
Like sudden flame in summer brake,
Bursts fiercely forth in battle song
The tale of Amakósa's wrong;
Throbs every warrior bosom high,
With lightning flashes every eye,
And, in wild cadence, rings the sound
Of barbèd javelins clashing round.
On many a dusky visage plays.
On forkèd twigs the game is drest;
The neighbours share the simple feast:
The honey-mead, the millet-ale,
Flow round—and flow the jest and tale;
Wild legends of the ancient day,
Of hunting feat, of warlike fray;
And now come smiles, and now come sighs,
As mirth and grief alternate rise.
Or should a sterner strain awake,
Like sudden flame in summer brake,
Bursts fiercely forth in battle song
The tale of Amakósa's wrong;
Throbs every warrior bosom high,
With lightning flashes every eye,
And, in wild cadence, rings the sound
Of barbèd javelins clashing round.
But lo, like a broad shield on high,
The moon gleams in the midnight sky.
'Tis time to part: the watch-dog's bay
Beside the folds has died away.
'Tis time to rest: the mat is spread,
The hardy hunter's simple bed:
His wife her dreaming infant hushes
On the low cabin's couch of rushes;
Softly he draws its door of hide,
And, stretched by his Gulúwi's side,
Sleeps soundly till the peep of dawn
Wakes on the hills the dappled fawn;
Then forth again he gaily bounds,
With club and spear and questing hounds.
The moon gleams in the midnight sky.
'Tis time to part: the watch-dog's bay
Beside the folds has died away.
'Tis time to rest: the mat is spread,
The hardy hunter's simple bed:
His wife her dreaming infant hushes
On the low cabin's couch of rushes;
15
And, stretched by his Gulúwi's side,
Sleeps soundly till the peep of dawn
Wakes on the hills the dappled fawn;
Then forth again he gaily bounds,
With club and spear and questing hounds.
EVENING RAMBLES.
The sultry summer-noon is past;
And mellow Evening comes at last,
With a low and languid breeze
Fanning the mimosa trees,
That cluster o'er the yellow vale,
And oft perfume the panting gale
With fragrance faint: it seems to tell
Of primrose-tufts in Scottish dell,
Peeping forth in tender spring
When the blithe lark begins to sing.
And mellow Evening comes at last,
With a low and languid breeze
Fanning the mimosa trees,
That cluster o'er the yellow vale,
And oft perfume the panting gale
With fragrance faint: it seems to tell
Of primrose-tufts in Scottish dell,
Peeping forth in tender spring
When the blithe lark begins to sing.
But soon, amidst our Lybian vale,
Such soothing recollections fail;
Soon we raise the eye to range
O'er prospects wild, grotesque, and strange;
Sterile mountains, rough and steep,
That bound abrupt the valley deep,
Heaving to the clear blue sky
Their ribs of granite bare and dry,
And ridges, by the torrents worn,
Thinly streaked with scraggy thorn,
Which fringes Nature's savage dress,
Yet scarce relieves her nakedness.
Such soothing recollections fail;
Soon we raise the eye to range
O'er prospects wild, grotesque, and strange;
Sterile mountains, rough and steep,
That bound abrupt the valley deep,
Heaving to the clear blue sky
Their ribs of granite bare and dry,
And ridges, by the torrents worn,
Thinly streaked with scraggy thorn,
Which fringes Nature's savage dress,
Yet scarce relieves her nakedness.
16
But where the Vale winds deep below,
The landscape hath a warmer glow:
There the spekboom spreads its bowers
Of light green leaves and lilac flowers;
And the aloe rears her crimson crest,
Like stately queen for gala drest;
And the bright-blossomed bean-tree shakes
Its coral tufts above the brakes,
Brilliant as the glancing plumes
Of sugar birds among its blooms,
With the deep-green verdure blending
In the stream of light descending.
The landscape hath a warmer glow:
There the spekboom spreads its bowers
Of light green leaves and lilac flowers;
And the aloe rears her crimson crest,
Like stately queen for gala drest;
And the bright-blossomed bean-tree shakes
Its coral tufts above the brakes,
Brilliant as the glancing plumes
Of sugar birds among its blooms,
With the deep-green verdure blending
In the stream of light descending.
And now, along the grassy meads,
Where the skipping reebok feeds,
Let me through the mazes rove
Of the light acacia grove;
Now while yet the honey-bee
Hums around the blossomed tree;
And the turtles softly chide,
Wooingly, on every side;
And the clucking pheasant calls
To his mate at intervals;
And the duiker at my tread
Sudden lifts his startled head,
Then dives affrighted in the brake,
Like wild-duck in the reedy lake.
Where the skipping reebok feeds,
Let me through the mazes rove
Of the light acacia grove;
Now while yet the honey-bee
Hums around the blossomed tree;
And the turtles softly chide,
Wooingly, on every side;
And the clucking pheasant calls
To his mate at intervals;
And the duiker at my tread
Sudden lifts his startled head,
Then dives affrighted in the brake,
Like wild-duck in the reedy lake.
My wonted seat receives me now—
This cliff with myrtle-tufted brow,
Towering high o'er grove and stream,
As if to greet the parting gleam.
With shattered rocks besprinkled o'er,
Behind ascends the mountain hoar,
Whose crest o'erhangs the Bushman's Cave,
(His fortress once, and now his grave,)
Where the grim satyr-faced baboon
Sits gibbering to the rising moon,
Or chides with hoarse and angry cry
The herdsman as he wanders by.
This cliff with myrtle-tufted brow,
Towering high o'er grove and stream,
As if to greet the parting gleam.
With shattered rocks besprinkled o'er,
Behind ascends the mountain hoar,
17
(His fortress once, and now his grave,)
Where the grim satyr-faced baboon
Sits gibbering to the rising moon,
Or chides with hoarse and angry cry
The herdsman as he wanders by.
Spread out below in sun and shade,
The shaggy Glen lies full displayed—
Its sheltered nooks, its sylvan bowers,
Its meadows flushed with purple flowers;
And through it like a dragon spread,
I trace the river's tortuous bed.
Lo there the Chaldee-willow weeps,
Drooping o'er the headlong steeps,
Where the torrent in his wrath
Hath rifted him a rugged path,
Like fissure cleft by earthquake's shock,
Through mead and jungle, mound and rock.
But the swoln water's wasteful sway,
Like tyrant's rage, hath passed away,
And left the ravage of its course
Memorial of its frantic force.
—Now o'er its shrunk and slimy bed
Rank weeds and withered wrack are spread,
With the faint rill just oozing through,
And vanishing again from view;
Save where the guana's glassy pool
Holds to some cliff its mirror cool,
Girt by the palmite's leafy screen,
Or graceful rock-ash, tall and green,
Whose slender sprays above the flood
Suspend the loxia's callow brood
In cradle-nests, with porch below,
Secure from winged or creeping foe—
Weasel or hawk or writhing snake;
Light swinging, as the breezes wake,
Like the ripe fruit we love to see
Upon the rich pomegranate-tree.
The shaggy Glen lies full displayed—
Its sheltered nooks, its sylvan bowers,
Its meadows flushed with purple flowers;
And through it like a dragon spread,
I trace the river's tortuous bed.
Lo there the Chaldee-willow weeps,
Drooping o'er the headlong steeps,
Where the torrent in his wrath
Hath rifted him a rugged path,
Like fissure cleft by earthquake's shock,
Through mead and jungle, mound and rock.
But the swoln water's wasteful sway,
Like tyrant's rage, hath passed away,
And left the ravage of its course
Memorial of its frantic force.
—Now o'er its shrunk and slimy bed
Rank weeds and withered wrack are spread,
With the faint rill just oozing through,
And vanishing again from view;
Save where the guana's glassy pool
Holds to some cliff its mirror cool,
Girt by the palmite's leafy screen,
Or graceful rock-ash, tall and green,
Whose slender sprays above the flood
Suspend the loxia's callow brood
In cradle-nests, with porch below,
Secure from winged or creeping foe—
18
Light swinging, as the breezes wake,
Like the ripe fruit we love to see
Upon the rich pomegranate-tree.
But lo, the sun's descending car
Sinks o'er Mount-Dunion's peaks afar;
And now along the dusky vale
The homeward herds and flocks I hail,
Returning from their pastures dry
Amid the stony uplands high.
First, the brown Herder with his flock
Comes winding round my hermit-rock:
His mien and gait and vesture tell,
No shepherd he from Scottish fell;
For crook the guardian gun he bears,
For plaid the sheep-skin mantle wears;
Sauntering languidly along;
Nor flute has he, nor merry song,
Nor book, nor tale, nor rustic lay,
To cheer him through his listless day.
His look is dull, his soul is dark;
He feels not hope's electric spark;
But, born the White Man's servile thrall,
Knows that he cannot lower fall.
Sinks o'er Mount-Dunion's peaks afar;
And now along the dusky vale
The homeward herds and flocks I hail,
Returning from their pastures dry
Amid the stony uplands high.
First, the brown Herder with his flock
Comes winding round my hermit-rock:
His mien and gait and vesture tell,
No shepherd he from Scottish fell;
For crook the guardian gun he bears,
For plaid the sheep-skin mantle wears;
Sauntering languidly along;
Nor flute has he, nor merry song,
Nor book, nor tale, nor rustic lay,
To cheer him through his listless day.
His look is dull, his soul is dark;
He feels not hope's electric spark;
But, born the White Man's servile thrall,
Knows that he cannot lower fall.
Next the stout Neat-herd passes by,
With bolder step and blither eye;
Humming low his tuneless song,
Or whistling to the hornèd throng.
From the destroying foeman fled,
He serves the Colonist for bread:
Yet this poor heathen Bechuan
Bears on his brow the port of man;
A naked, homeless exile he—
But not debased by Slavery.
With bolder step and blither eye;
Humming low his tuneless song,
Or whistling to the hornèd throng.
From the destroying foeman fled,
He serves the Colonist for bread:
Yet this poor heathen Bechuan
Bears on his brow the port of man;
A naked, homeless exile he—
But not debased by Slavery.
19
Now, wizard-like, slow Twilight sails
With soundless wing adown the vales,
Waving with his shadowy rod
The owl and bat to come abroad,
With things that hate the garish sun,
To frolic now when day is done.
Now along the meadows damp
The enamoured fire-fly lights his lamp;
Link-boy he of woodland green
To light fair Avon's Elfin Queen;
Here, I ween, more wont to shine
To light the thievish porcupine,
Plundering my melon-bed,—
Or villain lynx, whose stealthy tread
Rouses not the wakeful hound
As he creeps the folds around.
With soundless wing adown the vales,
Waving with his shadowy rod
The owl and bat to come abroad,
With things that hate the garish sun,
To frolic now when day is done.
Now along the meadows damp
The enamoured fire-fly lights his lamp;
Link-boy he of woodland green
To light fair Avon's Elfin Queen;
Here, I ween, more wont to shine
To light the thievish porcupine,
Plundering my melon-bed,—
Or villain lynx, whose stealthy tread
Rouses not the wakeful hound
As he creeps the folds around.
But lo! the night-bird's boding scream
Breaks abrupt my twilight dream;
And warns me it is time to haste
My homeward walk across the waste,
Lest my rash tread provoke the wrath
Of adder coiled upon the path,
Or tempt the lion from the wood,
That soon will prowl athirst for blood.
—Thus, murmuring my thoughtful strain,
I seek our wattled cot again.
Breaks abrupt my twilight dream;
And warns me it is time to haste
My homeward walk across the waste,
Lest my rash tread provoke the wrath
Of adder coiled upon the path,
Or tempt the lion from the wood,
That soon will prowl athirst for blood.
—Thus, murmuring my thoughtful strain,
I seek our wattled cot again.
Glen-Lynden, 1822.
20
THE LION HUNT.
Mount—mount for the hunting—with musket and spear!
Call our friends to the field—for the Lion is near!
Call Arend and Ekhard and Groepe to the spoor;
Call Muller and Coetzer and Lucas Van Vuur.
Call our friends to the field—for the Lion is near!
Call Arend and Ekhard and Groepe to the spoor;
Call Muller and Coetzer and Lucas Van Vuur.
Side up Eildon-Cleugh, and blow loudly the bugle:
Call Slinger and Allie and Dikkop and Dugal;
And George with the elephant-gun on his shoulder—
In a perilous pinch none is better or bolder.
Call Slinger and Allie and Dikkop and Dugal;
And George with the elephant-gun on his shoulder—
In a perilous pinch none is better or bolder.
In the gorge of the glen lie the bones of my steed,
And the hoofs of a heifer of fatherland's breed:
But mount, my brave boys! if our rifles prove true,
We'll soon make the spoiler his ravages rue.
And the hoofs of a heifer of fatherland's breed:
But mount, my brave boys! if our rifles prove true,
We'll soon make the spoiler his ravages rue.
Ho! the Hottentot lads have discovered the track—
To his den in the desert we'll follow him back;
But tighten your girths, and look well to your flints,
For heavy and fresh are the villain's foot-prints.
To his den in the desert we'll follow him back;
But tighten your girths, and look well to your flints,
For heavy and fresh are the villain's foot-prints.
Through the rough rocky kloof into grey Huntly-Glen,
Past the wild-olive clump where the wolf has his den,
By the black-eagle's rock at the foot of the fell,
We have tracked him at length to the buffalo's well.
Past the wild-olive clump where the wolf has his den,
By the black-eagle's rock at the foot of the fell,
We have tracked him at length to the buffalo's well.
Now mark yonder brake where the blood-hounds are howling;
And hark that hoarse sound—like the deep thunder growling;
'Tis his lair—'tis his voice!—from your saddles alight;
He's at bay in the brushwood preparing for fight.
And hark that hoarse sound—like the deep thunder growling;
'Tis his lair—'tis his voice!—from your saddles alight;
He's at bay in the brushwood preparing for fight.
21
Leave the horses behind—and be still every man:
Let the Mullers and Rennies advance in the van:
Keep fast in your ranks;—by the yell of yon hound,
The savage, I guess, will be out—with a bound.
Let the Mullers and Rennies advance in the van:
Keep fast in your ranks;—by the yell of yon hound,
The savage, I guess, will be out—with a bound.
He comes! the tall jungle before him loud crashing,
His mane bristled fiercely, his fiery eyes flashing;
With a roar of disdain, he leaps forth in his wrath,
To challenge the foe that dare 'leaguer his path.
His mane bristled fiercely, his fiery eyes flashing;
With a roar of disdain, he leaps forth in his wrath,
To challenge the foe that dare 'leaguer his path.
He couches—ay now we'll see mischief, I dread:
Quick—level your rifles—and aim at his head:
Thrust forward the spears, and unsheath every knife—
St. George! he's upon us!—Now, fire, lads, for life!
Quick—level your rifles—and aim at his head:
Thrust forward the spears, and unsheath every knife—
St. George! he's upon us!—Now, fire, lads, for life!
He's wounded—but yet he'll draw blood ere he falls—
Ha! under his paw see Bezuidenhout sprawls—
Now Diederik! Christian! right in the brain
Plant each man his bullet—Hurra! he is slain!
Ha! under his paw see Bezuidenhout sprawls—
Now Diederik! Christian! right in the brain
Plant each man his bullet—Hurra! he is slain!
Bezuidenhout—up, man!—'tis only a scratch—
(You were always a scamp, and have met with your match!)
What a glorious lion!—what sinews—what claws—
And seven-feet-ten from the rump to the jaws!
(You were always a scamp, and have met with your match!)
What a glorious lion!—what sinews—what claws—
And seven-feet-ten from the rump to the jaws!
His hide, with the paws and the bones of his skull,
With the spoils of the leopard and buffalo bull,
We'll send to Sir Walter.—Now, boys, let us dine,
And talk of our deeds o'er a flask of old wine.
With the spoils of the leopard and buffalo bull,
We'll send to Sir Walter.—Now, boys, let us dine,
And talk of our deeds o'er a flask of old wine.
22
THE LION AND GIRAFFE.
Wouldst thou view the Lion's den?
Search afar from haunts of men—
Where the reed-encircled rill
Oozes from the rocky hill,
By its verdure far descried
'Mid the desert brown and wide.
Search afar from haunts of men—
Where the reed-encircled rill
Oozes from the rocky hill,
By its verdure far descried
'Mid the desert brown and wide.
Close beside the sedgy brim
Couchant lurks the Lion grim;
Watching till the close of day
Brings the death-devoted prey.
Heedless, at the ambushed brink
The tall Giraffe stoops down to drink:
Upon him straight the savage springs
With cruel joy. The desert rings
With clanging sound of desperate strife—
The prey is strong and he strives for life.
Plunging oft with frantic bound,
To shake the tyrant to the ground,
He shrieks—he rushes through the waste,
With glaring eye and headlong haste:
In vain!—the spoiler on his prize
Rides proudly—tearing as he flies.
Couchant lurks the Lion grim;
Watching till the close of day
Brings the death-devoted prey.
Heedless, at the ambushed brink
The tall Giraffe stoops down to drink:
Upon him straight the savage springs
With cruel joy. The desert rings
With clanging sound of desperate strife—
The prey is strong and he strives for life.
Plunging oft with frantic bound,
To shake the tyrant to the ground,
He shrieks—he rushes through the waste,
With glaring eye and headlong haste:
In vain!—the spoiler on his prize
Rides proudly—tearing as he flies.
For life—the victim's utmost speed
Is mustered in this hour of need:
For life—for life—his giant might
He strains, and pours his soul in flight;
And, mad with terror, thirst, and pain,
Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain.
Is mustered in this hour of need:
For life—for life—his giant might
He strains, and pours his soul in flight;
And, mad with terror, thirst, and pain,
Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain.
23
'Tis vain; the thirsty sands are drinking
His streaming blood—his strength is sinking;
The victor's fangs are in his veins—
His flanks are streaked with sanguine stains—
His panting breast in foam and gore
Is bathed—he reels—his race is o'er:
He falls—and, with convulsive throe,
Resigns his throat to the ravening foe!
—And lo! ere quivering life has fled,
The vultures, wheeling overhead,
Swoop down, to watch, in gaunt array,
Till the gorged tyrant quits his prey.
His streaming blood—his strength is sinking;
The victor's fangs are in his veins—
His flanks are streaked with sanguine stains—
His panting breast in foam and gore
Is bathed—he reels—his race is o'er:
He falls—and, with convulsive throe,
Resigns his throat to the ravening foe!
—And lo! ere quivering life has fled,
The vultures, wheeling overhead,
Swoop down, to watch, in gaunt array,
Till the gorged tyrant quits his prey.
THE EMIGRANT'S CABIN.
AN EPISTLE IN RHYME.
Where the young river, from its wild ravine,
Winds pleasantly through Eildon's pastures green,—
With fair acacias waving on its banks,
And willows bending o'er in graceful ranks,
And the steep mountain rising close behind,
To shield us from the Snowberg's wintry wind,—
Appears my rustic cabin, thatched with reeds,
Upon a knoll amid the grassy meads;
And, close beside it, looking o'er the lea,
Our summer-seat beneath an umbra-tree.
Winds pleasantly through Eildon's pastures green,—
With fair acacias waving on its banks,
And willows bending o'er in graceful ranks,
And the steep mountain rising close behind,
To shield us from the Snowberg's wintry wind,—
Appears my rustic cabin, thatched with reeds,
Upon a knoll amid the grassy meads;
And, close beside it, looking o'er the lea,
Our summer-seat beneath an umbra-tree.
This morning, musing in that favourite seat,
My hound, old Yarrow, dreaming at my feet,
I pictured you, sage Fairbairn, at my side,
By some good Genie wafted cross the tide;
And, after cordial greetings, thus went on
In Fancy's Dream our colloquy, dear John.
P.
My hound, old Yarrow, dreaming at my feet,
I pictured you, sage Fairbairn, at my side,
By some good Genie wafted cross the tide;
24
In Fancy's Dream our colloquy, dear John.
—Enter, my friend, our beehive-cottage door:
No carpet hides the humble earthen floor,
But it is hard as brick, clean-swept, and cool.
You must be wearied? Take that jointed stool;
Or on this couch of leopard-skin recline;
You'll find it soft—the workmanship is mine.
F.
—Why, Pringle, yes—your cabin's snug enough,
Though oddly shaped. But as for household stuff,
I only see some rough-hewn sticks and spars;
A wicker cupboard, filled with flasks and jars;
A pile of books, on rustic frame-work placed;
Hides of ferocious beasts that roam the waste;
Whose kindred prowl, perchance, around this spot—
The only neighbours, I suspect, you've got!
Your furniture, rude from the forest cut,
However, is in keeping with the hut.
This couch feels pleasant: is't with grass you stuff it?
So far I should not care with you to rough it.
But—pardon me for seeming somewhat rude—
In this wild place how manage ye for food?
P.
—You'll find, at least, my friend, we do not starve;
There's always mutton, if nought else, to carve;
And even of luxuries we have our share.
But here comes dinner (the best bill of fare),
Drest by that ‘Nut-Brown Maiden,’ Vytjè Vaal.
[To the Hottentot Girl.]
Meid, roep de Juffrouwen naar't middagmaal:
[To F.]
Which means—‘The ladies in to dinner call.’
Enter Mrs. P. and her Sister, who welcome their Guest to Africa. The party take their seats round the table, and conversation proceeds.]
25
—First, here's our broad-tailed mutton, small and fine,
The dish on which nine days in ten we dine;
Next, roasted springbok, spiced and larded well;
A haunch of hartèbeest from Hyndhope Fell;
A paauw, which beats your Norfolk turkey hollow;
Korhaan, and Guinea-fowl, and pheasant, follow;
Kid carbonadjes, à-la-Hottentot,
Broiled on a forkèd twig; and, peppered hot
With Chili pods, a dish called Caffer-stew;
Smoked ham of porcupine, and tongue of gnu.
This fine white household bread (of M—t's baking)
Comes from an oven too of my own making,
Scooped from an ant-hill. Did I ask before
If you would taste this brawn of forest-boar?
Our fruits, I must confess, make no great show:
Trees, grafts, and layers must have time to grow.
But there's green roasted maize, and pumpkin pie,
And wild asparagus. Or will you try
A slice of water-melon?—fine for drouth,
Like sugared ices melting in the mouth.
Here too are wild-grapes from our forest-vine,
Not void of flavour, though unfit for wine.
And here comes dried fruit I had quite forgot,
(From fair Glen-Avon, M—t, is it not?)
Figs, almonds, raisins, peaches. Witbooy Swart
Brought this huge sackful from kind Mrs. Hart—
Enough to load a Covent-Garden cart.
Trees, grafts, and layers must have time to grow.
But there's green roasted maize, and pumpkin pie,
And wild asparagus. Or will you try
A slice of water-melon?—fine for drouth,
Like sugared ices melting in the mouth.
Here too are wild-grapes from our forest-vine,
Not void of flavour, though unfit for wine.
And here comes dried fruit I had quite forgot,
(From fair Glen-Avon, M—t, is it not?)
Figs, almonds, raisins, peaches. Witbooy Swart
Brought this huge sackful from kind Mrs. Hart—
Enough to load a Covent-Garden cart.
But come, let's crown the banquet with some wine.
What will you drink? Champagne? Port? Claret? Stein?
Well—not to tease you with a thirsty jest,
Lo, there our only vintage stands confest,
In that half-aum upon the spigot-rack.
And certes, though it keeps the old Kaap smaak,
The wine is light and racy; so we learn,
In laughing mood, to call it Cape Sauterne.
—Let's pledge this cup ‘to all our friends,’ Fairbairn!
F.
What will you drink? Champagne? Port? Claret? Stein?
Well—not to tease you with a thirsty jest,
Lo, there our only vintage stands confest,
In that half-aum upon the spigot-rack.
And certes, though it keeps the old Kaap smaak,
26
In laughing mood, to call it Cape Sauterne.
—Let's pledge this cup ‘to all our friends,’ Fairbairn!
—Well, I admit, my friend, your dinner's good.
Springbok and porcupine are dainty food;
That lordly paauw was roasted to a turn;
And in your country fruits and Cape Sauterne,
The wildish flavour's really—not unpleasant;
And I may say the same of gnu and pheasant.
—But—Mrs. Pringle ... shall I have the pleasure...?
Miss Brown, ... some wine?—(These quaighs are quite a treasure.)
—What! leave us now? I've much to ask of you...
But, since you will go—for an hour adieu.
[Exeunt Ladies.]
But, Pringle—‘à nos moutons revenons’—
Cui bono's still the burthen of my song—
Cut off, with these good ladies, from society,
Of savage life you soon must feel satiety:
The MIND requires fit exercise and food,
Not to be found 'mid Afric's deserts rude.
And what avail the spoils of wood and field,
The fruits or wines your fertile valleys yield,
Without that higher zest to crown the whole—
‘The feast of Reason and the flow of Soul?’
—Food, shelter, fire, suffice for savage men;
But can the comforts of your wattled den,
Your sylvan fare and rustic tasks, suffice
For one who once seemed finer joys to prize?
—When, erst, like Virgil's swains, we used to sing
Of streams and groves, and all that sort of thing,’
The spot we meant for our ‘Poetic Den’
Was always within reach of Books and Men;
By classic Esk, for instance, or Tweed-side,
With gifted friends within an easy ride:
Besides our college chum, the Parish Priest;
And the said den with six good rooms at least.—
Here!—save for Her who shares and soothes your lot,
You might as well squat in a Caffer's cot!
Cui bono's still the burthen of my song—
Cut off, with these good ladies, from society,
Of savage life you soon must feel satiety:
The MIND requires fit exercise and food,
Not to be found 'mid Afric's deserts rude.
And what avail the spoils of wood and field,
The fruits or wines your fertile valleys yield,
Without that higher zest to crown the whole—
‘The feast of Reason and the flow of Soul?’
—Food, shelter, fire, suffice for savage men;
But can the comforts of your wattled den,
Your sylvan fare and rustic tasks, suffice
For one who once seemed finer joys to prize?
—When, erst, like Virgil's swains, we used to sing
Of streams and groves, and all that sort of thing,’
27
Was always within reach of Books and Men;
By classic Esk, for instance, or Tweed-side,
With gifted friends within an easy ride:
Besides our college chum, the Parish Priest;
And the said den with six good rooms at least.—
Here!—save for Her who shares and soothes your lot,
You might as well squat in a Caffer's cot!
Come now, be candid: tell me, my dear friend,
Of your aspiring aims is this the end?
Was it for Nature's wants, fire, shelter, food,
You sought this dreary, soulless solitude?
Broke off your ties with men of cultured mind,
Your native land, your early friends resigned?
As if, believing with insane Rousseau
Refinement the chief cause of human woe,
You meant to realize that raver's plan,
And be a philosophic Bosjesman!—
Be frank; confess the fact you cannot hide—
You sought this den from disappointed pride.
P.
Of your aspiring aims is this the end?
Was it for Nature's wants, fire, shelter, food,
You sought this dreary, soulless solitude?
Broke off your ties with men of cultured mind,
Your native land, your early friends resigned?
As if, believing with insane Rousseau
Refinement the chief cause of human woe,
You meant to realize that raver's plan,
And be a philosophic Bosjesman!—
Be frank; confess the fact you cannot hide—
You sought this den from disappointed pride.
—You've missed the mark, Fairbairn! my breast is clear.
Nor wild Romance nor Pride allured me here:
Duty and Destiny with equal voice
Constrained my steps: I had no other choice.
The hermit ‘lodge in some vast wilderness,’
Which sometimes poets sigh for, I confess,
Were but a sorry lot. In real life
One needs a friend—the best of friends, a wife;
But with a home thus cheered, however rude,
There's nought so very dull in solitude,—
Even though that home should happen to be found,
Like mine, in Africa's remotest bound.
—I have my farm and garden, tools and pen;
My schemes for civilising savage men;
Our Sunday service, till the sabbath-bell
Shall wake its welcome chime in Lynden dell;
Some duty or amusement, grave or light,
To fill the active day from morn to night:
And thus two years so lightsomely have flown
That still we wonder when the week is gone.
—We have at times our troubles, it is true,
Passing vexations, and privations too;
But were it not for woman's tender frame,
These are annoyances I scarce would name;
For though perchance they plague us while they last,
They only serve for jests when they are past.
Which sometimes poets sigh for, I confess,
Were but a sorry lot. In real life
One needs a friend—the best of friends, a wife;
But with a home thus cheered, however rude,
There's nought so very dull in solitude,—
Even though that home should happen to be found,
Like mine, in Africa's remotest bound.
28
My schemes for civilising savage men;
Our Sunday service, till the sabbath-bell
Shall wake its welcome chime in Lynden dell;
Some duty or amusement, grave or light,
To fill the active day from morn to night:
And thus two years so lightsomely have flown
That still we wonder when the week is gone.
—We have at times our troubles, it is true,
Passing vexations, and privations too;
But were it not for woman's tender frame,
These are annoyances I scarce would name;
For though perchance they plague us while they last,
They only serve for jests when they are past.
And then your notion that we're quite exiled
From social life amid these mountains wild,
Accords not with the fact—as you will see
On glancing o'er this district map with me,
From social life amid these mountains wild,
Accords not with the fact—as you will see
On glancing o'er this district map with me,
—First, you observe, our own Glen-Lynden clan
(To whom I'm linked like a true Scottish man)
Are all around us. Past that dark ravine,—
Where on the left gigantic crags are seen,
And the steep Tarka mountains, stern and bare,
Close round the upland cleughs of lone Glen-Yair,—
Our Lothian Friends with their good Mother dwell,
Beside yon Kranz whose pictured records tell
Of Bushmen's huntings in the days of old,
Ere here Bezuidenhout had fixed his fold.
—Then up the widening vale extend your view,
Beyond the clump that skirts the Lion's Cleugh,
Past our old camp, the willow-trees among,
Where first these mountains heard our sabbath song;
And mark the Settlers' homes, as they appear
With cultured fields and orchard-gardens near,
And cattle-kraals, associate or single,
From fair Craig-Rennie up to Clifton-Pringle.
(To whom I'm linked like a true Scottish man)
Are all around us. Past that dark ravine,—
Where on the left gigantic crags are seen,
And the steep Tarka mountains, stern and bare,
Close round the upland cleughs of lone Glen-Yair,—
Our Lothian Friends with their good Mother dwell,
Beside yon Kranz whose pictured records tell
Of Bushmen's huntings in the days of old,
Ere here Bezuidenhout had fixed his fold.
—Then up the widening vale extend your view,
Beyond the clump that skirts the Lion's Cleugh,
Past our old camp, the willow-trees among,
Where first these mountains heard our sabbath song;
29
With cultured fields and orchard-gardens near,
And cattle-kraals, associate or single,
From fair Craig-Rennie up to Clifton-Pringle.
Then there is Captain Harding at Three-Fountains,
Near Cradock—forty miles across the mountains:
I like his shrewd remarks on things and men,
And canter o'er to dinner now and then.
—There's Landdrost Stockenstrom at Graaff-Reinét,
A man, I'm sure, you would not soon forget,
Who, though in this wild country born and bred,
Is able in affairs, in books well read,
And—What's more meritorious in the case—
A zealous friend to Afric's swarthy race.
We visit there; but, travelling in ox-wagon,
(And not, like you, drawn by a fiery dragon)
We take a month—eight days to go and come—
And spend three weeks or so with Stockenstrom.
—At Somerset, again, Hart, Devenish, Stretch,
And ladies—whose kind acts 'twere long to sketch;
The officers at Káha and Roodewál,
Bird, Sanders, Morgan, Rogers, Petingal;
All hold with us right friendly intercourse—
The nearest thirty miles—five hours with horse.
—Sometimes a pleasant guest, from parts remote,
Cheers for a passing night our rustic cot;
As, lately, the gay-humoured Captain Fox,
With whom I roamed 'mid Koonap's woods and rocks,
From Winterberg to Gola's savage grot,
Talking of Rogers, Campbell, Coleridge, Scott,
Of Fox and Mackintosh, Brougham, Canning, Grey;
And lighter themes and laughter cheered the way—
While the wild-elephants in groups stood still,
And wondered at us on their woody hill.
—Here too, sometimes, in more religious mood,
We welcome Smith or Brownlee, grave and good,
Or fervid Read,—to Natives, kneeling round,
Proclaiming the GREAT WORD of glorious sound:
Or, on some Christian mission bravely bent,
Comes Philip with his apostolic tent;
Ingenious Wright, or steadfast Rutherfoord;
With whose enlightened hopes our hearts accord.
Near Cradock—forty miles across the mountains:
I like his shrewd remarks on things and men,
And canter o'er to dinner now and then.
—There's Landdrost Stockenstrom at Graaff-Reinét,
A man, I'm sure, you would not soon forget,
Who, though in this wild country born and bred,
Is able in affairs, in books well read,
And—What's more meritorious in the case—
A zealous friend to Afric's swarthy race.
We visit there; but, travelling in ox-wagon,
(And not, like you, drawn by a fiery dragon)
We take a month—eight days to go and come—
And spend three weeks or so with Stockenstrom.
—At Somerset, again, Hart, Devenish, Stretch,
And ladies—whose kind acts 'twere long to sketch;
The officers at Káha and Roodewál,
Bird, Sanders, Morgan, Rogers, Petingal;
All hold with us right friendly intercourse—
The nearest thirty miles—five hours with horse.
—Sometimes a pleasant guest, from parts remote,
Cheers for a passing night our rustic cot;
As, lately, the gay-humoured Captain Fox,
With whom I roamed 'mid Koonap's woods and rocks,
From Winterberg to Gola's savage grot,
Talking of Rogers, Campbell, Coleridge, Scott,
Of Fox and Mackintosh, Brougham, Canning, Grey;
And lighter themes and laughter cheered the way—
While the wild-elephants in groups stood still,
And wondered at us on their woody hill.
30
We welcome Smith or Brownlee, grave and good,
Or fervid Read,—to Natives, kneeling round,
Proclaiming the GREAT WORD of glorious sound:
Or, on some Christian mission bravely bent,
Comes Philip with his apostolic tent;
Ingenious Wright, or steadfast Rutherfoord;
With whose enlightened hopes our hearts accord.
And thus, you see, even in my desert-den,
I still hold intercourse with thinking men;
And find fit subjects to engage me too—
For in this wilderness there's work to do;
Some purpose to accomplish for the band
Who left with me their much loved Father-Land;
Something for the sad Natives of the soil,
By stern oppression doomed to scorn and toil;
Something for Africa to do or say—
If but one mite of Europe's debt to pay—
If but one bitter tear to wipe away.
Yes! here is work, my Friend, if I may ask
Of Heaven to share in such a hallowed task!
I still hold intercourse with thinking men;
And find fit subjects to engage me too—
For in this wilderness there's work to do;
Some purpose to accomplish for the band
Who left with me their much loved Father-Land;
Something for the sad Natives of the soil,
By stern oppression doomed to scorn and toil;
Something for Africa to do or say—
If but one mite of Europe's debt to pay—
If but one bitter tear to wipe away.
Yes! here is work, my Friend, if I may ask
Of Heaven to share in such a hallowed task!
But these are topics for more serious talk,
So we'll reserve them for an evening walk.
Fill now a parting glass of generous wine—
The doch-an-dorris cup—for ‘Auld Lang Syne;’
For my good M—t summons us to tea,
In her green drawing-room—beneath the tree;—
And lo! Miss Brown has a whole cairn of stones
To pose us with—plants, shells, and fossil bones.
[Outside the Hut.]
So we'll reserve them for an evening walk.
Fill now a parting glass of generous wine—
The doch-an-dorris cup—for ‘Auld Lang Syne;’
For my good M—t summons us to tea,
In her green drawing-room—beneath the tree;—
And lo! Miss Brown has a whole cairn of stones
To pose us with—plants, shells, and fossil bones.
F.
—'Tis almost sun-set. What a splendid sky!
And hark—the homeward cow-boy's echoing cry
31
And scene recal the patriarchal time,
When Hebrew herdsmen fed their teeming flocks
By Arnon's meads and Kirjath-Arba's rocks;
And bashful maidens, as the twilight fell,
Bore home their brimming pitchers from the well.—
—But who are these upon the river's brink!
P.
—Ha! armèd Caffers with the shepherd Flink
In earnest talk ? Ay, now I mark their mien;
It is Powána from Zwort-Kei, I ween,
The Amatémbu Chief. He comes to pay
A friendly visit, promised many a day;
To view our settlement in Lynden-Glen,
And smoke the Pipe of Peace with Scottish men.
And his gay consort, Moya, too, attends,
To see ‘the World’ and ‘Amanglézi friends,’
Her fond heart fluttering high with anxious schemes
To gain the enchanting beads that haunt her dreams!
F.
—Yet let us not these simple folk despise;
Just such our sires appeared in Cæsar's eyes:
And, in the course of Heaven's evolving plan,
By truth made free, the long-scorned African,
His Maker's Image radiant in his face,
Among earth's noblest sons shall find his place.
P.
—[To Flink, the old Hottentot Shepherd, who comes forward.]
Well, Flink, what says the Chief?
Flink.
Powána wagh’
Tot dat de Baas hem binnenshuis zal vraagh.’
P.
— [To F.]
In boorish Dutch which means, ‘Powána waits
Till Master bid him welcome to our gates.’
32
—We haste to greet him. Let rush mats be spread
On th' cabin-floor. Prepare the Stranger's bed
In the spare hut,—fresh-strewed with fragrant hay.
Let a fat sheep be slaughtered. And, I pray,
Good Flink, for the attendants all provide;
These men dealt well with us at Zwart-Kei side:
Besides, you know, 'tis the Great Guide's command
Kindly to treat the Stranger in our Land.
[Exeunt.]
L'ENVOI.
Fairbairn, adieu! I close my idle strain,
And doff wild Fancy's Wishing Cap again,
Whose witchery, o'er ocean's wide expanse,
Triumphant over adverse Circumstance,
From Tyne's far banks has conjured you away,
To spend with me this summer holiday;
Half-realising, as I weave these rhymes,
Our kind companionship in other times,
When, round by Arthur's Seat and Blackford Hill,
Fair Hawthornden and homely Hyvotmill,
(With a dear Friend, too early from us torn!)
We roamed untired to eve from early morn.
And doff wild Fancy's Wishing Cap again,
Whose witchery, o'er ocean's wide expanse,
Triumphant over adverse Circumstance,
From Tyne's far banks has conjured you away,
To spend with me this summer holiday;
Half-realising, as I weave these rhymes,
Our kind companionship in other times,
When, round by Arthur's Seat and Blackford Hill,
Fair Hawthornden and homely Hyvotmill,
(With a dear Friend, too early from us torn!)
We roamed untired to eve from early morn.
Those vernal days are gone: and stormy gales
Since then on Life's rough Sea have tossed our sails
Far diverse,—led by Fortune's changeful Star,
From quietude and competence afar.
Yet, Comrade dear! while memory shall last,
Let our leal hearts, aye faithful to the Past,
In frequent interchange of written thought,
Which half the ills of absence sets at nought,
Keep bright the links of Friendship's golden chain,
By living o'er departed days again;
Or meet in Fancy's bower, for ever green,
Though ‘half the convex globe intrudes between.’
Since then on Life's rough Sea have tossed our sails
Far diverse,—led by Fortune's changeful Star,
From quietude and competence afar.
Yet, Comrade dear! while memory shall last,
Let our leal hearts, aye faithful to the Past,
In frequent interchange of written thought,
Which half the ills of absence sets at nought,
Keep bright the links of Friendship's golden chain,
By living o'er departed days again;
Or meet in Fancy's bower, for ever green,
Though ‘half the convex globe intrudes between.’
Glen-Lynden, 1822.
33
AN EMIGRANT'S SONG.
Oh, Maid of the Tweed, wilt thou travel with me,
To the wilds of South-Africa, far o'er the sea,
Where the blue mountains tow'r in the beautiful clime,
Hung round with huge forests all hoary with time?
I'll build thee a cabin beside the clear fount,
Where it leaps into light from the heart of the mount,
Ere yet its fresh footsteps have found the fair meads
Where among the tall lilies the antelope feeds.
To the wilds of South-Africa, far o'er the sea,
Where the blue mountains tow'r in the beautiful clime,
Hung round with huge forests all hoary with time?
I'll build thee a cabin beside the clear fount,
Where it leaps into light from the heart of the mount,
Ere yet its fresh footsteps have found the fair meads
Where among the tall lilies the antelope feeds.
Our home, like a bee-hive, shall stand by the wood
Where the lory and turtle-dove nurse their young brood,
And the golden-plumed paroquet waves his bright wings
From the bough where the green-monkey gambols and swings:
With the high rocks behind us, the valley before,
The hills on each side with our flocks speckled o'er,
And the far-sweeping river oft glancing between,
With the heifers reclined on its margins of green.
Where the lory and turtle-dove nurse their young brood,
And the golden-plumed paroquet waves his bright wings
From the bough where the green-monkey gambols and swings:
With the high rocks behind us, the valley before,
The hills on each side with our flocks speckled o'er,
And the far-sweeping river oft glancing between,
With the heifers reclined on its margins of green.
There, rich in the wealth which a bountiful soil
Pours forth to repay the glad husbandman's toil;
Content with the Present, at peace with the Past,
No cloud on the Future our joys to o'ercast;
Like our brave Scottish sires in the blithe Olden Day,
The heart will keep young though the temples wax grey;
While love's Olive Plants round our table shall rise—
Engrafted with Hopes that bear fruit in the Skies.
Pours forth to repay the glad husbandman's toil;
Content with the Present, at peace with the Past,
No cloud on the Future our joys to o'ercast;
Like our brave Scottish sires in the blithe Olden Day,
The heart will keep young though the temples wax grey;
While love's Olive Plants round our table shall rise—
Engrafted with Hopes that bear fruit in the Skies.
34
MAKANNA'S GATHERING.
Wake! Amakósa, wake!
And arm yourselves for war.
As coming winds the forest shake,
I hear a sound from far:
It is not thunder in the sky,
Nor lion's roar upon the hill,
But the voice of Him who sits on high,
And bids me speak his will!
And arm yourselves for war.
As coming winds the forest shake,
I hear a sound from far:
It is not thunder in the sky,
Nor lion's roar upon the hill,
But the voice of Him who sits on high,
And bids me speak his will!
He bids me call you forth,
Bold sons of Káhabee,
To sweep the White Men from the earth,
And drive them to the sea:
The sea, which heaved them up at first,
For Amakósa's curse and bane,
Howls for the progeny she nurst,
To swallow them again.
Bold sons of Káhabee,
To sweep the White Men from the earth,
And drive them to the sea:
The sea, which heaved them up at first,
For Amakósa's curse and bane,
Howls for the progeny she nurst,
To swallow them again.
Hark! 'tis Uhlanga's voice
From Debè's mountain caves!
He calls you now to make your choice—
To conquer or be slaves:
To meet proud Amanglézi's guns,
And fight like warriors nobly born:
Or, like Umláo's feeble sons,
Become the freeman's scorn.
From Debè's mountain caves!
He calls you now to make your choice—
To conquer or be slaves:
To meet proud Amanglézi's guns,
And fight like warriors nobly born:
Or, like Umláo's feeble sons,
Become the freeman's scorn.
35
Then come, ye Chieftains bold,
With war-plumes waving high;
Come, every warrior young and old,
With club and assagai.
Remember how the spoiler's host
Did through our land like locusts range!
Your herds, your wives, your comrades lost—
Remember—and revenge!
With war-plumes waving high;
Come, every warrior young and old,
With club and assagai.
Remember how the spoiler's host
Did through our land like locusts range!
Your herds, your wives, your comrades lost—
Remember—and revenge!
Fling your broad shields away—
Bootless against such foes;
But hand to hand we'll fight to-day,
And with their bayonets close.
Grasp each man short his stabbing spear—
And, when to battle's edge we come,
Rush on their ranks in full career,
And to their hearts strike home!
Bootless against such foes;
But hand to hand we'll fight to-day,
And with their bayonets close.
Grasp each man short his stabbing spear—
And, when to battle's edge we come,
Rush on their ranks in full career,
And to their hearts strike home!
Wake! Amakósa, wake!
And muster for the war:
The wizard-wolves from Keisi's brake,
The vultures from afar,
Are gathering at Uhlanga's call,
And follow fast our westward way—
For well they know, ere evening-fall,
They shall have glorious prey!
And muster for the war:
The wizard-wolves from Keisi's brake,
The vultures from afar,
Are gathering at Uhlanga's call,
And follow fast our westward way—
For well they know, ere evening-fall,
They shall have glorious prey!
36
THE INCANTATION.
Half-way up Indóda climbing,
Hangs the wizard-forest old,
From whose shade is heard the chiming
Of a streamlet clear and cold:
With a mournful sound it gushes
From its cavern in the steep;
Then at once its wailing hushes
In a lakelet dark and deep.
Hangs the wizard-forest old,
From whose shade is heard the chiming
Of a streamlet clear and cold:
With a mournful sound it gushes
From its cavern in the steep;
Then at once its wailing hushes
In a lakelet dark and deep.
Standing by the dark blue water,
Robed in panther's speckled hide,
Who is she? Jalúhsa's daughter,
Bold Makanna's widowed bride.
Stern she stands, her left hand clasping
By the arm her wondering child:
He, her shaggy mantle grasping,
Gazes up with aspect wild.
Robed in panther's speckled hide,
Who is she? Jalúhsa's daughter,
Bold Makanna's widowed bride.
Stern she stands, her left hand clasping
By the arm her wondering child:
He, her shaggy mantle grasping,
Gazes up with aspect wild.
Thrice in the soft fount of nursing
With sharp steel she pierced a vein,—
Thrice the White Oppressor cursing,
While the blood gushed forth amain,—
Wide upon the dark-blue water,
Sprinkling thrice the crimson tide,—
Spoke Jalúhsa's high-souled daughter,
Bold Makanna's widowed bride.
With sharp steel she pierced a vein,—
Thrice the White Oppressor cursing,
While the blood gushed forth amain,—
Wide upon the dark-blue water,
Sprinkling thrice the crimson tide,—
Spoke Jalúhsa's high-souled daughter,
Bold Makanna's widowed bride.
37
“Thus into the Demon's River
Blood instead of milk I fling:
Hear, Uhlanga—great Life-Giver!
Hear, Togúgh—Avenging King!
Thus the Mother's feelings tender
In my breast I stifle now:
Thus I summon you to render
Vengeance for the Widow's vow!
Blood instead of milk I fling:
Hear, Uhlanga—great Life-Giver!
Hear, Togúgh—Avenging King!
Thus the Mother's feelings tender
In my breast I stifle now:
Thus I summon you to render
Vengeance for the Widow's vow!
“Who shall be the Chief's Avenger?
Who the Champion of the Land?
Boy! the pale Son of the Stranger
Is devoted to thy hand.
He who wields the bolt of thunder
Witnesses thy Mother's vow!
He who rends the rocks asunder
To the task shall train thee now!
Who the Champion of the Land?
Boy! the pale Son of the Stranger
Is devoted to thy hand.
He who wields the bolt of thunder
Witnesses thy Mother's vow!
He who rends the rocks asunder
To the task shall train thee now!
“When thy arm grows strong for battle,
Thou shalt sound Makanna's cry,
Till ten thousand shields shall rattle
To war-club and assagai:
Then, when like hail-storm in harvest
On the foe sweeps thy career,
Shall Uhlanga whom thou servest,
Make them stubble to thy spear!”
Thou shalt sound Makanna's cry,
Till ten thousand shields shall rattle
To war-club and assagai:
Then, when like hail-storm in harvest
On the foe sweeps thy career,
Shall Uhlanga whom thou servest,
Make them stubble to thy spear!”
38
THE CAFFER COMMANDO.
Hark!—heard ye the signals of triumph afar?
'Tis our Caffer Commando returning from war:
The voice of their laughter comes loud on the wind,
Nor heed they the curses that follow behind.
For who cares for him, the poor Kosa, that wails
Where the smoke rises dim from yon desolate vales—
That wails for his little ones killed in the fray,
And his herds by the Colonist carried away?
Or who cares for him that once pastured this spot,
Where his tribe is extinct and their story forgot?
As many another, ere twenty years pass,
Will only be known by their bones in the grass!
And the sons of the Keisi, the Kei, the Gareep,
With the Gunja and Ghona in silence shall sleep:
For England hath spoken in her tyrannous mood,
And the edict is writing in African blood!
'Tis our Caffer Commando returning from war:
The voice of their laughter comes loud on the wind,
Nor heed they the curses that follow behind.
For who cares for him, the poor Kosa, that wails
Where the smoke rises dim from yon desolate vales—
That wails for his little ones killed in the fray,
And his herds by the Colonist carried away?
Or who cares for him that once pastured this spot,
Where his tribe is extinct and their story forgot?
As many another, ere twenty years pass,
Will only be known by their bones in the grass!
And the sons of the Keisi, the Kei, the Gareep,
With the Gunja and Ghona in silence shall sleep:
For England hath spoken in her tyrannous mood,
And the edict is writing in African blood!
Dark Katta is howling: the eager jackall,
As the lengthening shadows more drearily fall,
Shrieks forth his hymn to the hornèd moon!
And the lord of the desert will follow him soon:
And the tiger-wolf laughs in his bone-strewed brake,
As he calls on his mate and her cubs to awake;
And the panther and leopard come leaping along;
All hymning to Hecate a festival song:
For the tumult is over, the slaughter hath ceased—
And the vulture hath bidden them all to the feast!
As the lengthening shadows more drearily fall,
Shrieks forth his hymn to the hornèd moon!
And the lord of the desert will follow him soon:
And the tiger-wolf laughs in his bone-strewed brake,
As he calls on his mate and her cubs to awake;
And the panther and leopard come leaping along;
All hymning to Hecate a festival song:
For the tumult is over, the slaughter hath ceased—
And the vulture hath bidden them all to the feast!
39
A NOON-DAY DREAM.
'Twas noon-tide; and breathless beneath the hot ray
The far-winding vales of the wilderness lay:
By the Koonap's lone brink, with the cool shadow o'er me,
I slept—and a Dream spread its visions before me.
The far-winding vales of the wilderness lay:
By the Koonap's lone brink, with the cool shadow o'er me,
I slept—and a Dream spread its visions before me.
Methought, among scenes which I loved when a boy
I was walking again with fresh feelings of joy;
For my soul, like the landscape, seemed softened and changed
To what it was once—when in childhood I ranged
Through Cheviot's valleys, to pluck the bright flowers,
Or chase with young rapture the birds through the bowers.
—On my dreaming ear waters were murmuring still,
But the wild foreign river had shrunk to a rill,
And Káha's dark mountains had melted away;
And the brown thorny desert, where antelopes stray,
Had become a sweet Glen, where the young lambs were racing,
And yellow-haired children the butterflies chasing;
And the meadows were gemmed with the primrose and gowan,
And the ferny braes fringed with the hazel and rowan;
The foxglove looked out from the osiers dank,
And the wild-thyme and violet breathed from the bank.
—And green fairy nooks 'mid the landscape were seen,
Half hid by the grey rocks that high o'er them lean,
Where the light birch, above its loose tresses was waving;
And the willow, below, in the blue stream was laving
Its silvery garlands of soft downy buds;
And the throstle sang blithe to his mate in the woods;
And the brood of the wild-duck plashed over the pool,
New-fledged from their nest among well-cresses cool.
—And trouts from the limpid stream lightly were springing,
And larks in the fleckered sky cheerily singing;
And down in the copsewood the cushat was cooing;
And o'er the brown moorland the huntsman hallooing;
The grey-plaided shepherd piped high on the fell;
And the milk-maiden sang as she sat by the well:
With the lowing of herds from the broom-blossomed lea;
The cuckoo's soft note from the old beechen-tree;
The waving of woods in the health-breathing gale;
The dash of the mill-wheel afar down the dale.
—All these were around me:—and with them there came
Sweet voices that called me aloud by my name,—
And looks of affection from innocent eyes,—
And light-hearted laughter,—and shrill joyous cries:
And I saw the mild features of all that were there,
Unaltered by years, and unclouded by care!
I was walking again with fresh feelings of joy;
For my soul, like the landscape, seemed softened and changed
To what it was once—when in childhood I ranged
Through Cheviot's valleys, to pluck the bright flowers,
Or chase with young rapture the birds through the bowers.
—On my dreaming ear waters were murmuring still,
But the wild foreign river had shrunk to a rill,
And Káha's dark mountains had melted away;
And the brown thorny desert, where antelopes stray,
Had become a sweet Glen, where the young lambs were racing,
And yellow-haired children the butterflies chasing;
And the meadows were gemmed with the primrose and gowan,
And the ferny braes fringed with the hazel and rowan;
The foxglove looked out from the osiers dank,
And the wild-thyme and violet breathed from the bank.
—And green fairy nooks 'mid the landscape were seen,
Half hid by the grey rocks that high o'er them lean,
Where the light birch, above its loose tresses was waving;
And the willow, below, in the blue stream was laving
Its silvery garlands of soft downy buds;
And the throstle sang blithe to his mate in the woods;
And the brood of the wild-duck plashed over the pool,
New-fledged from their nest among well-cresses cool.
40
And larks in the fleckered sky cheerily singing;
And down in the copsewood the cushat was cooing;
And o'er the brown moorland the huntsman hallooing;
The grey-plaided shepherd piped high on the fell;
And the milk-maiden sang as she sat by the well:
With the lowing of herds from the broom-blossomed lea;
The cuckoo's soft note from the old beechen-tree;
The waving of woods in the health-breathing gale;
The dash of the mill-wheel afar down the dale.
—All these were around me:—and with them there came
Sweet voices that called me aloud by my name,—
And looks of affection from innocent eyes,—
And light-hearted laughter,—and shrill joyous cries:
And I saw the mild features of all that were there,
Unaltered by years, and unclouded by care!
Then it seemed as that Scene slowly melted away,
Like the bright cloud of morn in a midsummer's day;
And I lost the blithe sounds of the Pastoral Glen,
'Mid the rattle of wheels and loud murmurs of men.
—I stood on a mount, and saw, towering around,
A City with ramparts and palaces crowned;
Where poets and sages were passing along,
And statesmen and heroes—a glorious throng!
I heard from on high the loud heralds proclaim
With silver-toned voice each illustrious name;
I marked from afar their mild dignified mien,
And their aspect, benevolent, simple, serene;
And lingered, in heart-greeting silence to gaze
On the faces of some I had loved in their lays.
—But suddenly out-burst a boisterous crowd
Of maskers and rhapsodists, railing aloud,
And scattering brands in their frantic mirth,
As if lewd love of mischief had called them forth:
And the burthen and boast of their scurrilous song
Was to scoff at the Right and applaud the Wrong.
—I looked on the scene till my heart grew sad—
Then turned me away from the uproar mad!
Like the bright cloud of morn in a midsummer's day;
And I lost the blithe sounds of the Pastoral Glen,
'Mid the rattle of wheels and loud murmurs of men.
—I stood on a mount, and saw, towering around,
A City with ramparts and palaces crowned;
Where poets and sages were passing along,
And statesmen and heroes—a glorious throng!
I heard from on high the loud heralds proclaim
With silver-toned voice each illustrious name;
I marked from afar their mild dignified mien,
And their aspect, benevolent, simple, serene;
And lingered, in heart-greeting silence to gaze
On the faces of some I had loved in their lays.
—But suddenly out-burst a boisterous crowd
Of maskers and rhapsodists, railing aloud,
And scattering brands in their frantic mirth,
As if lewd love of mischief had called them forth:
41
Was to scoff at the Right and applaud the Wrong.
—I looked on the scene till my heart grew sad—
Then turned me away from the uproar mad!
The visionary Pageant again seemed to change,
And a land lay before me of aspect strange—
Where the tumult of voices disturbed me no more,
But I heard the hoarse surf dashing wild on the shore,
As bewildered I stood. Yet I was not alone;
For still amid crowds my dream passed on:
'Mid crowds—but silent, and sad as death;
For it seemed as if each man held his breath,
And cowered with his body, in abject fear,
Like a caitiff beneath the proud conqueror's spear.
—Then I turned, and lifted my wondering eye,
And beheld a grim Spectre enthroned on high,
And his name it was written—Tyranny!
—I gazed, and beheld how his scourge-bearing hand
Was high outstretched o'er the shuddering land;
And his eyes, that like those of the basilisk shone,
Blasted whatever they glared upon.
—Yet crowds of votaries, kneeling around,
Were worshipping him with a whispering sound;
And, ever and anon, his priests on high
Hymned forth his praises to the sky.
—Full many a race lay mingled there:
Swart Afric's tribes with their woolly hair,
The enslaved Madagass, the dejected Malay,
And degenerate Belgian baser than they,
Prone and promiscuous round him lay.
As I drew more near 'mid the suppliant train,
My heart swelled high with grief and pain,
Proud England's children there to view,
Commingled with that crouching crew;
And I marvelled much that no manly hand
Was raised to redeem the desolate land;
For I saw that the Monster's enchanted mould,
Though braced with iron and bound with gold,
Was formed but of vile and crumbling dust,
Unfit to withstand the Avenger's thrust.
—While thus I was musing, a crashing stroke,
As when the red lightning shivers the rock,
Fell! ..... And I started and awoke!
And a land lay before me of aspect strange—
Where the tumult of voices disturbed me no more,
But I heard the hoarse surf dashing wild on the shore,
As bewildered I stood. Yet I was not alone;
For still amid crowds my dream passed on:
'Mid crowds—but silent, and sad as death;
For it seemed as if each man held his breath,
And cowered with his body, in abject fear,
Like a caitiff beneath the proud conqueror's spear.
—Then I turned, and lifted my wondering eye,
And beheld a grim Spectre enthroned on high,
And his name it was written—Tyranny!
—I gazed, and beheld how his scourge-bearing hand
Was high outstretched o'er the shuddering land;
And his eyes, that like those of the basilisk shone,
Blasted whatever they glared upon.
—Yet crowds of votaries, kneeling around,
Were worshipping him with a whispering sound;
And, ever and anon, his priests on high
Hymned forth his praises to the sky.
—Full many a race lay mingled there:
Swart Afric's tribes with their woolly hair,
The enslaved Madagass, the dejected Malay,
And degenerate Belgian baser than they,
Prone and promiscuous round him lay.
As I drew more near 'mid the suppliant train,
My heart swelled high with grief and pain,
Proud England's children there to view,
Commingled with that crouching crew;
42
Was raised to redeem the desolate land;
For I saw that the Monster's enchanted mould,
Though braced with iron and bound with gold,
Was formed but of vile and crumbling dust,
Unfit to withstand the Avenger's thrust.
—While thus I was musing, a crashing stroke,
As when the red lightning shivers the rock,
Fell! ..... And I started and awoke!
Awaking, I heard but the wild river sounding;
I gazed, but saw only the klip-springer bounding,
And the eagle of Winterberg high o'er the woods,
Sailing supreme 'mid his solitudes.
I gazed, but saw only the klip-springer bounding,
And the eagle of Winterberg high o'er the woods,
Sailing supreme 'mid his solitudes.
River Koonap, 1825.
THE BROWN HUNTER'S SONG.
Under the Dídima lies a green dell,
Where fresh from the forest the blue waters swell;
And fast by that brook stands a yellow-wood tree,
Which shelters the spot that is dearest to me.
Where fresh from the forest the blue waters swell;
And fast by that brook stands a yellow-wood tree,
Which shelters the spot that is dearest to me.
Down by the streamlet my heifers are grazing;
In the pool of the guanas the herd-boy is gazing;
Under the shade my Amána is singing—
The shade of the tree where her cradle is swinging.
In the pool of the guanas the herd-boy is gazing;
Under the shade my Amána is singing—
The shade of the tree where her cradle is swinging.
43
When I come from the upland as daylight is fading,
Though spent with the chase, and the game for my lading,
My nerves are new-strung, and my fond heart is swelling,
As I gaze from the cliff on our wood-circled dwelling.
Though spent with the chase, and the game for my lading,
My nerves are new-strung, and my fond heart is swelling,
As I gaze from the cliff on our wood-circled dwelling.
Down the steep mountain, and through the brown forest,
I haste like a hart when his thirst is the sorest;
I bound o'er the swift brook that skirts the savannah,
And clasp my first-born in the arms of Amána.
I haste like a hart when his thirst is the sorest;
I bound o'er the swift brook that skirts the savannah,
And clasp my first-born in the arms of Amána.
THE EXILE'S LAMENT.
A SONG.
By the lone Mankazána's margin grey
A Scottish Maiden sung;
And mournfully poured her melting lay
In Teviot's Border tongue:
A Scottish Maiden sung;
And mournfully poured her melting lay
In Teviot's Border tongue:
O, bonny grows the broom on Blaiklaw knowes,
And the birk in Clifton dale;
And green are the hills o' the milk-white ewes,
By the briary banks o' Cayle.
And the birk in Clifton dale;
And green are the hills o' the milk-white ewes,
By the briary banks o' Cayle.
Here bright are the skies—and these valleys of bloom
May enchant the traveller's eye;
But all seems drest in death-like gloom
To the exile—who comes to die!
May enchant the traveller's eye;
But all seems drest in death-like gloom
To the exile—who comes to die!
O, bonny grows the broom, &c.
44
Far round and round spreads the howling waste,
Where the wild beast roams at will;
And yawning cleughs, by woods embraced,
Where the savage lurks to kill!
Where the wild beast roams at will;
And yawning cleughs, by woods embraced,
Where the savage lurks to kill!
O, bonny grows the broom, &c.
Full oft over Cheviot's uplands green
My dreaming fancy strays;
But I wake to weep 'mid the desolate scene
That scowls on my aching gaze!
My dreaming fancy strays;
But I wake to weep 'mid the desolate scene
That scowls on my aching gaze!
O, bonny grows the broom, &c.
Oh, light, light is poverty's lowliest state,
On Scotland's peaceful strand,
Compared with the heart-sick exile's fate,
In this wild and weary land!
On Scotland's peaceful strand,
Compared with the heart-sick exile's fate,
In this wild and weary land!
O, bonny grows the broom, &c.
45
THE CAPTIVE OF CAMALÚ.
O Camalú—green Camalú!
'Twas there I fed my father's flock,
Beside the mount where cedars threw
At dawn their shadows from the rock;
There tended I my father's flock
Along the grassy-margined rills,
Or chased the bounding bontèbok
With hound and spear among the hills.
'Twas there I fed my father's flock,
Beside the mount where cedars threw
At dawn their shadows from the rock;
There tended I my father's flock
Along the grassy-margined rills,
Or chased the bounding bontèbok
With hound and spear among the hills.
Green Camalú! methinks I view
The lilies in thy meadows growing;
I see thy waters bright and blue
Beneath the pale-leaved willows flowing;
I hear, along the valleys lowing,
The heifers wending to the fold,
And jocund herd-boys loudly blowing
The horn—to mimic hunters bold.
The lilies in thy meadows growing;
I see thy waters bright and blue
Beneath the pale-leaved willows flowing;
I hear, along the valleys lowing,
The heifers wending to the fold,
And jocund herd-boys loudly blowing
The horn—to mimic hunters bold.
Methinks I see the umkóba-tree
That shades the village-chieftain's cot;
The evening smoke curls lovingly
Above that calm and pleasant spot.
My father?—Ha!—I had forgot—
The old man rests in slumber deep:
My mother?—Ay! she answers not—
Her heart is hushed in dreamless sleep.
That shades the village-chieftain's cot;
The evening smoke curls lovingly
Above that calm and pleasant spot.
My father?—Ha!—I had forgot—
The old man rests in slumber deep:
My mother?—Ay! she answers not—
Her heart is hushed in dreamless sleep.
46
My brothers too—green Camalú,
Repose they by thy quiet tide?
Ay! there they sleep—where White Men slew
And left them—lying side by side.
No pity had those men of pride,
They fired the huts above the dying!—
—White bones bestrew that valley wide—
I wish that mine were with them lying!
Repose they by thy quiet tide?
Ay! there they sleep—where White Men slew
And left them—lying side by side.
No pity had those men of pride,
They fired the huts above the dying!—
—White bones bestrew that valley wide—
I wish that mine were with them lying!
I envy you by Camalú,
Ye wild harts on the woody hills;
Though tigers there their prey pursue,
And vultures slake in blood their bills.
The heart may strive with Nature's ills,
To Nature's common doom resigned:
Death the frail body only kills—
But Thraldom brutifies the mind.
Ye wild harts on the woody hills;
Though tigers there their prey pursue,
And vultures slake in blood their bills.
The heart may strive with Nature's ills,
To Nature's common doom resigned:
Death the frail body only kills—
But Thraldom brutifies the mind.
Oh, wretched fate!—heart-desolate,
A captive in the spoiler's hand,
To serve the tyrant whom I hate—
To crouch beneath his proud command—
Upon my flesh to bear his brand—
His blows, his bitter scorn to bide!—
Would God, I in my native land
Had with my slaughtered brothers died!
A captive in the spoiler's hand,
To serve the tyrant whom I hate—
To crouch beneath his proud command—
Upon my flesh to bear his brand—
His blows, his bitter scorn to bide!—
Would God, I in my native land
Had with my slaughtered brothers died!
Ye mountains blue of Camalú,
Where once I fed my father's flock,
Though desolation dwells with you,
And Amakósa's heart is broke,
Yet, spite of chains these limbs that mock,
My homeless heart to you doth fly,—
As flies the wild-dove to the rock,
To hide its wounded breast—and die!
Where once I fed my father's flock,
Though desolation dwells with you,
And Amakósa's heart is broke,
Yet, spite of chains these limbs that mock,
My homeless heart to you doth fly,—
As flies the wild-dove to the rock,
To hide its wounded breast—and die!
47
Yet, ere my spirit wings its flight
Unto Death's silent shadowy clime,
Utíko! Lord of life and light,
Who, high above the clouds of Time,
Calm sittest where yon hosts sublime
Of stars wheel round thy bright abode,
Oh, let my cry unto Thee climb,
Of every race the Father-God!
Unto Death's silent shadowy clime,
Utíko! Lord of life and light,
Who, high above the clouds of Time,
Calm sittest where yon hosts sublime
Of stars wheel round thy bright abode,
Oh, let my cry unto Thee climb,
Of every race the Father-God!
I ask not Judgments from thy hand—
Destroying hail, or parching drought,
Or locust-swarms to waste the land—
Or pestilence, by famine brought;
I say the prayer Jankanna taught,
Who wept for Amakósa's wrongs—
‘Thy Kingdom come—thy Will be wrought—
For unto Thee all Power belongs.’
Destroying hail, or parching drought,
Or locust-swarms to waste the land—
Or pestilence, by famine brought;
I say the prayer Jankanna taught,
Who wept for Amakósa's wrongs—
‘Thy Kingdom come—thy Will be wrought—
For unto Thee all Power belongs.’
Thy Kingdom come! Let Light and Grace
Throughout all lands in triumph go;
Till pride and strife to love give place,
And blood and tears forget to flow;
Till Europe mourn for Afric's woe,
And o'er the deep her arms extend
To lift her where she lieth low—
And prove indeed her Christian Friend!
Throughout all lands in triumph go;
Till pride and strife to love give place,
And blood and tears forget to flow;
Till Europe mourn for Afric's woe,
And o'er the deep her arms extend
To lift her where she lieth low—
And prove indeed her Christian Friend!
48
THE DESOLATE VALLEY.
Far up among the forest-belted mountains,
Where Winterberg, stern giant old and grey,
Looks down the subject dells, whose gleaming fountains
To wizard Kat their virgin tribute pay,
A valley opens to the noontide ray,
With green savannahs shelving to the brim
Of the swift River, sweeping on his way
To where Umtóka hies to meet with him,
Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim.
Where Winterberg, stern giant old and grey,
Looks down the subject dells, whose gleaming fountains
To wizard Kat their virgin tribute pay,
A valley opens to the noontide ray,
With green savannahs shelving to the brim
Of the swift River, sweeping on his way
To where Umtóka hies to meet with him,
Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim.
Round this secluded region circling rise
A billowy waste of mountains, wild and wide;
Upon whose grassy slopes the pilgrim spies
The gnu and quagga, by the greenwood side,
Tossing their shaggy manes in tameless pride;
Or troop of elands near some sedgy fount;
Or kùdù fawns, that from the thicket glide
To seek their dam upon the misty mount;
With harts, gazelles, and roes, more than the eye may count.
A billowy waste of mountains, wild and wide;
Upon whose grassy slopes the pilgrim spies
The gnu and quagga, by the greenwood side,
Tossing their shaggy manes in tameless pride;
Or troop of elands near some sedgy fount;
Or kùdù fawns, that from the thicket glide
To seek their dam upon the misty mount;
With harts, gazelles, and roes, more than the eye may count.
And as we journeyed up the pathless glen,
Flanked by romantic hills on either hand,
The boschbok oft would bound away—and then
Beside the willows, backward gazing, stand.
And where old forests darken all the land,
From rocky Katberg to the river's brink,
The buffalo would start upon the strand,
Where, 'mid palmetto flags, he stooped to drink,
And, crashing through the brakes, to the deep jungle shrink.
Flanked by romantic hills on either hand,
The boschbok oft would bound away—and then
Beside the willows, backward gazing, stand.
And where old forests darken all the land,
From rocky Katberg to the river's brink,
The buffalo would start upon the strand,
Where, 'mid palmetto flags, he stooped to drink,
And, crashing through the brakes, to the deep jungle shrink.
49
Then, couched at night in hunter's wattled shieling,
How wildly beautiful it was to hear
The elephant his shrill réveillé pealing,
Like some far signal-trumpet on the ear!
While the broad midnight moon was shining clear,
How fearful to look forth upon the woods,
And see those stately forest-kings appear,
Emerging from their shadowy solitudes—
As if that trump had woke Earth's old gigantic broods!
How wildly beautiful it was to hear
The elephant his shrill réveillé pealing,
Like some far signal-trumpet on the ear!
While the broad midnight moon was shining clear,
How fearful to look forth upon the woods,
And see those stately forest-kings appear,
Emerging from their shadowy solitudes—
As if that trump had woke Earth's old gigantic broods!
Such the majestic, melancholy scene
Which 'midst that mountain-wilderness we found;
With scarce a trace to tell where man had been,
Save the old Caffer cabins crumbling round.
Yet this lone glen (Sicána's ancient ground),
To Nature's savage tribes abandoned long,
Had heard, erewhile, the Gospel's joyful sound,
And low of herds mixed with the Sabbath song.
But all is silent now. The Oppressor's hand was strong.
Which 'midst that mountain-wilderness we found;
With scarce a trace to tell where man had been,
Save the old Caffer cabins crumbling round.
Yet this lone glen (Sicána's ancient ground),
To Nature's savage tribes abandoned long,
Had heard, erewhile, the Gospel's joyful sound,
And low of herds mixed with the Sabbath song.
But all is silent now. The Oppressor's hand was strong.
Now the blithe loxia hangs her pensile nest
From the wild-olive, bending o'er the rock,
Beneath whose shadow, in grave mantle drest,
The Christian Pastor taught his swarthy flock.
A roofless ruin, scathed by flame and smoke,
Tells where the decent Mission-chapel stood;
While the baboon with jabbering cry doth mock
The pilgrim, pausing in his pensive mood
To ask—‘Why is it thus? Shall Evil baffle Good?’
From the wild-olive, bending o'er the rock,
Beneath whose shadow, in grave mantle drest,
The Christian Pastor taught his swarthy flock.
A roofless ruin, scathed by flame and smoke,
Tells where the decent Mission-chapel stood;
While the baboon with jabbering cry doth mock
The pilgrim, pausing in his pensive mood
To ask—‘Why is it thus? Shall Evil baffle Good?’
Yes—for a season Satan may prevail,
And hold, as if secure, his dark domain;
The prayers of righteous men may seem to fail,
And Heaven's Glad Tidings be proclaimed in vain.
But wait in faith: ere long shall spring again
The seed that seemed to perish in the ground;
And, fertilised by Zion's latter rain,
The long-parched land shall laugh, with harvests crowned,
And through those silent wastes Jehovah's praise resound.
And hold, as if secure, his dark domain;
The prayers of righteous men may seem to fail,
And Heaven's Glad Tidings be proclaimed in vain.
50
The seed that seemed to perish in the ground;
And, fertilised by Zion's latter rain,
The long-parched land shall laugh, with harvests crowned,
And through those silent wastes Jehovah's praise resound.
Look round that Vale: behold the unburied bones
Of Ghona's children withering in the blast:
The sobbing wind, that through the forest moans,
Whispers—‘The spirit hath for ever passed!’
Thus, in the Vale of Desolation vast,
In moral death dark Afric's myriads lie;
But the Appointed Day shall dawn at last,
When, breathed on by a Spirit from on High,
The dry bones shall awake, and shout—‘Our God is nigh!’
Of Ghona's children withering in the blast:
The sobbing wind, that through the forest moans,
Whispers—‘The spirit hath for ever passed!’
Thus, in the Vale of Desolation vast,
In moral death dark Afric's myriads lie;
But the Appointed Day shall dawn at last,
When, breathed on by a Spirit from on High,
The dry bones shall awake, and shout—‘Our God is nigh!’
THE GHONA WIDOW'S LULLABY.
Utíko umkúla gozizulína;
Yebínza inquínquis Nosilimélè.
Umzi wakonána subiziélè,
Umkokéli úa sikokéli tina:
Uénza infáma zenza ga bómi.
Sicána's Hymn.
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.
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.
51
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.
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.
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!
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!
52
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.’
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.
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!
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!
53
THE ROCK OF RECONCILEMENT.
A rugged mountain, round whose summit proud
The eagle sailed, or heaved the thunder cloud,
Poured from its cloven breast a gurgling brook,
Which down the grassy glades its journey took;
Oft bending round to lave, with rambling tide,
The groves of evergreens on either side.
Fast by this stream, where yet its course was young,
And, stooping from the heights, the forest flung
A grateful shadow o'er the narrow dell,
Appeared the Missionary's hermit cell.
Woven of wattled boughs, and thatched with leaves,
The sweet wild jasmine clustering to its eaves,
It stood, with its small casement gleaming through
Between two ancient cedars. Round it grew
Clumps of acacias and young orange bowers,
Pomegranate hedges, gay with scarlet flowers,
And pale-stemmed fig-trees with their fruit yet green,
And apple blossoms waving light between.
All musical it seemed with humming bees;
And bright-plumed sugar-birds among the trees
Fluttered like living blossoms.
The eagle sailed, or heaved the thunder cloud,
Poured from its cloven breast a gurgling brook,
Which down the grassy glades its journey took;
Oft bending round to lave, with rambling tide,
The groves of evergreens on either side.
Fast by this stream, where yet its course was young,
And, stooping from the heights, the forest flung
A grateful shadow o'er the narrow dell,
Appeared the Missionary's hermit cell.
Woven of wattled boughs, and thatched with leaves,
The sweet wild jasmine clustering to its eaves,
It stood, with its small casement gleaming through
Between two ancient cedars. Round it grew
Clumps of acacias and young orange bowers,
Pomegranate hedges, gay with scarlet flowers,
And pale-stemmed fig-trees with their fruit yet green,
And apple blossoms waving light between.
All musical it seemed with humming bees;
And bright-plumed sugar-birds among the trees
Fluttered like living blossoms.
In the shade
Of a grey rock, that midst the leafy glade
Stood like a giant sentinel, we found
The habitant of this fair spot of ground—
A plain tall Scottish man, of thoughtful mien;
Grave, but not gloomy. By his side was seen
An ancient Chief of Amakósa's race,
With javelin armed for conflict or the chase;
And, seated at their feet upon the sod,
A Youth was reading from the Word of God,
Of Him who came for sinful men to die,
Of every race and tongue beneath the sky.
Of a grey rock, that midst the leafy glade
Stood like a giant sentinel, we found
The habitant of this fair spot of ground—
A plain tall Scottish man, of thoughtful mien;
Grave, but not gloomy. By his side was seen
An ancient Chief of Amakósa's race,
With javelin armed for conflict or the chase;
54
A Youth was reading from the Word of God,
Of Him who came for sinful men to die,
Of every race and tongue beneath the sky.
Unnoticed, towards them we softly stept.
Our Friend was wrapt in prayer; the Warrior wept,
Leaning upon his hand; the Youth read on.
And then we hailed the group: the Chieftain's Son,
Training to be his country's Christian guide—
And Brownlee and old Tshâtshu side by side.
Our Friend was wrapt in prayer; the Warrior wept,
Leaning upon his hand; the Youth read on.
And then we hailed the group: the Chieftain's Son,
Training to be his country's Christian guide—
And Brownlee and old Tshâtshu side by side.
THE FORESTER OF THE NEUTRAL GROUND.
A SOUTH-AFRICAN BORDER-BALLAD.
We met in the midst of the Neutral Ground,
'Mong the hills where the buffalo's haunts are found;
And we joined in the chase of the noble game,
Nor asked each other of nation or name.
'Mong the hills where the buffalo's haunts are found;
And we joined in the chase of the noble game,
Nor asked each other of nation or name.
The buffalo bull wheeled suddenly round,
When first from my rifle he felt a wound;
And, before I could gain the Umtóka's bank,
His horns were tearing my courser's flank.
When first from my rifle he felt a wound;
And, before I could gain the Umtóka's bank,
His horns were tearing my courser's flank.
That instant a ball whizzed past my ear,
Which smote the beast in his fierce career;
And the turf was drenched with his purple gore,
As he fell at my feet with a bellowing roar.
Which smote the beast in his fierce career;
And the turf was drenched with his purple gore,
As he fell at my feet with a bellowing roar.
55
The Stranger came galloping up to my side,
And greeted me with a bold huntsman's pride:
Full blithely we feasted beneath a tree;—
Then out spoke the Forester, Arend Plessie.
And greeted me with a bold huntsman's pride:
Full blithely we feasted beneath a tree;—
Then out spoke the Forester, Arend Plessie.
“Stranger! we now are true comrades sworn;
Come pledge me thy hand while we quaff the horn;
Thou'rt an Englishman good, and thy heart is free,
And 'tis therefore I'll tell my story to thee.
Come pledge me thy hand while we quaff the horn;
Thou'rt an Englishman good, and thy heart is free,
And 'tis therefore I'll tell my story to thee.
“A Heemraad of Camdebóo was my Sire;
He had flocks and herds to his heart's desire,
And bondmen and maidens to run at his call,
And seven stout sons to be heirs of all.
He had flocks and herds to his heart's desire,
And bondmen and maidens to run at his call,
And seven stout sons to be heirs of all.
“When we had grown up to man's estate,
Our Father bade each of us choose a mate,
Of Fatherland blood, from the black taint free,
As became a Dutch burgher's proud degree.
Our Father bade each of us choose a mate,
Of Fatherland blood, from the black taint free,
As became a Dutch burgher's proud degree.
“My Brothers they rode to the Bovenland,
And each came with a fair bride back in his hand;
But I brought the handsomest bride of them all—
Brown Dinah, the bondmaid who sat in our hall.
And each came with a fair bride back in his hand;
But I brought the handsomest bride of them all—
Brown Dinah, the bondmaid who sat in our hall.
“My Father's displeasure was stern and still;
My Brothers' flamed forth like a fire on the hill;
And they said that my spirit was mean and base,
To lower myself to the servile race.
My Brothers' flamed forth like a fire on the hill;
And they said that my spirit was mean and base,
To lower myself to the servile race.
“I bade them rejoice in their herds and flocks,
And their pale-faced spouses with flaxen locks;
While I claimed for my share, as the youngest son,
Brown Dinah alone with my horse and gun.
And their pale-faced spouses with flaxen locks;
While I claimed for my share, as the youngest son,
Brown Dinah alone with my horse and gun.
56
“My Father looked black as a thunder-cloud,
My Brothers reviled me and railed aloud,
And their young wives laughed with disdainful pride,
While Dinah in terror clung close to my side.
My Brothers reviled me and railed aloud,
And their young wives laughed with disdainful pride,
While Dinah in terror clung close to my side.
“Her ebon eyelashes were moistened with tears,
As she shrunk abashed from their venomous jeers;
But I bade her look up like a Burgher's wife—
Next day to be mine, if God granted life.
As she shrunk abashed from their venomous jeers;
But I bade her look up like a Burgher's wife—
Next day to be mine, if God granted life.
“At dawn brother Roelof came galloping home
From the pastures—his courser all covered with foam;
‘Tis the Bushmen!’ he shouted; ‘haste, friends, to the spoor!
Bold Arend! come help with your long-barrelled roer.’
From the pastures—his courser all covered with foam;
‘Tis the Bushmen!’ he shouted; ‘haste, friends, to the spoor!
Bold Arend! come help with your long-barrelled roer.’
“Far o'er Bruintjes hoogtè we followed—in vain:
At length surly Roelof cried, ‘Slacken your rein;
We have quite lost the track.’—Hans replied with a smile.
—Then my dark-boding spirit suspected their guile.
At length surly Roelof cried, ‘Slacken your rein;
We have quite lost the track.’—Hans replied with a smile.
—Then my dark-boding spirit suspected their guile.
“I flew to our Father's. Brown Dinah was sold!
And they laughed at my rage as they counted the gold.
But I leaped on my horse, with my gun in my hand,
And sought my lost love in the far Bovenland.
And they laughed at my rage as they counted the gold.
But I leaped on my horse, with my gun in my hand,
And sought my lost love in the far Bovenland.
“I found her; I bore her from Gauritz' fair glen,
Through lone Zitzikamma, by forest and fen.
To these mountains at last like wild pigeons we flew,
Far, far from the cold hearts of proud Camdebóo.
Through lone Zitzikamma, by forest and fen.
To these mountains at last like wild pigeons we flew,
Far, far from the cold hearts of proud Camdebóo.
“I've reared our rude shieling by Gola's green wood,
Where the chase of the deer yields me pastime and food:
With my Dinah and children I dwell here alone,
Without other comrades—and wishing for none.
Where the chase of the deer yields me pastime and food:
With my Dinah and children I dwell here alone,
Without other comrades—and wishing for none.
57
“I fear not the Bushman from Winterberg's fell,
Nor dread I the Caffer from Kat-River's dell;
By justice and kindness I've conquered them both,
And the Sons of the Desert have pledged me their troth.
Nor dread I the Caffer from Kat-River's dell;
By justice and kindness I've conquered them both,
And the Sons of the Desert have pledged me their troth.
“I fear not the leopard that lurks in the wood,
The lion I dread not, though raging for blood;
My hand it is steady—my aim it is sure—
And the boldest must bend to my long-barrelled roer.
The lion I dread not, though raging for blood;
My hand it is steady—my aim it is sure—
And the boldest must bend to my long-barrelled roer.
“The elephant's buff-coat my bullet can pierce;
And the giant rhinoceros, headlong and fierce,
Gnu, eland, and buffalo furnish my board,
When I feast my allies like an African lord.
And the giant rhinoceros, headlong and fierce,
Gnu, eland, and buffalo furnish my board,
When I feast my allies like an African lord.
“And thus from my kindred and colour exiled,
I live like old Ismael, Lord of the Wild—
And follow the chase with my hounds and my gun;
Nor ever repent the bold course I have run.
I live like old Ismael, Lord of the Wild—
And follow the chase with my hounds and my gun;
Nor ever repent the bold course I have run.
“But sometimes there sinks on my spirit a dread
Of what may befal when the turf's on my head;
I fear for poor Dinah—for brown Rodomond
And dimple-faced Karel, the sons of the bond.
Of what may befal when the turf's on my head;
I fear for poor Dinah—for brown Rodomond
And dimple-faced Karel, the sons of the bond.
“Then tell me, dear Stranger, from England the free,
What good tidings bring'st thou for Arend Plessie?
Shall the Edict of Mercy be sent forth at last,
To break the harsh fetters of Colour and Caste?”
What good tidings bring'st thou for Arend Plessie?
Shall the Edict of Mercy be sent forth at last,
To break the harsh fetters of Colour and Caste?”
58
THE SLAVE DEALER.
From ocean's wave a Wanderer came,
With visage tanned and dun:
His Mother, when he told his name,
Scarce knew her long-lost son;
So altered was his face and frame
By the ill course he had run.
With visage tanned and dun:
His Mother, when he told his name,
Scarce knew her long-lost son;
So altered was his face and frame
By the ill course he had run.
There was hot fever in his blood,
And dark thoughts in his brain;
And oh! to turn his heart to good
That Mother strove in vain,
For fierce and fearful was his mood,
Racked by remorse and pain.
And dark thoughts in his brain;
And oh! to turn his heart to good
That Mother strove in vain,
For fierce and fearful was his mood,
Racked by remorse and pain.
And if, at times, a gleam more mild
Would o'er his features stray,
When knelt the Widow near her Child,
And he tried with her to pray,
It lasted not—for visions wild
Still scared good thoughts away.
Would o'er his features stray,
When knelt the Widow near her Child,
And he tried with her to pray,
It lasted not—for visions wild
Still scared good thoughts away.
“There's blood upon my hands!” he said,
“Which water cannot wash;
It was not shed where warriors bled—
It dropped from the gory lash,
As I whirled it o'er and o'er my head,
And with each stroke left a gash.
“Which water cannot wash;
It was not shed where warriors bled—
It dropped from the gory lash,
As I whirled it o'er and o'er my head,
And with each stroke left a gash.
59
“With every stroke I left a gash,
While Negro blood sprang high;
And now all ocean cannot wash
My soul from murder's dye;
Nor e'en thy prayer, dear Mother, quash
That Woman's wild death-cry!
While Negro blood sprang high;
And now all ocean cannot wash
My soul from murder's dye;
Nor e'en thy prayer, dear Mother, quash
That Woman's wild death-cry!
“Her cry is ever in my ear,
And it will not let me pray;
Her look I see—her voice I hear—
As when in death she lay,
And said, ‘With me thou must appear
On God's great Judgment-day!’”
And it will not let me pray;
Her look I see—her voice I hear—
As when in death she lay,
And said, ‘With me thou must appear
On God's great Judgment-day!’”
“Now, Christ from frenzy keep my son!”
The woeful Widow cried;
“Such murder foul thou ne'er hast done—
Some fiend thy soul belied!”—
“—Nay, Mother! the Avenging One
Was witness when she died!
The woeful Widow cried;
“Such murder foul thou ne'er hast done—
Some fiend thy soul belied!”—
“—Nay, Mother! the Avenging One
Was witness when she died!
“The writhing wretch with furious heel
I crushed—no mortal nigh;
But that same hour her dread appeal
Was registered on high;
And now with God I have to deal,
And dare not meet His eye!”
I crushed—no mortal nigh;
But that same hour her dread appeal
Was registered on high;
And now with God I have to deal,
And dare not meet His eye!”
60
THE TORNADO.
Dost thou love to list the rushing
Of the Tempest in its might?
Dost thou joy to see the gushing
Of the Torrent at its height?
Hasten forth while lurid gloaming
Waneth into wilder night,
O'er the troubled ocean, foaming
With a strange phosphoric light.
Of the Tempest in its might?
Dost thou joy to see the gushing
Of the Torrent at its height?
Hasten forth while lurid gloaming
Waneth into wilder night,
O'er the troubled ocean, foaming
With a strange phosphoric light.
Lo, the sea-fowl, loudly screaming,
Seeks the shelter of the land;
And a signal-light is gleaming
Where yon Vessel nears the strand:
Just at sun-set she was lying
All-becalmed upon the main;
Now with sails in tatters flying,
She to seaward beats—in vain!
Seeks the shelter of the land;
And a signal-light is gleaming
Where yon Vessel nears the strand:
Just at sun-set she was lying
All-becalmed upon the main;
Now with sails in tatters flying,
She to seaward beats—in vain!
Hark! the long-unopened fountains
Of the clouds have burst at last:
And the echoes of the mountains
Lift their wailing voices fast:
Now a thousand rills are pouring
Their far-sounding waterfalls;
And the wrathful stream is roaring
High above its rocky walls.
Of the clouds have burst at last:
And the echoes of the mountains
Lift their wailing voices fast:
Now a thousand rills are pouring
Their far-sounding waterfalls;
And the wrathful stream is roaring
High above its rocky walls.
Now the forest-trees are shaking,
Like bulrushes in the gale;
And the folded flocks are quaking
'Neath the pelting of the hail.
From the jungle-cumbered river
Comes a growl along the ground;
And the cattle start and shiver,
For they know full well the sound.
Like bulrushes in the gale;
And the folded flocks are quaking
'Neath the pelting of the hail.
61
Comes a growl along the ground;
And the cattle start and shiver,
For they know full well the sound.
'Tis the lion, gaunt with hunger,
Glaring down the darkening glen;
But a fiercer Power and stronger
Drives him back into his den:
For the fiend Tornado rideth
Forth with Fear, his maniac bride,
Who by shipwrecked shores abideth,
With the she-wolf by her side.
Glaring down the darkening glen;
But a fiercer Power and stronger
Drives him back into his den:
For the fiend Tornado rideth
Forth with Fear, his maniac bride,
Who by shipwrecked shores abideth,
With the she-wolf by her side.
Heard ye not the Demon flapping
His exulting wings aloud?
And his Mate her mad hands clapping
From yon scowling thunder-cloud?
By the fire-flaucht's gleamy flashing
The doomed Vessel ye may spy,
With the billows o'er her dashing—
Hark (Oh God!) that fearful cry!
His exulting wings aloud?
And his Mate her mad hands clapping
From yon scowling thunder-cloud?
By the fire-flaucht's gleamy flashing
The doomed Vessel ye may spy,
With the billows o'er her dashing—
Hark (Oh God!) that fearful cry!
Twice two hundred human voices
In that shriek came on the blast!
Ha! the Tempest-Fiend rejoices—
For all earthly aid is past!
White as smoke the surf is showering
O'er the cliffs that seaward frown,
While the greedy gulf, devouring,
Like a dragon sucks them down!
In that shriek came on the blast!
Ha! the Tempest-Fiend rejoices—
For all earthly aid is past!
White as smoke the surf is showering
O'er the cliffs that seaward frown,
While the greedy gulf, devouring,
Like a dragon sucks them down!
Zitzikamma, 1825.
62
PARAPHRASE OF THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM.
The Lord himself my steps doth guide;
I feel no want, I fear no foe:
Along the verdant valley's side,
Where cool the quiet waters flow,
Like as his flock a shepherd feedeth,
My soul in love Jehovah leadeth.
I feel no want, I fear no foe:
Along the verdant valley's side,
Where cool the quiet waters flow,
Like as his flock a shepherd feedeth,
My soul in love Jehovah leadeth.
And when amid the stumbling mountains
Through frowardness I blindly stray,
Or wander near forbidden fountains
Where the Destroyer lurks for prey,
My wayward feet again he guideth
To paths where holy Peace resideth.
Through frowardness I blindly stray,
Or wander near forbidden fountains
Where the Destroyer lurks for prey,
My wayward feet again he guideth
To paths where holy Peace resideth.
Though that dread Pass before me lies,
(First opened up by Sin and Wrath)
Where Death's black shadow shrouds the skies,
And sheds its horrors o'er the path,
Yet even there I'll fear no ill,
For my Redeemer guards me still.
(First opened up by Sin and Wrath)
Where Death's black shadow shrouds the skies,
And sheds its horrors o'er the path,
Yet even there I'll fear no ill,
For my Redeemer guards me still.
63
Even He who walked by Abraham's side
My steps doth tend through weal and woe;
With rod and staff to guard and guide,
And comfort me where'er I go;
And He his ransomed flock that keepeth,
Our Shepherd, slumbereth not nor sleepeth.
My steps doth tend through weal and woe;
With rod and staff to guard and guide,
And comfort me where'er I go;
And He his ransomed flock that keepeth,
Our Shepherd, slumbereth not nor sleepeth.
For me a banquet he doth spread
Of high desires and hallowed joys;
With blessings he anoints my head,
And fills a cup that never cloys;
And nothing more my soul doth lack,
Save gratitude to render back.
Of high desires and hallowed joys;
With blessings he anoints my head,
And fills a cup that never cloys;
And nothing more my soul doth lack,
Save gratitude to render back.
Oh! still may Goodness, Mercy, Truth,
Attend my steps from stage to stage,
As they have followed me from youth
Through life's long weary pilgrimage;
Till He who Israel led of old,
Shall guide me to his heavenly fold.
Attend my steps from stage to stage,
As they have followed me from youth
Through life's long weary pilgrimage;
Till He who Israel led of old,
Shall guide me to his heavenly fold.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle | |