Not airy strains, that lead the mazy dance;
Not trumpet tones, that stir the warrior’s soul;
But soft, and slow, and solemn, as it swells
And rolls afar and dies, midst its own echoes
From vaulted roof, and lofty aisle dim-lighted,
Where clustering columns rise, and rainbow rays
Gleam in their varied glory o’er the scene.
’Tis in the sacred fane where sleeps the dust
Of those whom Britain loves to honour, who
Shed living honour by their deeds on _her_,
Challenging place upon the rolls of Fame.
Sages, and saints, and sons of song lie there;
Wresters of Nature’s secrets;--senators,
Whose thund’rous eloquence could awe the world;
Patriots whose lifeblood for their country flowed;
War chiefs who led her armies on to glory;
Statesmen with eye far-reaching, who could thread
Diplomacy’s dark mazes, and, the helm
With firm hand grasping, steer the nation’s bark
Through storms of strife to honour and to peace.
And royalty’s proud dust lies mouldering there,
’Neath sculptured marbles, or midst gilded shrines:
While high o’erhead the ancient banners droop.--
Monarchs of other days,--of other _ages_,
Successive generations of the great,
Who ruled the realm of England as _she_ grew
From isolate obscurity to greatness
That with a fame undying fills the world.
Lo! _there_,--an open grave! and heads are bare,
And bent;--and bosoms heave, and tears are falling
From youthful womanhood,--from hoary age.
_Men_ weep, as slowly through the reverent throng
Is borne what hides from view a shrivelled form,
Wasted and featureless: yet round that bier
Stand silently the great of many lands.
Britain’s high-born stand there; and kings of men
Of other realms stand there by envoy. There
The sons of science gather, and the friends
Of light and liberty. The Churches’ messengers
Look on in sadness there; and a vast throng,
Crowding around, sigh forth a _nation’s_ sympathy.
Tokens of reverent love,--azalea wreaths,
Laurel and myrtle, with fair flowers entwined,
Bright immortelles, branches of Afric’s palm,--
(Symbol of triumph e’en in death) are there.
And,--honour to the honour’d!--Britain’s Queen
Sign of “respect and admiration” sends,--
Her own, and royal daughter’s funeral gifts
To deck the bier.
And _who_ is it that thus
Draws to himself, in _death_, the eyes of nations?
Is it some warrior leader, who has died
In the proud hour of victory; and, wept
By a whole people’s tears, lies down to rest?
--Or is it one who, in a nation’s peril,
Has earned a nation’s gratitude by wise
And warning counsels in her council halls?
--Is it a _Prince_ has died? That royalty
Should sigh her grief, and nobles weep around?
’Tis LIVINGSTONE!--That name a thousand tongues
Through years of hope and fear alternate, uttered;
While he who bore it, deep in Afric’s wilds,
Solving her mystery of ages, trod
Her deserts, traced her streams,--a pioneer
Of science, commerce, liberty, and mercy.
--A “weaver boy” thus honoured!--Wherefore _not_?
He wore, indeed, no ducal coronet;
Nor dwelt in lordly hall. But “stamp” of “rank”[15]
He needed not, while Nature’s “gold” of manhood,
Solid, and pure, and bright, shone through his soul.
The “weaver boy,” in youthful prime, had yearned
O’er Afric’s sons enslaved; for his _own_ soul,
By “grace of God” emancipated, longed
To free from bondage “body, soul, and spirit”
Of those who were immortal as himself,
And co-redeemed, though dark in mind as hue.
He bore the Cross’s standard o’er the plains
Where wandering tribes by MOFFAT gathered dwelt;
And preached the Cross’s story in the tongues
Strange to his earlier years.--But as he stood,
And looked to “regions” yet “beyond,” where white man’s foot
Had never trod, _fresh_ longings filled his soul.
--“Millions dwell yonder:--all unknown to us,
They live and die in darkness: and they groan
In bitter bondage, where no ray of hope
Shines through the gloom.--I go to find the way:--
Let others follow.”
And he went,--alone;
And braved the desert blast, the serpent’s folds,
The jungle’s ambush, and the lion’s fang:
He braved the fevered swamp, the tropic sun,
The mountain torrent, and the savage spear.
Barbarian wonder followed in his steps;
And treachery shrank before the magic power
Of Christian kindness, single and unarmed.
He vanished from our sight,--and time rolled on
While he was lost from view.
At length was heard
Rumour of strange discoveries: lakes unknown
Had spread their silver waters to his gaze;
And mighty streams, through vales all green and glorious
Poured their vast floods o’er thundering cataracts,
Where men had deemed were nought but deserts drear.
“From ocean through to ocean” tropic realms
Were traversed with unfaltering footsteps, till
Regions before unknown, with all their wonders
Rose into view, and hidden tribes disclosed
Their being and their need.
He rested then
Awhile, and told his countrymen the story
Of his lone wanderings over Afric’s wilds.
Men wondered while they listened, as they heard
Of grassy slopes, and waving woods, and sparkling waters;
Of birds of beauty, flowers of gorgeous hues;
And these where they had pictured a Sahara,
With ’whelming sandstorms, and the death-blast dire
Of red simoom.
He rested not for long:--
The spell was on him, and his work not done.
And now he led a band, who bore the light
Of truth divine, to chase away the darkness
That brooded over regions bright and fair,
Where “man alone is vile.”--’Twas there he laid
The partner of his bosom, who had shared
The joys and sorrows of his younger years.
A grave by Shire’s Waters, far away
From home and kindred, holds the precious dust.
And now his ties to earth are loosened:--now,
The beckoning Hand that calls him onwards still,
Is seen more plainly,--and he follows. He
Would lift the cloud from regions still unknown;
Heard of but through the victims of a vile
Traffic in human blood. His soul was fired
With ardent resolution to destroy,
(Or perish in the contest) the dire curse
That blighted nations when they might be blest.
A vision rose before him:--These fair realms
Yielding earth’s teeming increase in exchange
For varied handiwork of other lands;--
An open-handed commerce giving boons
To honest industry, while _crushing down_
The cursed manstealer’s trade:--The light of truth,
Of _Christian_ truth, for mind, and heart, and life,
For family and nation, blending with
Prismatic rays by science shed around:
The darkness melting, heathen orgies vile
Yielding the place to worship bright and pure;
Songs of salvation where the savage yells;--
Slavery of mind and body killed together,
And Freedom smiling glad o’er all the land!
--This was his vision;--and it might be _true_;--
And he would _labour_ that it might,--to _death_!
Again, yet once again, the word, “Farewell!”
A _last_ farewell: we heard his voice no more.
The years rolled on,--and on: he came not back.
Tidings, indeed, there were; but “far between,
Like angel visits,” were those tidings brief,
That still he lived, and toiled,--the white man lone,
Who with such wondrous spell o’er savage minds,
And with charmed life, held pain and death at bay.
--And then came silence.----“Has he sunk _at last_?”
And then came _other_ tidings;--“He is _dead_!
And dead by murderous hands!”--And hearts were chilled
With horror, and stood still.--But some said, “No!
Not _thus_ will that brave spirit pass away.
Africa _knows_ his errand:--’tis _not_ so.”
Nor was it so. A kindred spirit sought,
And _found_ him!--and with all the old fire burning;
But with the _censer_ now well nigh consumed.
--“Come home with me, and _rest_: well hast thou earned
The right upon thy laurels to repose:--
The _world_ is yearning o’er thee:--Come and _rest_!”
“Not yet! not yet! There is _still_ work to do.
Let me but show the way to Afric’s _heart_:--
Leave me to trace the water-path by which
Old England’s white-wing’d sea-birds shall ascend,--
Bearing her light, and liberty, and peace,--
To roll away the dark reproach of ages;
And _then_,--MY WORK IS DONE.”
And STANLEY left him.
And then, th’ enfeebled frame, once more essaying
To climb the mountain, pierce the forest’s gloom,
Stem the swift torrent, cross the lake’s broad breast,
And wade the sedgy marsh,--_gave way at last_!
But still the spirit, o’er the flesh triumphant,
Registered till the “hand had lost its cunning,”
The record precious of that life’s last task,
Which only death could end....
He died alone: none saw the spirit part.
Thus had he willed to die;--_alone with_ GOD.
The morning greeting of his faithful band
No longer met the welcome, kind response.
The spirit had gone _home_; and gone in silence;--
And there knelt lifeless clay!
And none were nigh,
Save Afric’s swarthy sons. But these had learned
To love and reverence him whose _life_ was given
A sacrifice for injured Afric’s weal;
And they would guard his relics, e’en in death.
They left his _heart_ where _fitly_ it should rest;
And bore, in reverent hands, the faded form,
Rudely, but lovingly embalmed; and after days,
And weeks, and _months_, of weary toil,
Gave to its kindred their last sacred trust;--
And _there_ it lies!--and thousands stand around,
To do the martyr honour as he rests.
And now “his body” sinks from mortal sight,
Midst showers of amaranths, and fragrant flowers,
That, white and pure, fall fast from loving hands.
“Buried in peace,” it lies, ’mongst kindred heroes:
While white-robed choristers, and organ pealing,
Blend in the final, loud, triumphant strain,
And the high arches echo as they sing,--
“But his soul _liveth_! LIVETH EVERMORE!”
_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._
STORMBERG, _May 1874_.
_A FAREWELL TO ENGLISH FRIENDS._
“Far, far away!”
Simple, but sadly tender,
These words unlock the heart’s deep springs
And bid its fountains play.
What thoughts upon the spirit rush!
What feelings from the warm heart gush,
While we pause to think on those we love,
Now far, far away!
Far, far away!
We shall think on “happy England,”
And many a “sunny memory” will shed its golden ray,
And many a welcome and farewell
From unforgotten lips will dwell
Like music’s echoes in our minds
When far, far away.
Far, far away!
While our sails are proudly swelling,
While the breezes bear us onward, and the wild waves round us play,
While _our_ prayers rise to heaven above,
And ask its care for those we love,
Think on _us_,--pray for _us_,
The “Far, far away!”
Far, far away!
For “Afric’s sunny fountains”
Our seabird spreads her snowy wings
Midst ocean’s sparkling spray;
Old England’s shores are fading fast;
One look! the fondest, and the _last_;
For we go to DIE in distant realms
Far, far away!
[Illustration]
_A MISSIONARY’S LAST FAREWELL TO ENGLAND._
Land of my birth, farewell! Thy shores are fading
In the dark distance, and the ocean’s waves
Are hiding thee from view; while, sadly aiding
To dim my vision of thy snowy cliffs,
My tears unbidden start. O happy land!
I did not know how much I loved thee, till
The breezes bore me from thee, and I gazed
A long last look.
I left thee when a child;
And Afric’s summer suns full forty years
Have burned upon my head, since in thy groves
My boyish footsteps wandered. But my heart
Was yet unwithered, and could quiver still
When sounded on my ear thy name of glory.
While oceans rolled between us, in my dreams
My thoughts were of thee: but in waking hours
I scarcely dared to hope to see thee more.
I lingered o’er the story of thy fame,
And joyed to claim thee as my native isle;
A day-star to the nations, that would fain
Follow, though from afar, thy track of light,
And in its beams find their own way to freedom.
In the far solitudes of regions dark
With heathen gloom, my pensive soul has mused,
And I have sighed to sun me in the light
Which long has been thy halo; light from heaven,
Amidst the brightness of whose gladdening rays
Thy temples, halls, and palaces have stood
Irradiate. But it might not, could not be.
At length I saw thee once again! and then
How thrilled my very heart-core as thy coasts
Loomed through the mists of morning on my view,
And thy proud vision of historic glory
Marched in its dioramic grandeur past!
I leaped upon thy freeborn soil once more:
Thy fields were laughing, glad with spring-tide flowers,
Thy greenwoods waving in the fresh wind’s breath;
Thy streams, bounding from winter’s cold embrace,
Threaded the vales with silver; while I stood
And gazed with rapture, fresh and pure as boyhood’s,
In ’wildering ecstasy. And then I swept
On steam-wings o’er thy plains, and round thy hills,
And down thy vales, ’mongst beauty ever changing:
Now looking on the cornfield’s waving gladness;
Now drinking fragrance from the hayfield’s breath;
Now wondering like a child, as ivied towers,
And slender church-spires, from their sheltering groves
Pointing to heaven, and old baronial halls,
Standing apart amidst their dark woods’ pride,
And crumbling castle-keeps, that tell of times
When warders blew their horns, and mailèd knights
Broke spears and shattered helms in tournament,
As these, and thousand more, went sailing by:
Till plunged at last amidst the ’whelming tide
Of thy great city’s life, I sank, a drop,
Into its vast and restless ocean-whirl.
* * * * *
But is it so? And I have really trod
Thy soil again? Or did I only _dream_?
Methought I mingled with thy multitudes,
And saw the swarms of thy industrial hives
Plying their ceaseless task, and piling stores
To meet the wide world’s wants. Methought I saw
Thy quickened life-blood of commercial being
Pour through its iron veins the vital stream,
Infusing universal energy.
Did not thy glorious structures rise before me--
Houses of mercy, halls and kingly courts?
Did not imperial Windsor glad my eyes,
Where England’s banner, free and proud, was waving;
Brother-like greeting the free winds of heaven?
Did I not wander through the gorgeous halls
Where England’s senators, in trumpet tones,
Have poured forth eloquence that awed the world?
Where, mildly ruling, sits a mother Queen,--
Her real throne a nation’s loving heart.
Have I not stood within thy sacred fanes,
Listening entranced, as billowing music rolled,
And distant, broke upon the sculptured stone
Like ocean’s waves upon their rocky bounds?
And--tenderer, dearer recollection still--
My mother’s and my childhood’s humble home,
With childhood’s memories clustering thick around it:
Did I not stand again upon its threshold,
And greet my childhood’s playmates? Ah! how changed!
Or was all this a dream? A happy dream,
That rose in brightness, and then passed away
For ever? No! It was not all a dream.
The welcome of warm hearts was _real_, and then
The glow of friendships formed was no illusion.
Men great and good have spoken sacred truth;
And I have listened with enraptured ears,
As eloquence of Heaven’s own kindling burst
In burning power from consecrated lips.
And I have seen the Church’s standard-bearers:
Men, crowned in hoary age with silver glory,
Have blessed me in the Master’s sacred name,
And bidden me God-speed in God’s great service.
And I have mingled with the throngs that sent
Up to high heaven their swelling song of praise,
That, as “the voice of many waters,” rose
Exultant from the lips and hearts of thousands,
When the glad tidings came that “God was raised
Up from His holy habitation” and
Was pouring forth His Spirit on the nations.
I did not dream when I beheld the light
Of holy rapture beam from thousand eyes:
I was not dreaming when I shared the glow
Of wondering gratitude with thousand hearts.
And when our “Hallelujah” rent the skies,
And our rapt spirits felt the bliss of heaven
Descend to meet us in the golden cloud
Of God’s own presence, ’twas a glorious truth,
A joy to feed the soul upon for ever!
And yet ’tis like a dream: for, scarcely seen,
Thy beauties fade from view; and the rich notes,
That thrilled the soul to rapture, thrill no more.
’Twas but a glimpse of glory,--and ’tis gone.
’Twas but a taste of joy that left the soul
Hungering with keener appetite. I go
Just as my spirit is awaking, quick
With new strange life and feeling; just
As awakens fresh the home-throb of my heart,
Owning its English birth.
Well, be it so!
’Tis God that bids me go; ’tis duty calls
Back to the land of darkness. Be it so!
’Tis well that I should go, ere silken webs,
Woven by Christian kindness round my heart,
Become too strong to leave me power to rend them.
I go, to look upon thee never more;
I go, but breathing prayers and blessings on thee.
O England, speck amidst the world of waters!
Thou art the world’s great wonder. Realms afar
Have heard thy voice, have seen thy light, have felt thy power.
Some, jealous, envy thee; some bless thy name,
The might of freedom, and the light of truth,--
The freedom that can burst the _spirit’s_ bonds,
The light that leads that spirit up to heaven,--
These are thy charge, and for the wide world’s weal,
Be faithful to thy trust, thou honour’d Isle!
Thou hast a glorious mission to the nations.
Hold fast the truth of God with strong right hand,
Cast forth the traitors that would “take thy crown.”
Still send thy sons, as Mercy’s angels, forth
To sound in silver tones, to far-off lands,
The trumpet of the everlasting gospel;
So shall Heaven’s smile be thy perpetual light,
And Heaven’s dread power, “a wall of fire,” thy guard.
* * * * *
And now ’tis past! nor faintest trace remains
Of headland, cliff, or mountain in the line
Of the far off horizon; and in vain
I strain my aching sight to catch one glimpse,
But one glimpse more. England, farewell!
Island of beauty, changing not with seasons;
Island of glory, dimming not with years;
Isle rich in blessings strewn by God’s own hand,--
My native Isle! A fond long last farewell!
_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._
ENGLISH CHANNEL, _October 9, 1859_.
[Illustration]
_A REMINISCENCE OF 1820._
In the lone wilderness behold them stand,
Gazing with new strange feelings on the scenes
Now spread around them in a foreign clime,
Far from the sea-girt home that gave them birth.
They had been landed on a cheerless shore,
Dreary and solitary; and the hope
That erst had brightened all their visions, when,
O’er the blue waters looming from afar,
They had seen Afric’s mountains rise to view,
Had nigh been quenched again. But they had left
The barren strand, and over hill and dale
Had slowly toiled to reach a place of rest,
And give their children once again a home.
Men roughly kind, of speech and manners strange,
Had guided them; and bidding them farewell,
Had left them houseless in the wilderness,
Pitying, and wondering what their fate might be.
Fathers and mothers, with their children round them,
Stand on the green sward, while the sunny skies,
Flecked with bright clouds, bend o’er them from above,
And thoughts are far away o’er the wide waters.
The parting scene comes back to memory’s view,--
The last embrace of loved ones left behind,
The fears, and hopes, and prayers of that sad hour.
And now the little ones in thoughtless glee
Chase the bright butterflies of this strange land,--
Their new and untried home. Ah! ’twas for _them_
The fathers braved the storm-tossed waters, and
The mothers hushed their own alarms to peace,
When the loud tempest howled around the bark
That bore them onward o’er the surging waves.
_These_ gave the springs to their great enterprise,
And broke the bonds that else had held them still
In the old home circle of the Fatherland.
Dark days had been in England. Darker still
Seemed coming fast, and o’er the crowded throngs
Of Britain’s cities, stern adversity
Was frowning. Then the cry arose,
“What of our _children_? What awaits _them_ here?
Must we look on, and see their budding life,
_Before_ it blossoms, wither in our sight?
Are there not other lands where pining want
Shall cease to mock at honest industry,
That asks but leave to labour? Will no star
Of hope arise to point to happier climes
Where skies are not _all_ dark? Be it to rend
The ties of kindred, we must venture forth
Over the unknown seas, and seek a home
On foreign shores, where there is room to live,
And light to see a future for our children,
Happy and bright when _we_ have sunk to rest.”
And this is now their home.
’Tis lone and wild;
But there is beauty in its wildness. See!
Yonder are mountains; in their deep ravines
Dark woods are waving, whence in noisy flight
Wild parrots issue forth, while loonies hide
Amidst their deep recesses. Water springs
Send limpid streamlets down the mountain side,
Fringed with bright evergreens, and brighter flowers.
Issuing from yonder dark and craggy gorge,
Where lurks the stealthy leopard, and where shouts
With loudly echoing voice the bold baboon,
Kareiga winds its devious course along
Between its willowed banks; while here and there
The dark-leaved yellow wood lifts its proud head
In stately dignity. Along the vale
The wildwood’s sheltering covert stretches, where
The bushbok barks; the duiker, sudden, springs;
The timid bluebok through the moonlight glides;
And monkey mimics chatter saucily.
And there are feathered songsters in the groves;
Not with the thrush’s or the blackbird’s notes,
That flood Old England’s woods with melody;
But short, and sharp, and ringing in their tones,
Responsive to each other from afar,
While telling of a life of light and joy.
In the green pastures on the sunny slopes,
Where the mimosa’s golden blossoms shed
Gales of perfume around; and fertile soils
Promise the husbandman a rich return
To cheer him in his toil.
“This is our home!
A spot on earth we now can call _our own_;
A starting-point for a new life’s career.
Wake all our energies afresh! A brighter day
Has dawned at last upon us. Let us raise
A song of gratitude to Heaven,
And gird us for our duties.”
[Illustration]
_PAST AND PRESENT._
Over the waters wide and deep
Where the storm-waves roll, and the storm-winds sweep,--
Over the waters see them come!
Breasting the billows’ curling foam,
Fathers for children seeking a home
In Afric’s Southern Wilds.
Wilderness lands of brake and glen,
The wolf’s and the panther’s gloomy den;--
Wilderness plains where the springbok bounds,
And the lion’s voice from the hill resounds,--
And the vulture circles in airy rounds,
Are Afric’s Southern Wilds.
“Hand to the labour!--heart and hand!
Our sons shall inherit an altered land:
Harvests shall wave o’er the virgin soil,
Cottages stand, and gardens smile,
And the songs of our children the hours beguile,
’Mid Afric’s Southern Wilds.
“Make we the pride of the forest yield;
Wrest from the wilderness field on field;
And to brighten our hope, and lighten our care,
And gain the aid of our Father there,
Raise we to heaven the voice of prayer
From Afric’s Southern Wilds.”
* * * * *
The locust clouds have darkened heaven;
The “rusted” fields to the flame are given:
The war-cry is echoing wild and loud;
For the war of the savage, fierce and proud,
Has burst like the storm from the thunder-cloud
On Afric’s Southern Wilds.
“_Never despair_, though the harvests fail;
Though the hosts of a savage foe assail;
_Never despair_; we shall conquer yet,
And the toils of our earlier years forget
In hope’s bright glory our sun shall set
’Midst Afric’s Southern Wilds.”
* * * * *
Our toilworn fathers are sinking to rest;
But their children inherit their hope’s bequest.
Valleys are smiling in harvest pride;
There are fleecy flocks on the mountain side;
Cities are rising to stud the plains;
The life-blood of commerce is coursing the veins
Of a new-born Empire, that grows and reigns
Over Afric’s Southern Wilds.
_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._
_April 10, 1861._
[Illustration]
_A SOUTH AFRICAN WILDERNESS._
The wilderness! The wilderness! It stretches wide and drear,
As I stand amidst its solitudes with no companion near:
I watch the vulture sailing as he circles in the sky,
The ostrich stalking o’er the wilds--the springbok bounding by.
The wilderness! The wilderness! ’Tis where the lion roars;
And whence the wasting locust-flood its living torrent pours:
With rushing ruin on their wings, its myriad myriads sweep,
Like waters from the mountains, or the surges of the deep.
The wilderness! The wilderness! The desert blast is there;
And the sun sends down his fiery rays with fierce and blinding glare.
’Tis there the infant whirlwinds their new-born vigour try;
And spiral columns o’er the waste rise circling to the sky.
There gathering vultures’ sounding wings swoop on their hapless prey;
And they clamour round their victim ere life has ebbed away.
The “ringhals” rises on his coil at the startled traveller’s side;
The false mirage’s wavy streams in phantom ripples glide.
Strange sounds are in the wilderness: the wild dog’s plaintive wail,
As he calls his fellows from afar, comes faintly on the gale.
The vulture’s voice screams harshly, as he sights his prey on high;
The bursting meteor echoes from the regions of the sky.
A thousand insect voices, with their thousand notes are there;
With chirrup, ring, or buzz of wing, they fill the sounding air;
And waking fancy starts to hear the trumpet’s note afar;
The pibroch’s martial gathering, the barbarian’s cry of war.