How weak man’s solitary arm! How vain his boast of power!
The humbled spirit learns to look for Heaven’s protecting care;
Is _safety_ in the wilderness? Then God is present there.
The wilderness might wean the heart from earth and earthly love;
And bid the freed affections soar to happier realms above.
Look now upon this barren waste, then turn thy wistful eyes
To the fields where flowers immortal bloom, beyond the starry skies.
No scorching sun, no withering wind, no serpent’s tooth is there:
No vulture swoop of terror; no locust-cloud of care.
No faithless mocking phantom-streams the longing eyes beguile;
But living fountains sparkle bright in God’s eternal smile.
_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._
[Illustration]
_A SUNRISE THOUGHT AT “COVE ROCK.”_
King of the Golden Orient:--lo! he comes
And mounts, magnificent, his burning throne;
Smiling in glory o’er the world of waters,
Whose joyous waves leap welcome to his coming.
See how the streaming rays, his almoners,
Fling forth his largesses in flashing brilliants.
Which the waves catch, and toss from crest to crest
In dancing rapture! ’Tis a glorious sight
To see a king right welcome to his subjects;
To hear the voice of gladness universal
Greeting his royal smile. Not sea _alone_,
But ocean, earth, and sky join look and voice
In smile and song. See there in the far west,
Where little cloudlets cluster, as they hang
In modest diffidence upon the outskirts
Of the vast audience-throng: they too are flushing
Bright with the universal joy:--and hark!
Breezes are striking their Æolian harps
Among the woods that wave along the hills;
While the deep voices of the surge, far pealing,
Thunder their ceaseless anthem to his praise.
Brief, as befitting, is the monarch’s audience;
For who may look upon the King of light
With eye unblenching? Now in massy folds,
The darkening curtains of his cloud pavilion
Gather around him;--and though dazzling still
Their broad gold fringes wave, the weak eye rests
From his transpiercing glance of _unveiled_ glory.
Hail! glorious image of the KING OF KINGS!
Seen or unseen, thou givest light, and life,
And joy, and beauty to revolving worlds
That circle round thy throne. Centre of power!
Thy mystery of might upholds, sustains,
And governs as the Delegate of God,
Their measured harmony of ceaseless motion;
Reining their fleetness with “an arm of strength”
Felt and obeyed in the far depths of space,
Where roll remotest planets round their spheres
In twilight solitude, unseen, unknown.
_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._
[Illustration]
_AN OCEAN SUNSET._
’Tis sunset on the ocean! Let us gaze:--
A Sabbath sunset; and all things combine
To give it peace and beauty; for the winds
Have folded their broad pinions, and have sunk
To peaceful slumber on the ocean’s breast--
The sportive waves, that tossed their spray erewhile,
Displume their crests in reverence for the hour,
And all is calm around.
The curtain cloud
That hung o’er all the west throws wide its folds,
And in the clear blue ether far away
Bright islands of the blest seem floating, free
From the rough cares that fret this lower world,
And radiant in a glory all divine.
Are not our long-lost loved ones hov’ring there,
Can we not see them wave their hands of light,
As if to beckon to their bright abodes?
Are not celestial harp-strings sounding? Oh!
Let glad imagination spread her wings,
And soar to catch the echoes of their songs
Ere the ethereal vision fades away.
Hail to a scene that wakens thoughts like these.
’Tis sweet to rise, though but on _fancy’s_ wing,
And antedate communion with the blest,
For Heaven is _real_! May its magnet power
Touch every point of vision! till the soul,
Drawn by a might resistless, _centres there_!
_A SIGHT FROM THE SHORE._
I look upon the ocean. Far away,
A fleet of thunder-clouds is sailing by.
High in mid heaven the aërial canvas swells,
And proudly scorns the breeze’s proffered aid;
Instinct with its own spirit’s breath of life,
That bears it onward in its majesty:
While ever and anon the signal flash
From van, and rear, and centre, tells of might
Resistless. Stern, and slow, and dark, and grand,
Its shadows sweep o’er ocean’s heaving billows;
While avant couriers, on the lightning’s wing,
Herald its coming to the distant realms
Beyond the horizon’s verge.
[Illustration]
_THE THUNDERSTORM AT BATHURST._
’Twas eve; but ’twas not as it oft had been,
When the sun, ere he sank from the lovely scene,
Had smiled in glory o’er mount and dale,
And the forest gloom, and the cloudlet pale,
And the verdant lawn, and the flow’ret gay,
Were tinged with the gold of his parting ray.
While sweet was the breath of the scented gale;
While the flocks bounded foldwards along the vale,
And the soberer herds from the distant plain
Were wending towards home in their lengthened train.
’Twas eve; but there was not the softened hue
Which the twilight oft o’er the landscape threw:
I felt not the breath of the evening breeze;
I saw not the wave of the forest trees;
I heard not the warbler’s vesper song;--
They had sunk in silence their woods among.
But the landscape was wrapped in a thickening gloom,
Like a funeral pall for a night of doom;
For a storm frowned dark from the western sky,
And the gloom deepened more as the storm drew nigh.
I listened;--the music of eve was stilled;
But heavy the distant thunder pealed.
I looked;--I saw not the sun’s bright beam,
But there was the lurid lightning’s gleam:--
And they came in fury,--the lightning’s flash,
And the wild wind’s sweep, and the thunder’s crash;
The fire stream poured on the fear-struck sight
A moment of day,--then a deeper night
Sank black on all, while the forest reeled
’Neath the rushing blast, and the thunder pealed
Through the echoing heaven;--in that dread hour
How puny the arm of a _mortal’s_ power!
--But they passed away; the thunder’s crash,
And the wild wind’s sweep, and the lightning’s flash,
And the dark cloud’s gloom;--they rolled afar;
While the moon’s mild beam, and the twinkling star
Again shed their light o’er the peaceful scene,
And the storm was gone,--as it ne’er had been.
I looked again;--the morning beamed,
And the golden rays of the bright sun streamed:
A richer blue in the ether mild,
And a lovelier hue in the flow’ret smiled.
The landscape was vested with softer green,
And the dewdrops pure in their silvery sheen
Were sparkling around in the morning ray,
And night had melted in cloudless day.--
I thought of an hour when round my _soul_
I had heard heaven’s _justice_-thunders roll;
When dark clouds gathering o’er my head
Were filling a guilty heart with dread;
When I feared each flash of the wrath divine,
And tremblingly watched each nearing sign
Of a righteous anger’s rushing power
That was making a sin-struck spirit cower.
But the storm swept by;--the lightning dread
Left all unscathed my guilty head,
And the dark cloud melted as it passed
In showers of blessing, while the blast
Sank to the whisper of mercy’s voice,
That bade the trembling soul rejoice
In peace and pardon, light and love.--
I looked;--’twas a starlit heaven above!
And bright-eyed angels seemed to gaze
In smiling myriads through the rays;
To watch the sinner’s heaving breast,
And mark how its terrors sank to rest.
And then the light of angel eyes
Melted away in the brightening skies,
As silent, soothing, gently stole
The sense of pardon on the soul,
For _now_ ’twas God’s own smile that beamed,
And the rays of His mercy around me streamed;
The SUN had risen! The night was o’er;--
The SUN had risen, _to set no more_!
[Illustration]
_A MORNING WISH FOR A FRIEND._
Darkness retires, and the brightening morn
Smiles as he heralds the day new born.
Mists roll away from the mountain’s brow,
And his head wears a circlet of sunlight now.
Night’s savage prowlers to caverns glide,
As seeking in darkness their deeds to hide;
While, mounting majestic his radiant throne,
With the glance of a monarch who reigns alone,
The sun looks forth from his palace of light,
And bids from his presence the gloom of night.
Glittering dewdrops reflect his ray,
Songsters carol on hillock and spray,
The woodlands wave to the breeze’s breath,
The ripple plays light o’er the lake beneath,
The flocks from the fold towards the uplands bound,
And the echoing hills with their voices sound:
Nature unanimous joins to pay
A tribute of joy to the welcome day.
But there’s a day of a brighter beam,
For its light from a brighter sun doth stream:
Sin and sorrow’s dark clouds from its brightness fly
And the _soul_ gains a prospect to worlds on high.
’Tis a day that dawns from the realms above,
’Tis illumined by beams of eternal love:
’Tis a day whose light is the smile of God,
Shedding heaven-born peace in the heart abroad.
The gloom of grief, and the mists of care
Melt away in its radiance, while black despair,
Far chased by the beams of its glory, flies,
And leaves to the soul heaven’s cloudless skies.
Sister, may _this_ bright day be thine!
Around thy soul may its sunbeams shine!
Be thy path in the light of its brightening rays,
And its gladdening glory on “all thy ways;”
Revealing from heaven thy title clear,
“To mansions” of endless glory there!
[Illustration]
_A NIGHT THOUGHT._
I have seen the meteor’s transient light,
As, a moment, it gilded the gloom of night;
I have watched the shower of starlets bright
That bespangled its glittering way:
But though dazzling the flash of its brilliant beam,
It has passed away like a fading dream,
And a sadder and deeper gloom would seem
To mourn for the meteor’s ray.
I thought ’twas an emblem of pleasure’s power
O’er the mind of man in its mirthful hour,
When the clouds of care o’er the soul that lower
To its transient ray give room:
A moment, its beams round the spirit play;--
A moment, the dazzled spirit is gay;--
A moment!--the meteor has passed away,
And there follows a deeper gloom.
_THE LITTLE SHELL AT COVE ROCK._
Delicate, fragile, tiny shell,
Thou hast a wondrous tale to tell.
I find thee here on the ocean strand;--
The billows have borne thee safe to land:
Yet those billows have proved the proud ship’s grave,
And have mocked the power of man to save,
As its shattered fragments far and wide
Were strewn on the shore by the surging tide.
But thou art here, and all unharmed!
Say, how hast _thou_ its fury charmed,
That its mighty waves on their foaming breast
Should bear _thee safe_ to a place of rest?
The rock rears high his haughty form,
And challenges proud the ocean storm;
And he tosses the wild waves raging back,
As his challenge provokes their fierce attack.
But again, and _again_, and _again_ they come;
And vainly the rock resists its doom:
The waves are mighty, and _know_ their might:--
“_Never_ have we been vanquished in _fight_!
We _kiss_ the sands of the yielding shore,
We _rend_ the rock in his pride of power:
Be it soon, be it late, thy fate is sealed;
Be it soon, be it late, _thou shalt surely yield_.”
--And it yields at last: with a headlong leap
It buries its shame in the foaming deep,
And the waves toss high their plumy spray,
As they dance triumphant around their prey.
And yet, little shell, I find thee here,
And nothing hath wrought thee harm or fear;
Though shattered rocks, and a wreck-strewn shore,
Give tokens dire of the ocean’s power.
Tell me, tiny, beautiful thing!
Filmy and frail as the butterfly’s wing;--
An _infant’s_ finger could crush thee to dust;--
_What_ hast thou then wherein to trust?
And whence thy courage and power to brave
The surging might of the wild sea wave?
“I have not braved the ocean’s might;
I reared no front with the waves to fight.
I yielded me meek to the billow’s force,
As it swept me along in its onward course.
My _weakness_ was strength in the tempest’s hour,
And my _safety_ I found in the ocean’s power.”
* * * * *
And here, if he would, might _man_ discern
A truth he is “slow of heart” to learn.
He rears his will ’gainst the will of heaven,--
And his proudest plans are to fragments riven.
Let him meekly yield to the sovereign sway
That even the sea’s “proud waves” obey;
And though over life’s ocean tempests roar,
And wrecks are strewn over “life’s last shore,”
Borne like the shell on the billow’s breast,
He shall land in a haven of endless rest.
1858.
[Illustration]
_A TRIBUTE OF SYMPATHY TO THE DEFENDERS OF GLEN LYNDEN._
Away! Away! Away!
There are patriot voices calling!
Glen Lynden’s band
Holds the foe in hand,
Though its watch-worn sons are falling.
Away to the mountain glen!
Where the warwhoop wild is yelling,
And the savage howls
As he darkly scowls
On the white man’s flame-wrapped dwelling.
There is life-blood reeking there!
Where our slaughtered friends are lying;
Not boldly slain
On the battle-plain,
But each by his hearth-stone dying.
Away Away! Away!
To horse, to rifle springing,
While the widow’s sigh
And the orphan’s cry
In our ears,--in our _hearts_ are ringing!
They were dwelling in peaceful vales,
Nor fear nor danger knowing;
’Midst their flocks spread wide
O’er the mountain side,
And milk and honey flowing.
The vine and the fig-tree’s cheer;--
The cornfields waving gladness,
The shearer’s throng,
And the reaper’s song
Left cause nor room for sadness.
There was childhood’s guileless glee,--
There was maiden beauty blooming;
There was ripe old age,
With its wisdom sage,
And its honour,--life perfuming.
And there were thankful hearts
For peace and plenty given;
The voice of prayer
Ascended there
And the song of praise to heaven.
And where are they _now_?--Ah! where?
There are homeless orphans weeping;
The widow’s wail
Is on the gale,
The sire in his gore lies sleeping.
* * * * *
And are there dastard souls,
Whose homes these homes were shielding,
Who can coldly read
While their brothers bleed,
Nor aid nor pity yielding?
Brand “COWARD” on his brow!
Write “TRAITOR” on his bearing,
Who views from afar
Our “homestead” war,
And basely shrinks from sharing!
To your arms! To your arms! Away!
What! _cease_ from the strife?--No, never!
Till the neck of the foe,
To earth bent low,
We have _conquered_ a peace FOR EVER!
_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._
1851.
[Illustration]
_THE COLOURS OF THE FIRST 24^{TH}._
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE SURVIVING OFFICERS AND MEN OF THE
REGIMENT.
“Preserve the _colours_, MELVILLE! _We_ stand _here_;
And--to the _end_.” ’Twas thus that PULLEINE spoke,
On ISANDLANA’S dark and fatal day;
Firm and resolved his mien, and calm his words,
Though death was nigh him, and he saw it:--
The camp stormed
By overwhelming myriads, and the yells
Of savage victors ringing in his ears
Demon-like, while they drowned the dying groans
Of hundreds, sinking low beneath the stroke
Of the blood-reeking Zulu assegai;
O’erwhelmed, but _not_ dishonoured.
They had fought
As British soldiers fight,--tens against thousands,--
Till the last charge was spent; and then,--“cold steel”
Grew hot in Zulu life-blood, and in heaps
Their dying foes lay round them.--’Twas in vain!
Hundreds had strewn the ground before their fire;
Yet, heedless of their fall, had _thousands_ more
Recklessly trampled them in onward rush,
And wild contempt of death.
As the surf breaks
And strews with spray the shore, wave urging wave,
Blind to its leader’s fate,--the Zulu host
Rolls its dark waves,--_its_ dead, as yet, unmissed,
With thousands in reserve to fill their place.
Man after man the British soldier falls,--
Falls where he stood,--his right arm’s strength exhausted,
And his _dead_ foes hurled on his bayonet’s point,
To clear the way for others!
PULLEINE saw
His own end near,--and gave his dying charge:--
“Preserve the COLOURS! Let no savage hands
Stain the old honour of ‘the 24th.’
Come _death_,--if come it must, but _not_ disgrace!”
And MELVILLE took the COLOUR,--_sacred trust_!
_And bore it from the field._ One farewell grasp,
One mutual gaze, and then they sadly part,
Comrades in arms, to meet on earth no more.
“Men of the 24th. _I_ stay with _you_;--
We bide it to the end.”--A ringing cheer
Shows the old fire unquenched; and though no hope
Of succour nerves their arm, they face the foe,
Till men and their commander sink together,
And join in death their comrades gone before.
* * * * *
The fight is done:--the cannon’s boom is stilled;
Stilled is the rocket’s rush,--the rifle’s ring.
The yell of onslaught,--the defying cheer,--
Wails of the wounded, and the dying groan
Rise on the breeze no longer; nor the shrieks
Of hapless followers of the camp, unarmed,
And slaughtered in their helplessness.--The spoils
In savage triumph proudly borne away
With battle song of victory, upraised
By myriad voices ’mongst the echoing hills,
Are passing from the scene. The hush of death
Has settled all around; and gloomy night
Spreads her dark pall o’er the now silent field.
But where is MELVILLE? How shall _he_ escape?
Leagues must he traverse of a hostile land
Ere he can safely place his sacred trust.
And, scattered far and wide in headlong flight,
“Native Contingents” from the field of death
Urge their fear-stricken way with failing strength;
While ruthless foes, red-handed, strike them down
On every side. “Where? where is _he_? the guardian
Of his dead regiment’s honour? Who shall say?
For, be it that he fights his way alone--
Horseman or footman, through the host of foes--
Or be it he evades their hot pursuit,
There crosses still his path, and bars his way,
The river boundary in summer flood,
The swirling waters as they rush and roar,
Mock at the wearied limbs that reach their banks,
And can _no more_, although the foe is on them!
Numbers die here; numbers plunge in--and drown.
Dies Melville too? Have any seen him fall?
Or has he dared the river with his charge?
Grasping the COLOUR, could he breast the flood?
Or is he swept away? Alas! none knows.
Explore the river! search its wooded banks;--
Men, horses, arms, caught ’midst entangling branches,
May yield _some_ relic of the lost one,--
Ah!
Who lies _here_? MELVILLE!--And who lies _here_?
COGHILL _with_ MELVILLE, side by side in _death_!
Slain, though the raging flood was braved and conquered:
Slain, though escaped the hot pursuit beyond:
Slain in a mutual, last attempt to save
From the wild waters _that_--than LIFE more dear.
Hard, hard the fate--wrecked when the port was gained!
Shield we from vulture’s greed the sad remains,
By hasty cairn--and breathe a hurried prayer--
’Tis all we can--till worthier rites be paid--
But hark! that shout! “The COLOUR! lo! the COLOUR!”
Snatched from the turbid waters, drenched and torn,
But SAVED! by friendly branches caught and held.
Hark how the glen resounds! Cheer answers cheer;
And the wild rocks with rapturous echoes ring.
They are not “24th” men who have found
The prize and its dead guardians:--What of that?
They share a soldier’s sympathies, and feel
The joy of brother soldiers as their own.
Mark now the swift return, while, borne aloft,
The sacred emblem challenges from far
The eager outlook--Ha! ’tis seen! ’tis seen!
The quick-eyed sentinel has caught it, and
There bursts the shout exultant from his lips.
The spark electric sets the camp on fire;
“The COLOUR! lo! the COLOUR! HONOUR SAVED!”
Rush from all sides the eager throng to greet
And welcome--while with cheers the camp resounds.
And now once more in martial order stands
The remnant of the regiment, to receive
And place in its old shrine the rescued treasure.
A guard of honour from the reverent hands
Of those who bear it take the precious pledge--
More precious for its perils--and it rests--
Dearer than ever in the regiment’s heart.
MELVILLE and COGHILL! twins in death--your names
Belong to history! On Fame’s bright scroll
They stand already blazoned. Men from far
Shall visit as a shrine your hero grave;
And grey-haired veterans in after years
Shall tell their children how, long, long ago,
At ISANDLANA’S deadly, woe-fraught fight,
Ye saved the honour of “the 24th,”
And DIED IN SAVING IT!
_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._
[Illustration]
_OUR BOYS._
“Our boys came back from the army’s van;
Toilworn with travel each horse and man,--
Bronzed nigh to blackness each face and hand,--
But bright every eye of the youthful band.
They had sprung “to the front” at the war’s first call,
And a warrior’s welcome had greeted them all.
“_First in the field!_--’twas your _father’s_ wont;
And the right to your place in the army’s front,
Through the whole campaign ye shall yield to none,
Rest horses awhile, boys, and then,--march on;
_Elliot_ and _Bailie_ your leaders shall be,
And your post the heights of the deep Bashee.”
* * * * *
Loud through the camp the “Assembly” rings;
Quick to the saddle each horseman springs,--
And “Eastward ho!” is the warlike cry,
As “Headquarter” cheers give a warm “Good-bye!”
The camp is reached, the “Division” joined,
The “arms of the Service” all combined;
The “fellows” of “Number 6” are there,
Ready each peril and toil to share;
Second to none in the pluck they show,
And eager as any to face the foe.
There are black “allies,” but with leaders _white_,
To show them the way the “English” fight.
And now they chafe at the long delay;
The halt grows tedious from day to day.
Weary of seeing the wild war-dance
They long for the welcome word “Advance!”
The foe is escaping, and drives afar
His flocks and herds from the field of war.
The slow-footed order comes at last,
And the camp wakes up at the trumpet’s blast;
The column forms quick, as the bugles ring,
The skirmishers scatter on either wing
Where the war-song rises in savage pride,
And its echoes come back from the mountain side.
Few are the chances of open fight,
But enough to tell that the hearts are right,
And eager for battle with warriors bold,
While sparing and shielding the helpless and old.
Once and again is the issue tried,
Ere sinks the “sons of Kauta’s” pride.
Once and again!--’tis useless all;--
They front the white man but to fall.
And now on the march, to wondering eyes,
The land’s bright beauties around them rise;
The green hill’s verdure,--the vale’s soft sweep,--
The beetling crag on the mountain steep.
The view sublime o’er the gorges grand,
Where the Bashee winds towards ocean’s strand.
While fountains sparkle--and woodlands wave
O’er the shore that the sea’s blue waters lave.
Alas! alas!--with its beauties rare,
That the war-smoke should blacken a land so fair.
All is not sunshine; storm-winds rise,
And torrents pour from the darkened skies:
Dreary the march o’er the mist-clad heights,--
Weary the watch through the dark cold nights;
Baffling the beat of the driving rain,
Baulking the conflict again and again.
But no chilled spirits;--the hearts beat strong,
And the fiercer the rainstorm the louder the song.
“Our Boys” came back when their work was done;--
O’er river and mountain their march had gone,
They had stood on Umtata’s farther shore,
Where no white man’s army had stood before.
The foe is scattered,--the land is swept,
By the bands in the rear the “drifts” are kept.
But the toil is telling,--the steeds fail fast;
Umtata’s battle must be the last.
Proud the dismissal “our Boys” receive:--
“First in the field, and the last to leave.”
Prouder the welcome awaiting them here,
As the end of the homeward march draws near.
The cannon is booming!--“They come! They come!”
And the crowds thicken fast at the “Welcome Home!”
Where pennons are streaming, and banners wave,
To hail the return of the youthful brave.
Dark through the dust-cloud the column nears,
And hearts are throbbing ’midst rising tears.
Mothers and sisters, with straining eyes,
Are striving to pierce the strange disguise
In which toil, and combat, and dust, and storms
Have almost hidden the well-known forms
Of sons and brothers long lost from view,
And now emerging to life anew.
To the burst of “The conquering heroes come;”
To the tenderer strains of “Home, sweet home!”
Their march holds still through the thronging crowd,
While kerchiefs are waving, and cheers ring loud,
Till they halt at the spot where the march began,
When they started to join the army’s van.