THE
POETRY OF SOUTH AFRICA.
Ballantyne Press
BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
THE POETRY
OF
SOUTH AFRICA
_COLLECTED AND ARRANGED_
BY
A. WILMOT
LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON
CAPE TOWN
J. C. JUTA & CO.
1887
PREFACE.
This collection of verse has been made from various sources in the Cape
Colony, Natal, and the Transvaal, and it is a matter of regret that many
pieces of interest have been omitted owing to the difficulty of
obtaining copies. Also as most colonists in South Africa understand the
Dutch language “as spoken there,” it could be wished that certain
well-known productions in the “Boerentaal” could have been preserved in
these pages. Some of the inimitable “versions” of Reitz,--for instance,
his rendering of “Tam o’ Shanter” and “The Maid of Athens,” and some
others which have appeared from time to time, we believe, in one of the
Cape journals, ought not to be forgotten.
We have received from Natal, since this volume was “in the press,” some
lines by the late T. Fannin, who used in the olden days to sing his own
rhymes in right good style. We do not apologise to our readers for
giving these in their entirety.
“THE SMOUSE.”
“I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse in the wilderness wide--
The veld is my home, and the wagon’s my pride;
The crack of my “voerslag,” shall sound o’er the lea.
I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!
I heed not the Governor, I fear not his law,
I care not for ‘civilisation’ (?) one straw--
And ne’er to ‘Ompanda’--‘Umgazis’ I’ll throw,
While my arm carries fist, or my foot bears a toe!
‘Trek,’ ‘trek,’ ply the whip,--touch the fore oxen’s skin,
I’ll warrant we’ll ‘go it’ through thick and through thin--
‘Loop! loop ye oud skellums! ot Vigmaan trek jy.’
I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!
They may talk of quick going by mail or by rail--
What matters? our wagon creeps on like a snail;
What to ‘her’ is the steam-engine’s whistle and din?
We have time all before, and the ‘prog’ all within--
The snows of Kathlamba our progress can’t stay;
We mount to its summit, and travel away,
Or go we by Biggarsberg--wagon upset,
The tent lies in atoms, the stuff is all wet--
Never mind, that won’t hurt us--we’ll soon get it dry.
But ho! there go Elands--saddle up, boys! mount! fly!
Load your rifles, give chase as they bound o’er the lea--
I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!
I’m alone--I’m alone, and ’tis night on the plain--
And I think, as I lie, of old England again;
The jackal cries round me, the wolf quits his lair,
And the roar of the lion resounds through the air--
‘Alamagtig!’ cries Jansi--‘Ma-wo!’ cries Kewitt;
The cattle stand trembling--the Smouse on his feet.
My ‘Lancaster’ rings, while the brute gives a bound,
And the king of the desert lies dead on the ground!
Hurrah! then, what care I for king or for prince?
My horse and my gun are my pride and defence;
The town for the coward--the desert for me!
I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!”
All is changed since these lines were written, and since Pringle (the
“father” of South African verse) “sang” amid the wild surroundings of
his home. The whistle of the locomotive has taken the place of the
shrill cry of the Kaffir. The lion has retired from business. The “big
game” which used to cover the plains beyond the Drachensberg has gone,
never to return; and the wandering trader has to pay taxes, and is no
longer in need of a gun. The railway from Delagoa Bay to the Portuguese
border is almost completed. Soon “excursions to Ophir” will be
advertised, and the romance of the “Dark Continent” will be dead! There
is little time for thought or rest in a country which can show a town
risen up, as by Aladdin’s power, in a few short months, holding five
thousand people, all gathered together for one object--gold.[1] Still,
and in spite of all this, we hope our modest volume may not be wholly
neglected, but will find a welcome in many a home. There must be
“intervals for refreshment,” however transient, both for body and mind,
even in a world where the “go as you please” race for wealth engages
everybody, and we trust that many colonists will find something in these
pages to satisfy their tastes even if it be only a reminder of the days
when their fathers were young, and ventured over the sea to make for
themselves homes in untrodden wilds.
B.
_24th September 1887._
CONTENTS.
.....PAGE
A Christmas Apparition....._Cole_.....166
Afar in the Desert....._Pringle_.....10
Afric’s Greeting....._Bidwell_.....240
After a Storm....._Watermeyer_.....120
Ammap and Griet....._S. A. M._.....120
Angel’s Message (The)....._Bidwell_.....249
Baron’s Adventure....._Brodrick_.....226
Beautiful Island of Dreams....._Wilmot_.....114
Bechuana Boy....._Pringle_.....4
Before Ulundi....._Brodrick_.....225
Be Kind to One Another....._Bidwell_.....260
Better Land (The)....._Brodrick_.....231
Brown Hunter’s Song....._Pringle_.....30
Burghers’ Gathering (The)....._Impey_.....187
Bushman (Song of the Wild)....._Pringle_.....25
Bushman (The).....“.....31
Caffer (The).....“.....32
Caffer Commando.....“.....42
Cape of Good Hope....._Thomson_.....115
Cape of Good Hope....._Selwyn_.....272
Cape of Storms....._Pringle_.....31
Captive of Camalu.....“.....27
Change....._Ochse_.....209
Churl of the Period....._Bidwell_.....252
Colours of the 1st-24th....._Dugmore_.....91
Contentment....._Ochse_.....203
Coranna (The)....._Pringle_.....24
Courtship (South African)....._Brodrick_.....227
Dear Old Land (The)....._Dugmore_.....55
Defenders of Glen Lynden.....“.....89
Desolate Valley (The)....._Pringle_.....22
Diamond Digger (The)....._Bidwell_.....242
Dives Redivivus....._Cruikshanks_.....186
“Dolly” (A Remembrance)....._Brodrick_.....232
Drink....._Wilmot_.....110
Drunkard’s Child (The)....._Bidwell_.....245
Emigrants (The)....._Pringle_.....1
Emigrant’s Cabin.....“.....48
Epitaph on a Diamond Digger....._Brodrick_.....239
Erythrina Tree (The)....._M. E. Barber_.....274
Evening Rambles....._Pringle_.....13
Eveleen....._C. P. M._.....126
Ezekiel xlvii......_Ochse_.....207
Faded Photograph (The)....._Longmore_.....124
Farewell to English Friends....._Dugmore_.....66
Farewell to Madeira....._Stirling_.....128
Farewell to Fifty-five....._Selwyn_.....130
Flight of the “Amakosa”....._Cole_.....146
Forester of the Neutral Ground....._Pringle_.....44
Freedom’s Home....._G. L._.....172
Funeral in the Abbey....._Dugmore_.....59
Ghona Widow’s Lullaby....._Pringle_.....33
Going Home....._Brodrick_.....234
Good Hope....._Thomson_.....117
Graaff Reinet (To)....._Selwyn_.....136
Heavenly Friendship....._Ochse_.....210
Horace (Ode from)....._Watermeyer_.....118
Hottentot (The)....._Pringle_.....32
Idyl of a Prince....._Cole_.....154
Incantation (The)....._Pringle_.....40
In the Drought Lands....._Wilmot_.....100
In Memoriam (Gordon)....._Brown_.....238
In Memoriam (Templeton)....._Selwyn_.....268
Kosa (The)....._Pringle_.....36
Lament on the Gutter, P. Elizabeth....._Selwyn_.....139
Landing of British Settlers, 1820....._Wilmot_.....101
Last of the Bowkers....._Bidwell_.....244
“Lead, Kindly Light”....._Selwyn_.....133
Lines in an Album....._Ochse_.....211
Lion and Giraffe....._Pringle_.....20
Lion Hunt.....“.....18
“Lord, what is Man?”....._Selwyn_.....269
Makanna’s Gathering....._Pringle_.....38
Mankoraan (in the Country of)....._Wilmot_.....109
Mission of the Sails....._Adamastor_.....237
Missionary’s Farewell....._Dugmore_.....67
Morning Wish for a Friend.....“.....85
Natal Diggings....._Moodie_.....191
Nature.....“.....192
“Not Here”....._Ochse_.....204
Night Thought....._Dugmore_.....86
Our Boys.....“.....95
Oxford Bible....._Marie_.....235
Ox Waggon (Rhyme of the)....._Selwyn_.....270
Paddy’s Love Symptoms....._Bidwell_.....261
Past and Present....._Dugmore_.....75
Platteklip Cascade....._B._.....265
Porter, Hon. W......_Cruikshanks_.....178
Port Elizabeth Pyramid....._Selwyn_.....266
Proverbial Philosophy....._Bidwell_.....262
Precepts for Young and Old.....“.....257
Reminiscence, 1820....._Dugmore_.....72
Revelation xxii......_Ochse_.....205
Robert Godlington....._Bidwell_.....241
Rock of Reconcilement....._Pringle_.....43
Romance from the “Fields”....._Overton_.....142
“Rorke’s Drift”....._Mitford_.....212
“Rorke’s Drift”....._Brodrick_.....223
Sails (The Worn Out)....._E. L. B._.....237
“Salted” Steed....._Brodrick_.....141
Settlers’ Jubilee (The)....._Cruikshanks_.....181
Shell at Cove Rock....._Dugmore_.....87
“Should it be according to Thy mind”....._Selwyn_.....134
Sight from the Shore....._Dugmore_.....82
Sonnets of the Cape....._Longmore_.....123
South Africa Rediviva....._Wilmot_.....113
Southern Cross....._Cruikshanks_.....176
Storm in Tugela Valley....._Moodie_.....190
Sunny Hills of Africa....._Hartwell_.....175
Sunrise at Cove Rock....._Dugmore_.....79
Sunset (An Ocean).....“.....81
“Teuton” (The Gallant)....._Hartwell_.....174
Thunderstorm....._Dugmore_.....82
Volunteers of England.....“.....53
Welcome....._Bidwell_.....256
Wilderness (S. African)....._Dugmore_.....77
Zulu War....._Selwyn_.....137
POEMS.
_THE EMIGRANTS._
... The sire has told
The heart-struck group of dark disaster nigh:
Their old paternal home must now be sold,
And that last relic of ancestry
Resigned to strangers. Long and strenuously
He strove to stem the flood’s o’erwhelming mass;
But still some fresh unseen calamity
Burst like a foaming billow--till, alas!
No hope remains that this their sorest grief may pass.
“Yet be not thus dismayed. Our altered lot
He that ordains will brace us to endure.
This changeful world affords no sheltered spot,
Where man may count his frail possessions sure:
Our better birthright, noble, precious, pure,
May well console for earthly treasures marred,--
Treasures, alas! how vain and insecure,
Where none from rust and robbery can guard:
The wise man looks to heaven alone for his reward.”
The Christian father thus. But whither now
Shall the bewildered band their course direct?
What home shall shield that matron’s honoured brow,
And those dear pensive maids from wrong protect?
Or cheer them ’mid the world’s unkind neglect?
That world to the unfortunate so cold,
While lavish of its smiles and fair respect
Unto the proud, the prosperous, the bold;
Still shunning want and woe; still courting pomp and gold.
Shall they adopt the poor retainer’s trade,
And sue for pity from the great and proud?
No! never shall ungenerous souls upbraid
Their conduct in adversity--which bowed
But not debased them. Or, amidst the crowd,
In noisome towns shall they themselves immure,
Their wounds, their woes, their weary days to shroud
In some mean melancholy nook obscure?
No! worthier tasks await, and brighter scenes allure.
A land of climate fair and fertile soil,
Teeming with milk and wine and waving corn,
Invites from far the venturous Briton’s toil:
And thousands, long by fruitless cares foresworn,
And now across the wide Atlantic borne,
To seek new homes on Afric’s southern strand:
Better to launch with them than sink forlorn,
To vile dependence in our native land;
Better to fall in God’s than man’s unfeeling hand!
With hearts resigned they tranquilly prepare
To share the fortunes of that exile train.
And soon with many a follower, forth they fare--
High hope and courage in their hearts again:
And now, afloat upon the dark-blue main,
They gaze upon the fast-receding shore
With tearful eyes--while thus the ballad strain,
Half heard amidst the ocean’s weltering roar,
Bids farewell to the scenes they ne’er shall visit more:--
“Our native land--our native vale--
A long and last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale,
And Cheviot mountains blue!
“Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renowned in song;
Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads
Our hearts have loved so long.
“Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow!
Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes,
O’erhung with birk and sloe.
“The battle-mound, the Border-tower,
That Scotia’s annals tell;
The martyr’s grave, the lover’s bower--
To each--to all--farewell!
“Home of our hearts! our father’s home!
Land of the brave and free!
The sale is flapping on the foam
That bears us far from thee!
“We seek a wild and distant shore
Beyond the Atlantic main;
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again:
“But may dishonour blight our fame,
And quench our household fires,
When we, or ours, forget thy name,
Green Island of our Sires.
“Our native land--our native vale--
A long, a last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale,
And Scotland’s mountains blue.”
_Thomas Pringle._
HUNTSCHAW, _Sept. 20, 1819_.
[Illustration]
_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.
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!”
“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.
“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 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 or 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.
“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.
“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.
“All shivering from the foaming flood,
We stood upon the strangers’ 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.
“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 strips 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!
“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 Boer’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.
“Gently I nursed it; for I thought
(Its hapless fate so like to mine)
By good UTÍKO[2] 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 Boer’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.
“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!”
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 everything but name.
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_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 flowers of Eden unfolding to view;
All--all now forsaken--forgotten--foregone!
And I--a lone exile remembered by none--
My high aims abandoned,--my good acts undone,--
Aweary 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 bondsman’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 in 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 hartebeest 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.
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.
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 and 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!
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_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.
But soon, amidst our Libyan 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.
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 bending
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.
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 on 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.
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 gesture tell,
No shepherd he from Scottish fell;
For crook the guardian gun he bears,
For plaid the sheepskin 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.
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 firefly 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 step 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.
_Thomas Pringle._
GLEN LYNDEN, 1822.
[Illustration]
_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.
Ride 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.
In the gorge of the glen lie the bones of my steed,
And the hoof 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.
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 last to the buffalo’s well.
Now mark yonder brake where the bloodhounds 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.
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.
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.
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!
He’s wounded--but yet he’ll draw blood ere he falls--
Ha! under his paw see Bezudenhout sprawls--
Now Diederik! Christian! right in the brain
Plant each man his bullet--Hurra! he is slain!
Bezudenhout--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!
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.
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE LION AND THE 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.
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.
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.
’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.
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_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 its way
To where Umtóka[3] tries to meet with him,
Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim.
Round this secluded region circling rise
Are billowy wastes 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 can 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 Kalberg 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.
Then, couched at night in hunter’s wattled sheiling,
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 (Sicāna’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 a 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.
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!”
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE CORANNA._
Fast by his wild resounding river
The listless Córan lingers ever;
Still drives his heifers forth to feed,
Soothed by the gorrah’s humming reed;[4]
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;
But on the milky dams relies,
And what spontaneous earth supplies.
Should some 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,[5]
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 moonlight dance.
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_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.
The countless springboks are my flock,
Spread o’er the unbounded plain;
The buffalo bendeth to my yoke,
The wild horse to my rein;[6]
My yoke is the quivering assegai,
My rein the tough bow-string;
My bridle curb a slender barb--
Yet it quells the forest king.
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.[7]
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 stings provokes
Shall find his poison vain!
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_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 bontébok
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.
Methinks I see the umkóba tree[8]
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.
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!--
While 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 in 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!
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!
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!
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[9] 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!
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE BROWN HUNTER’S SONG._
Under the Didima[10] 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 which 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 amana is singing--
The shade of the tree where her cradle is swinging.
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.
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 Amana.
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE BUSHMAN._
The Bushman sleeps within his black-browed den,
In the lone wilderness. Around him lie
His wife and little ones unfearingly--
For they are far away from “Christian men.”
No herds, loud lowing, call him down the glen:
He fears no foe but famine; and may try
To wear away the hot noon slumberingly;
Then rise to search for roots--and dance again.
But he shall dance no more! His secret lair,
Surrounded, echoes to the thundering gun,
And the wild shriek of anguish and despair!
He dies--yet, ere life’s ebbing sands are run,
Leaves to his sons a curse, should they be friends
With the proud “Christian men,”--for they are fiends!
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE CAPE OF STORMS._
O Cape of Storms! although thy front be dark,
And bleak thy naked cliffs and cheerless vales,
And perilous thy fierce and faithless gales
To staunchest mariner and stoutest bark;
And though along thy coasts with grief I mark
The servile and the slave, and him who wails
An exile’s lot--and blush to hear thy tales
Of sin and sorrow and oppression stark:--
Yet, spite of physical and moral ill,
And after all I’ve seen and suffered here,
There are strong links that bind me to thee still,
And render even thy rocks and deserts dear;
Here dwell kind hearts which time nor place can chill--
Loved kindred and congenial friends sincere.
_Thomas Pringle, 1825._
[Illustration]
_THE HOTTENTOT._
Mild, melancholy, and sedate, he stands,
Tending another’s flock upon the fields,
His fathers’ once, where now the white man builds
His home, and issues forth his proud commands.
His dark eye flashes not; his listless hands
Lean on the shepherd’s staff; no more he wields
The Libyan bow--but to th’ oppressor yields
Submissively his freedom and his lands.
Has he no courage? Once he had--but, lo!
Harsh servitude hath worn him to the bone.
No enterprise? Alas! the brand, the blow,
Hath humbled him to dust--even _hope_ is gone!
“He’s a base-hearted hound--not worth his food”--
His master cries; “he has no _gratitude_!”
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE CAFFER._
Lo! where he crouches by the Kloof’s dark side,
Eyeing the farmer’s lowing herds, afar;
Impatient watching till the evening star
Leads forth the twilight dim, that he may glide
Like panther to the prey. With freeborn pride
He scorns the herdsman, nor regards the scar
Of recent wound--but burnishes for war
His assegai and targe of buffalo hide.
He is a robber? True; it is a strife
Between the black skinned bandit and the white.
A savage?--Yes; though loth to aim at life,
Evil for evil fierce he doth requite.
A heathen?--Teach him, then, thy better creed,
Christian! if thou deserv’st that name indeed.
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE GHONA WIDOW’S LULLABY._
The storm hath ceased: yet still I hear
The distant thunder sounding,
And from the mountains, far and near,
The headlong torrents bounding.
The jackal shrieks upon the rocks,
The tiger wolf is howling,
The panther round the folded flocks
With stifled _gurr_ is prowling.
But lay thee down in peace, my child,
God watcheth o’er us ’midst the wild.
I fear the Bushman is abroad--
He loves the midnight thunder;
The sheeted lightning shows the road
That leads his feet to plunder:
I’d rather meet the hooded snake
Than hear his rattling quiver,
When, like an adder, through the brake,
He glides along the river.
But, darling, hush thy heart to sleep--
The Lord our Shepherd watch doth keep.
The Kosa from Luhéri high
Looks down upon our dwelling,
And shakes the vengeful assegai,--
Unto his clansmen 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 deep is sailing;
The stream, that lately raved so loud,
Makes now a gentle wailing.
From yonder crags, lit by the moon,
I hear a wild voice crying:
--’Tis but the harmless bear-baboon,
Unto his mates replying.
Hush--hush thy dreams, my moaning dove,
And slumber in the arms of love!
The wolf, scared by the watch-dog’s bay,
Is to the woods returning:
By his rock fortress, far away,
The Bushman’s fire is burning.
And hark! Sicána’s midnight hymn,
Along the valley swelling,
Calls us to stretch the wearied limb,
While kinsmen guard our dwelling:
Though vainly watchmen wake from sleep,
“Unless the Lord the city keep.”
At dawn we’ll seek, with songs of praise,
Our food on the savannah,
As Israel sought, in ancient days,
The heaven-descending 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!
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_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 Keisis 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 Kalunna’s wood
Bring wild grapes and the pigeon’s brood,
With fragrant hoards 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,[11]
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.
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 hill the dappled fawn;
Then forth again he gaily bounds,
With club and spear and questing hounds.
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_MAKANNA’S GATHERING._