Alone beside by the lion’s lair!
Has she no woman’s fear?
She had--but all that fear is gone,
She stands upon that very stone,
Because she knows he’s near.
“Dark-skinned maiden, come away,
Tempt not thus the beast of prey,
Haste, haste, your life to save.”
“No, no,” the dark-skinned maiden cried,
“He tore my Ammap from my side,
And vengeance I will have!”
A white man stood behind a tree,
A double-barrelled gun had he,
And steady was his aim;
She knew not that his help was nigh,
But lightly poised the assegai,
When forth the lion came.
He sees her! With a single bound
He strove to reach the vantage ground,
But ere the rock he gained,
The dark-skinned maiden’s aim was true,
Downwards the fearful weapon flew,
And in his side remained!
He fell, and writhing in his pain,
Madly he strove, but strove in vain,
To rise upon his feet.
“Ah, ah,” the dark-skinned maiden cried,
“This day I was to be his bride,
He tore my Ammap from my side,
Ah, ah, revenge is sweet.”
Beneath that rock of granite stone,
On which the white man stands alone,
The lion writhes in pain.
The dark-skinned maid is at his side
She drew a dirk, her Ammap’s pride,
He never rose again.
Some months had rolled away, and then,
Within that very lion’s den,
Were found the bones of Griet;
And to this day, who ventures nigh
That granite rock, will hear the cry,
“Ah, ah, revenge is sweet!”
But visitors are very rare,
The native seldom ventures there,
He rather turns aside.
And why? Because he fears to meet
The wandering ghost of faithful Griet
With Ammap at her side.
_S. A. M._
[Illustration]
_SONNETS OF THE CAPE._
I.
GOVERNMENT GARDENS, CAPE TOWN.
Oft, when my feet at evening homeward tread
The stately cloisters of the oaks along,
My fervent soul breaks into grateful song,
And I a glad, rapt worshipper am led.
God, what a glorious prospect is outspread!
Impersoned nature here hath built her shrine:
On yon great altar sacrifice divine
She offers to her Maker. On the head
Of the majestic peak upon the west,
Her favoured seat, at eve oft sitteth she,
Soothing the busy city into rest,
Whilst the sun setting lights the golden sea.
Here, in thy fane, bright Presence, I divest
My heart of lower thoughts, and bow to heaven and thee.
II.
NIGHT.
Dost thou not love, O angel of the night,
Above all others this fair southern land?
For thou hast gemmed its skies with lavish hand,
With rarest stars and constellations bright.
Shines not its vestal moon with purer light?
Hath not its galaxy more lustrous hue
While star-clouds, set in heavens more deeply blue,
Still gladden ours, as erst Magellan’s sight?
O would that while the old grey mountains sleep
There might be silence in the which to find
Grand music! But if joyous creatures keep
Perpetual chorus, shall my captious mind
Object? Creation’s harmonies lie deep,
But to the soul attuned the parts are well combined.
_G. Longmore._
[Illustration]
_THE FADED PHOTOGRAPH._
TO MY FRIEND, DAVID C----, BATH, SOMERSETSHIRE.
Your portrait hangs upon my wall,
Among my treasures highly classed,
For it is potent to recall
Old days that we have passed
In close communion, heart and mind,
Where Avon’s placid waters wind.
And very often, as I gaze,
Bath’s noble hills with you I climb,
Or tread the valley’s wooded ways
Where we’ve roved many a time:
Delightful scenes that I would fain,
Before I sleep, behold again.
Our Cape its beauties hath, ’tis true:
Old Table Mountain’s always grand,
Our sun is bright, our sky is blue;
The Maker’s bounteous hand,
From which all beauty hath its birth,
Made this far corner of His earth.
Yet must a Briton love his home
The more for absence, as I ween,
And greatly do I long to roam
Through daisied meadows green,
Perchance made dulcet by the swell
Of distant chiming village bell.
O for a field of new mown hay,
A beach, or elm, or tasselled birch;
A springtide scent of virgin May,
Or a glimpse of an ivied church!
To tramp the stubbles of the corn
Upon a fresh September morn;
To tread once more with gladsome feet
The thronging street, the busy mart;
To feel again the mighty beat
Of England’s wondrous heart!
But, though I long, I murmur not,
For Heaven appoints each human lot.
You know not how we exiles prize
This modern photographic art,
Portraying to our grateful eyes,
Exact in every part,
Kindred and friends forever dear;
We gaze, and almost think you here.
Your picture’s somewhat faded now,
But to fond memory it shows
Your very self; oft mark I how
You wear your homely clothes.
You know what one professor teaches,
And I have faith in what he preaches.[17]
And oft I sit by your fireside,
And share your daily household life;
Upon my knees the youngsters ride,
Or I chat with your blue-eyed wife.
Give them my love, and tell them, pray,
Not to forget me far away.
Let time and age do all they can,
And let it fade, if fade it will,
This portrait of a sterling man
Shall grace my chamber still;
And I its dimmest lines shall trace,
Until I meet him face to face.
_G. Longmore._
CAPE TOWN, _February 1862_.
[Illustration]
_EVELEEN._
My own girl at home,
Weep no longer for me,
The ship steps through the ocean foam
That bears me back to thee.
Full sail and bending mast,
We cleave the waters green;
I’m hasting home to thee, at last,
My own Eveleen.
I have o’ercome the fate
That parted us so long;
I have o’erpast the treacherous hate,
Forgot the rankling wrong.
I am speeding o’er the sea
They swore should roll between
The one who loves thee well, and thee,
My own Eveleen!
Of you, how many a night
I’ve dreamed, the long watch through!
From noon’s brain-searing shafts of light
My thoughts have flown to you.
To you in your own home bowers,
Where the light falls cool and green,
My saint of saints! my flower of flowers!
My own Eveleen!
But now no longer pine,
No longer wait and weep;
Our pennant floats far o’er the brine,
We march along the deep.
With store of royal gold,
With silks of sunny sheen,
And bridal raiment meet to fold
My own Eveleen.
An hour! and he shall trace
The old home seen once more;
But to have seen his true love’s face
White as the shroud she wore!
Oh, fading human love!
Oh, light in darkness seen!
Oh, voiceless as the stone above
Thy grave, Eveleen!
_C. P. M._
MOZAMBIQUE CHANNEL,
_November 1861_.
[Illustration]
_FAREWELL TO MADEIRA._
Hark! hear the billow swell;
Bright Madeira, fare thee well,
Shining mountains, azure skies,
Sunniest hearts and friendliest eyes:
All my soul has felt so long,
Like a joyous flow of song,
Sinks at vesper’s distant bell,
Loved Madeira, fare thee well.
Summer island, now no more
Shall I move along thy shore,
Where in all thy waves I caught
Oracles of peaceful thought;
Mid thy glittering walls and towers,
Girt by vines and gay with flowers,
Oft in sleep shall fancy dwell:
Loved Madeira, fare thee well.
Rock-built isle, whose mountains rude,
Are the throne of solitude;
Where from giant crag and steep
I have gazed on valleys deep,
Feeling powers within me pass
From each stern aerial mass;
Land of lovely peak and dell,
Loved Madeira, fare thee well.
Far within the cares of life,
Hushed beyond the sound of strife,
Where, methinks, thy spirits call
From thy soothing waterfall;
Oft shalt thy remembrance be
Quiet strength and joy to me,
Brightening mem’ry’s dusky cell,
Loved Madeira, fare thee well.
From the heights of time and toil,
Where I stand on heavenly soil,
Far around, discerning clear
Many a various land and year,
Most the vision seems to smile
Warmed by the Hesperian isle;
Round thee floats a sunny spell,
While I murmur, fare thee well.
Often magic lures me far
Toward the East’s familiar star;
Older powers with earlier sway,
Chanting call me hence away;
And I hear above thy foam,
Trembling round the voice of home,
Whispering more than tongue can tell--
Yet, Madeira, fare thee well.
On thee still may summer breathe,
Still thy crown with blossoms wreathe;
And may still, with peace divine,
More of noblest life be thine:
Making hearts of kindliest mould
Earnest, glad, serene, and bold.
So, supreme all ill to quell,
God, fair island, keep thee well!
_John Stirling._
[Illustration]
_FAREWELL TO FIFTY-FIVE._
Farewell, farewell, old Fifty-five! to thee,
This circling ball no longer homage yields;
Thy record’s closed, and frail humanity
Stands trembling ’neath the rod that conscience wields.
For now, methinks, that record’s page reveals
A long dark roll of follies, faults, and crimes
Before His eye, whose love in vain appeals
To hearts ingrate; whose goodness glads our times,
And spreads with genial gifts the wide earth’s varied climes.
Upon thy wingèd hours, old Fifty-five,
Alternate hopes and fears have trembling hung,
Capricious as the fleecy clouds which drive
Athwart the summer sky, a motley throng
Of joys and griefs, have swiftly swept along.
Now o’er the welkin peal the bridal bells;
Anon the mournful funeral dirge is sung;
Big with this truth each passing moment swells,--
“Beyond the sky alone unchanging pleasure dwells.”
Farewell, old Fifty-five! the visions fair
Which down thy sparkling vista erst appeared,
Beguiling Mammon’s votaries with the glare
Of sordid wealth in pile on pile upreared,
Have flitted past, and left a blank, uncheered
By one bright gleam, in many an aching breast.
O were the sober truth more wide revered,
And gaping folly’s golden dreams repressed,
How few would groan beneath the gambler’s dark unrest.
Few were our tears, old Fifty-five, hadst thou
Consigned alone the noisome vampire band
To disappointment blank, and carking woe:
But thou with undiscriminating hand
Hast flung on poverty’s inclement strand
Full many a one styled “noblest work of God.”
His lowing herds have perished from the land,
Or haply o’er his fields a blight has trod;
Still, _he_ can trusting say, “My Father holds the rod.”
Farewell, old Fifty-five! bright o’er thy days,
Celestial truth has flung her radiant bow;
Benignant from her throne she stoops to raise
Each moiling slave of ignorance and woe.
Her silv’ry voice proclaims to high and low
This blood-bought truth, “man’s mind and tongue are free.”
May every human breast responsive glow,
Till superstition, pride, and bigotry,
Their lofty heads abase, and like grim spectres flee.
Farewell, old Fifty-five! inhuman war
With blood-red hand has o’er thy cycle swept.
Horrific still he rolls his thund’ring car
’Mid ghastly wounds, and dying groans unwept.
The cannon’s roar which long in silence slept,
Unceasing echoes o’er the dismal scene;
Deep blushing, Mercy from her throne has stept,
While eager Rapine stalks with hideous mien,
And gloating scan’s the flaming city’s lurid sheen.
O Liberty! Britannia’s proudest boast;
O Liberty! man’s brightest heritage;
Why on thy steps attendant should a host
Of sanguinary passions fiercely rage?
Or why should history’s memorable page
Be blotted o’er with sighs and groans and tears?
When will grey time mature the golden age,
When men shall snap their swords and quiv’ring spears,
And Peace triumphant reign o’er all the circling years?
Farewell, old Fifty-five--as ling’ring still
Thy last faint echoes on the ear expire,
And sadd’ning thoughts the heaving bosom fill,
Hope strings anew her animating lyre.
Eternal truth--the soul’s immortal fire--
Ere long shall claim the homage of the world,
High o’er gaunt Slavery’s blazing funeral pyre
Shall Freedom’s crimson banner wave unfurled,
And Ignorance and Vice from their dark thrones be hurled.
_William Selwyn._
PORT ELIZABETH, _January 1, 1856_.
“_LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT._”
“A little earthen lamp, 1700 years old, was recently found in the
East, which bore this inscription--‘The light of Christ shines for
all.’”--_Christian Express_, December 1, 1878.
This tiny lamp of fragile clay
Once shed its faint and flick’ring ray,
To cheer perchance some sage’s hall;
Its light extinct, ’mid wreck it lies,
Through seventeen rolling centuries;
Till disentombed, behold the truth,
Bright with the glow of pristine youth,
“The light of Christ shines for us all!”
Hail, glorious truth! Thy music thrills
In echoes from time’s distant hills;
And still thy tones melodious fall.
Still may poor wand’rers lift their heads
To Him, whose face benignant sheds
Effulgent rays, to warm and cheer,
To waken hope, and banish fear;
“The light of Christ still shines for all!”
The ice-built screens by bigots planned,--
As children’s barriers in the sand,
Dashed by the wild waves, sink and fall--
Melt in the beams from Jesus’ face,
Exhale in mist and leave no trace:
Free as the breeze on mountain side,
Wide as the ocean’s rolling tide,
“The light of Christ still shines for all!”
Light, light for Afric’s dusky throng;
Light for the pris’ners held so long
In superstition’s blinding thrall;
Light for the savage and the sage,
For smiling youth, and trembling age;
Light for all sorrowing, sin-struck eyes
That seek the pathway to the skies;
“The light of Christ still shines for all!”
_W. Selwyn._
PORT ELIZABETH, _December 11, 1878_.
[Illustration]
“_SHOULD IT BE ACCORDING TO THY MIND._”
(JOB xxxiv 33.)
Shall feeble, vain, presumptuous man
Whose loftiest vision’s but a span,
Impugn the vast mysterious plan
By boundless wisdom laid?
Shall His omnipotent behest,
That thunders o’er wild ocean’s breast,
Or lulls its surging waves to rest,
By puny worms be stayed?
Shall man, whose moments hurrying flee,
Like sparklets from a phosphor sea,
Prescribe to dread Eternity
The laws of His domain?
Shall He who scans each circling pole,
And points the course the planets roll,
Seek wisdom from the darkling mole
To guide the shining train?
Shall yon vast orb whose kindling ray
Pours forth the universal day
His glad, majestic progress stay,
Lest, haply, his bright beams
With light unwelcome should illume
The drowsy couch, and chide the gloom
Of some voluptuous sluggard’s room,
And chase his idle dreams?
Shall thirsty nature pant in vain
For showers of life-restoring rain;
Shall desolation sweep the plain
And beauty droop and die;
Lest one bright drop’s exultant spring
Should snap the spider’s airy string,
Or dim, perchance, the golden wing
Of some gay butterfly?
Shall yon glad stream, whose sparkling tide
Spreads verdant beauty far and wide,
O’erleap its banks and turn aside,
Or in the desert sink;
Lest, haply, fraught with summer showers,
Its waves should ripple o’er the flowers
By children planted ’mid the bowers
That tangle on its brink?
No! He, whose power with life endued
This glorious universe, pursued
In His design the highest good
And happiness of all;
And still, at His benign command,
Rich bounties gladden ev’ry land,
And still He guides, with all-wise hand
Each tenant of this ball.
O! then, low-bending in the dust,
Cling to His LOVE, with child-like trust,
Believing that Omniscience must
Know what for thee is best;
Let resignation soothe thy cares;
Let faith disperse thy gloomy fears;
And God Himself shall dry thy tears
In His eternal rest.
_W. Selwyn._
PORT ELIZABETH, _January 21, 1879_.
[Illustration]
_TO GRAAFF REINET._
Hail! “Gem of the Desert,” in slumber reposing,
The dark hills thy cradle, soft verdure thy bed;
The breeze from the kloof richest perfumes disclosing,
Lightly sweeps o’er thy bosom, raising dust very red.
The last gleams of the sun in gay splendour descending
Seem fondly to linger around the tall spire,
While the clouds, rainbow-tinted, their gorgeous hues lending,
Make the Dutchmen’s black chimneys seem as if all afire.
Deep bosomed in shade the dark river meanders,
Save where, like a mirror, it gleams from the glade;
Or soapy and slimy through mud-holes it wanders,
Where stockings are washed by a Hottentot maid.
Sweet abode of content; dearly loved Graaff Reinet!
Long, long mayst thou bask in thy slumber profound;
Tame spring-bucks be baited for a sixpenny bet,
And thy butter be sold at four shillings per pound.
_W. Selwyn._
GRAAFF REINET, 1860.
[Illustration]
_HYMN._
WRITTEN DURING THE ZULU WAR.
“And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto
me.”
--JOHN xii. 32.
O Saviour throned in peace above
Reveal Thy piercèd side,
And let the vision of Thy love
Stay war’s remorseless tide;
Risen Saviour, hear!
For white, for black, alike didst Thou
Low bow Thy fainting head;
For all of ev’ry clime and hue,
Didst Thou thy heart’s blood shed.
Suffering Saviour, hear!
Behold fair Afric’s sunny lands
With reeking carnage strewed,
See God-made man with rigid hands
In brother’s blood imbrued;
Sorrowing Saviour, hear!
O hear the Briton’s dying groan,
The Zulu’s piercing wail;
O hear the famished orphan’s moan,
The widow’s sobbing tale;
Pitying Saviour, hear!
In mercy stay the quiv’ring spear;
Avert the death-winged ball;
Pour balm for ev’ry scalding tear,
And breathe Thy peace o’er all.
Mighty Saviour, hear!
Draw weary warriors round Thy feet
By love’s constraining cord;
There let the scattered nations meet,
And hail Thee Sov’reign Lord.
Gracious Saviour, hear!
_William Selwyn._
PORT ELIZABETH, _February 9, 1879_.
[Illustration]
THE LAMENT
OF THE GUTTER LATELY FILLED UP BY AN UNPOETICAL MUNICIPALITY.
Old residents of Port Elizabeth will remember the kloof running
down between Donkin Street and Constitution Hill, which was spanned
by a rude wooden foot-bridge just opposite Dr. Edwards’ residence.
The kloof having been filled up now forms the site of the row of
houses on the right-hand side of Donkin Street. This municipal
improvement forms the subject of the following pitiful “Lament.”
Whatever may be thought of the merit of the verses, the author
takes some credit for an eye to the “practical,” for the attempt to
lead off the surface water through an underground culvert, resulted
in the catastrophe predicted in the concluding verses within a very
short time after the completion of the work.
Oh list, good folks, a tale of woe,
A tale of dark oppression,
Let briny tears your cheeks down flow
In sorrowful procession.
Till late I trickled down the glen,
In sunbeams gaily sparkling;
But now, entombed by heartless men,
I creep on cold and darkling.
Beneath a huge chaotic mass
Of rubbish vile I mutter;
Mid frogs and fungi rank, alas!
A melancholy gutter.
No more my channel, decked with green,
Relieves the eye aweary.
Its verdant slopes no more are seen,
But all around is dreary.
No more the breeze, with fitful sigh,
Along my bed breathes mildly,
No more, when Boreas blusters high,
My caverns echo wildly.
The rustic bridge, that bound my banks
In brotherhood together,
Is torn away, and its rude planks
Are gone--“the Board” knows whither.
Away! a dire revenge I’ll brew;
My rage, meanwhile, I’ll bung tight.
That sordid “Board” the day shall rue
When next I see the sunlight.
When turbid torrents rushing pass
Adown my peeping square holes,
Right through this execrable mass,
I, madman like, will tear holes.
I’ll heave aloft the lumb’ring load,
And crashing down I’ll toss it,
Till in the middle of the road[18]
I make a “fixed deposit.”
_William Selwyn._
[Illustration]
_MY “SALTED” STEED._
Oh! give me back my “salted” steed,
They said, he would not die,
They said of stable I’d no need,
But told a dreadful lie.
I let him out one moonlight night--
Upon the grass he fed--
And in the morning, cruel sight!
My salted steed was DEAD.
I bought him with a good “Bewijs,”
And thought to get my geld--
So wrote a letter in a trice,
And sent it through the veld;
But when the man who sold him came
And opened his inside--
He said the “paapjes” were to blame,
And that was how he died!
I’ve had a dozen steeds or more,
Since that eventful day;
But no more “salted” ones, be sure--
That sort of thing don’t pay,
For if a charger’s worth a sou,
He’s worth his feed, I swear:
And should he live, I laugh, don’t you?
And should he die, don’t care.
_A. Brodrick._
TRANSVAAL.
_A ROMANCE FROM THE FIELDS._
A COLONIAL BALLAD.
“How be I getting along, sir?
Why, thankee, I can’t complain;
The taties and crops looks splendid,
Since we got that there last rain:
The cattle and birds does middling,
The missus and children’s well,
And the future looks bright and cheery,
So far as I can tell.
“I look like a Dutchman, do I?
With them feathers in my hat!
Well p’r’aps they’re a trifle gaudy,
But I’ll wear ’em ’spite of that.
My ‘talisman’ I calls ’em, for
They came off a wondrous bird,
That completely changed our fortunes:
’Tis the strangest tale you’ve heard.
“Afore you left for England,
You may mind I went to the Fields;
I was nigh played out with farming,
And read of the thumping yields
Them diamond claims was giving, so
Resolved my luck to try,--
The drought and cruel lungsick
Had bothered us proper_ly_.
“I got what I could together,
And we started right ahead;
Missus and me and Bill here,
With two little gals as is dead.
I didn’t do much at digging,
But money could then be earned
By any willing fellow
Who to work in earnest turned.
“Wages was high, and I prospered,
Till fever came to the place,
And I was unable to work, sir,
And our children drooped apace.
’Twas a sad time, I can tell you,
And oft should we have starved,
But a neighbour--he’d been a sailor--
His substance with us halved.
“Good? I should say that he _was_ good,
A thorough kind-hearted brick--
Poor fellow! before very long though,
He himself fell sorely sick.
My wife did all she could, kind soul,
And nursed him night and day;
But with me and the children poorly,
She’d a hardish part to play.
“Poor Jim didn’t get no better,
And it seems made up his mind,
As how he must die at the Fields, sir,
And all he’d to leave behind
Would ’queath to my missus, who always
Had been his kindest friend--
’Twasn’t _much_, for things were dear then,
And his coin had come to an end.
“Well! all there was he made over,
Then poor Jim was laid to rest--
We got his watch and knicknacks,
But what the wife liked best
Was a couple of Dorking hens, sir,
And a fine young Spanish cock;
Quite right, sir, them’s the feathers,
That I fear give you a shock.
“The missus was fond of poultry,
And was pleased with what we’d got;
But hunger is hard to bear, sir,
So the birds came to the pot.
Our little gals lay a dying,
And food we all must have,
So one by one the fowls were killed,
But our bairns we could not save.
“The young cock’s turn came last, but
To kill him we all were loth;
But Billy and me in the fever lay,
So the wife made us some broth.
And now was the strangest thing, for when
That bird was drawn, his crop
Contained--well, guess?--I assure you,
My wife was fit to drop.
“A diamond? Yes! a brilliant,
Without a fault or flaw,
As good a gem, for its size, you know,
As ever merchant saw.
Four hundred pounds we sold it for,
And we bought shares in a claim
That doubled soon the sum we had:
Don’t that _bird_ deserve some fame?
“Thank God, the fever left us,
Little Billy was first to mend;
And after a while I got stronger,
And could to work attend.
But we’d all had enough of the Fields, sir,
And longed to come back home;
To settle down in the dear old place,
Nor want again to roam.
“I look like a Dutchman, do I?
Well! all that we have we owe
To that young bird, I reckon;
And my gratitude I shall show.
I shall sport his blue-black plumes then,
For it does not oft betide,
When killing a fowl to cook, you find
A _plum_ in his inside.”
_C. F. Overton._
[Illustration]
_THE FLIGHT OF THE AMAKOSA._
A RIFLE CORPS LEGEND.
It’s the hour of the morn
When he who’s not born
With a silver spoon ready-made for him, will scorn
To muddle his head
By lying in bed,
But jumps into a tub of cold water instead;
Which disperses each dream,
And gets up his steam,
And makes him as fresh as new butter and cream;
Drives off sleep’s dizziness,
Fits him for business,
Screws up his system,
And seems to assist him
To follow whatever employments enlist him.
In short, it’s the hour when the whole _Ville du Cap_
(As the Frenchmen call Cape Town) wakes up from its nap
And prepares for its trade, its profession or craft, as
Labourer, lawyer, or dealer in baftas.
But every one knows
That although _l’homme propose_,
It isn’t in mortals themselves to “dispose,”
For that is undoubtedly _toute autre chose_--
Or to speak in plain English, when plain English suits--
A pair of decidedly different boots.