I stood upon the beetling crags, to wait
The coming of the rosy-fingered morn,
And view the heavenly tints that thence were born.
Far, far beyond the mountain’s pencilled brow,
Defined so clearly in the mellow glow,
Leucothea grey precedes the flaming dye
With which Aurora paints th’ orient sky;
Robed in dark shadows lies that mountain now,
O’er which bright phosphor lifts his radiant brow,
While, all above, the leaden-coloured sky
Is cloudless to the little moon on high--
And brightly hangs that little circling moon,
Contrasting richly in that dull cartoon.
But oh, the star! the blazing star above,
The morning and the evening star of love,
Sheds silently upon the scene below
The glowing softness of its ardent brow,
Beams o’er the snowy clouds that calmly sleep
In outstretched slumber on the shadowed steep;
And viewed o’er these, assumes a lurid hue,
But flames the brighter for the contrast too--
E’en so as when along the o’ersnowed ways
Some chilly wanderer wakes the ruddy blaze,
It wears a lustre faint and pale, though bright,
And burns the fiercer in the dazzling light.
Essence of love--a tear by Sappho dropped,
Which Jove, in pity, in its falling stopped,
Suffused with light and his immortal fire
And hung above and granted to inspire
Love’s glowing bards, when beauty’s chain entwines
The heart that vents itself in am’rous lines.
Now far below, and o’er the shrouded world
Lie, densely clotted, fields of mist enfurled;
Jutting out that molten sea, the rugged peaks
Seem starting into life, to watch the freaks
Of Nature’s wildest fancy o’er her glades
That lie embosomed in those fleecy shades--
O’er hills and hills the snowy sheet extends,
And peaceful beauty to the landscape lends;
Hushed is all Nature in her slumber there,
And shrouded are her charms in veil so fair.
Now whisp’ring Zephyrs o’er the changing scene
Are sporting, where so late repose has been,
The mist in circling wreaths departs, nor stays
To idly wanton with the airy fays.
And sternly frowns that dusky mountain still,
And marks their fittings over moor and hill;
Like some fell giant of the early days
Beheld the dancing of the sportive fays.
Oh, for the power of Byron or of Moore,
To glow with one, and with the latter soar;
To find a vent for budding fancy’s throes,
And reap the soft luxuriance that she sows;
To snatch a glowing diction’s varied strain,
And paint the fire when it flames again;
So I might well portray fair Nature’s charms,
Depict the bounties of her lavish arms,
Invoke the strains that to the Nine belong,
And roll the happy tide of thrilling song.
But lo! the rainbow tints that fast succeed
Each other, proclaim th’ impatient speed
Of that bright sun that rules our universe,
Of Nature’s joys the sole, the constant nurse;
With burning gold he tips those ebon clouds
Whose jagged banks his glory now enshrouds--
Miniature mountains capped with melting snow--
They now appear ere fading ’fore his brow;
The upshot rays he darts through limpid air,
Through half-closed eyes in varied tints appear
The speedy maid, with bow of varied dye,
Throws beaming pleasure in the gladdened eye;
And from this giant peak on which I muse,
All space seems rife with kaleidoscopic hues.
And now Aurora opes the saffron gates,
And all the glory of the sky awakes--
“He flasheth forth like bridegroom to the feast,
Through the red portals of the fiery east.”
The glittering dew, with brilliant flashing clings
Around the scattered cobweb’s silken strings,
In pearly drops within the lily grows,
Loads the wild violet and the mountain rose;
In silvery sheen arrests each golden ray,
Refracts its stream in multi-coloured play,
As shivered mirrors on a flow’ry lawn
Reflect a thousand tints where one is born,
And filtering through these early morning beams,
Sinks spangling round the smoking mountain streams.
Resuming now my trusty Terry’s weight,
I wander on where fleeting game or fate
Does guide my steps--where o’er the sloping grounds
High in the air the exulting Oribe bounds--
“The rifle raised and levelled with the eye,
Sharp a short thunder rolls along the sky,”
Swift to the unconscious hind the leaden death
Speeds on the wings of fate and stops his breath;
With one quick spring he falls upon the plain,
No more o’er vernal lawns to bound again.
Or, where the wary Rhee buck, wild and shy,
Perceive afar the hunter drawing nigh,
Together rush in one affrighted band,
And wildly gaze and tremble as they stand;
Till fully scared, with one short cough, again
They sweep like wind across the sounding plain.
Where, mute and lonely on the impending steeps,
The mountain hawk his frequent vigil keeps,
With noiseless pinion shoots into the air,
And sails upon the wind that’s wandering there;
With head oblique he scans his native sky,
Then far below his piercing glances hie
To where his dreaded shade portentous sweeps
O’er wilds, where in the sun the coney sleeps;
With sudden fear the rocks with cries resound,
As dive the furry tribe beneath the ground.
Now down I stray to where yon rushing rill
Is tumbling down the rock-defended hill,--
Here grateful winds in many a whispered lay,
With mild impression o’er my forehead stray,
And here reclined, where shadowed flows the stream,
I lend myself to reverie and dream.
Remorseless Time has rolled long years away
Since last I faced wild ocean’s fresh’ning spray,
But still a charmed impression lingers o’er
The heart, when scenes she’s often felt before,
Come crowding on her corners, thick as waves
Roll closely sequent into lonely caves;
Which prompts me to retune my feeble lyre,
And sing the theme of which we never tire;--
But whence this thought that thus the past recalls
That sudden gleams and oft the mind appals?
Without the faintest cause or reason plain,
This lightning thought darts quickly on the brain,
Picturing in the clear mirror of the mind
The distant spot that long we’ve left behind,
In faithful semblance painting on her eye
The bygone scene to mem’ry now so nigh,
And then as sudden flies, unless as here,
We fix the shadow e’er it disappear.
Not ev’ry one has felt this vision leap
With magic bound upon their mem’ry’s sleep,
But some there are, who, startled by the spell,
Retain remembrance to the feeling well;
Each spoken word, each gesture will appear
To have been acted in some former year,
And oft we think we almost can foretell
The next words spoken in this passing spell.
But how shall I essay to shape my way
Through themes, that multi-genius ’fore my day,
Has wrought upon and left no point unviewed,
That varied Nature on their minds imbued?
How through exhausted pictures steer my course,
And shun the oft-used terms that almost force
Themselves upon expression, for they deem
They are the _sine qua nons_ of the theme,
And cling so firmly in the lab’ring breast,
That ’tis beyond its power to divest
Its chambers of these oft-recurring terms,
That stamp their image and implant their germs.
Coincidence of thought will oft produce
The same in words, and thus I do adduce
That censors ne’er will quibble in these times,
Nor scent a plagiarist in these stray lines.
So bear we on with that we have contrived,
Ne’er pausing to reflect from whence derived,
Nor spurn a passage for the reason that
Its semblance was in other brains begat--
For truth will charm though sung in echoed strain,
And changeless scenes instruct the bard again.
With long-swept rise and swiftly gathering sweep,
That seems to rake the bosom of the deep;
With curling crest and tint of lucid blue,
That glows with innate specks of snowy hue;
With pendent pause and darkly swelling breast,
That heaves as lovely woman’s in her rest;
The mighty eastern wave with booming roar
Falls thund’ring on old Afric’s rocky shore.
With busy spread he swamps the crannied rocks,
And now refills a thousand puny locks,
In seething eddies swirls and frets about,
Then shrinking back, he sinks, and hurries out.
Recalled, I ween, by some internal power
That guides his motion and directs his hour;
As does the heart, withdrawing in its turn,
The drop it late emitted from its urn.
Now further down along the sandy beach
The waves seem stretching to their utmost reach,
Then swift receding with the grating sand,
They curl in little rills along the strand,
While myriad tribes of sea-born insect life
Pursue their exit and enjoy their strife;
The fresh’ning sea-breeze spreads her airy wings,
And health and coolness to the seashore brings;
The tumbling porpoise bowl along the tide,
And now aloft, now down the billow glide,
And shrieking sea-birds swooping round the steep,
Skim the gay surface of the cresting deep;
The distant ship, as viewed from Komo’s cliff,
Seems almost dwindled to a fisher’s skiff;
As swiftly gliding o’er the seething surge,
She sinks beyond the horizon’s dusky verge;
While flaming in the painted west again,
“The sun’s last splendour lights the dazzling main.”
Lo! on the flushed horizon rolled along
Dark mountain lines of clouds embattling throng,
Mid blood-tipt peaks of fiercest fiery hue
Intensely sleeps th’ unutterable blue;
While gentle Hesperus from the empurpled sky,
Serenely lustrous as repose draws nigh,
Sinks sweetly smiling to her silken bed,
Where gorgeous robes and pillowing folds are spread,
And darkened Day leaves stretching o’er his grave
Deep crimson stains along the dark-blue wave.
My song has wandered from the mountain stream,
And Ocean’s wonders still employ my dream,
And here the cherished image of the brain
In pensive beauty shades the heart again;
Fond, foolish fancy, ever hov’ring nigh,
Paints her own idol on the wistful eye,
And breeds an atrophy’s insatiate ill,
Which though with nectar slaked, is cheerless still.
Oh, for the witching arts of ancient days,
When mortals, oft transmuted into fays,
Were given to guide the streamlet’s winding course,
And dwell enchanted at its bubbling source,
That I an Oread of my love might make,
To bless my steps through hunting glade or brake,
And roam with her where mountain cascades roll,
The guiding star, the Beatrice of my soul.
But to my theme--the sunny hours flow by,
And still unnumbered objects please the eye;
I watch the bubbles in their endless race,
For ever glancing o’er the brooklet’s face;
Oft at some sailing bud there sudden leaps
The finny darter of the glassy deeps;
While quiv’ring lilies in the current’s sweep,
In dancing movement, ceaseless motion keep;
I watch the butterflies in giddy flights,
Intensely mad, enjoying noon’s delights;
They meet, they turn, they hover here and there,
Then wildly scatter through the heated air.
The sun declines, behind the clouds he steals;
Loud o’er my head the sudden thunder peals,
And winged with lightning, awful echoes wakes
In caves rebellowing to the din it makes--
Dies on the breathless air, the song of birds,
And distant low the homeward wending herds;
The twitt’ring birds now seek the leafy brakes,
The lofty eagle now his perch forsakes,--
Forth from his castled rock he sudden flies,
And shuns in caves the fury of the skies.
Now heavy clouds o’ershade the verdant plain,
Then on the thirsty earth descend in rain;
And now the snowy hail, with rushing sound
Falls from its crystal quarries to the ground.
’Tis past! the sun a moment smiles in joy,
And rides his parting course without alloy;
While Zephyrs coy compound a gentle breeze,
And fan the air, and play among the trees.
Sunk o’er the mount, far in the tinted west,
The hidden sun has now declined to rest;
And ling’ring twilight, gloaming o’er the hill,
Sheds softest influence on the evening still.
I fain would cease, yet many thoughts still flow
Upon my mind, though ever waning low,
As when old Ocean’s billow-beaten shore
Has echoed to the wakened waters’ roar;
The o’erflown storm an agitation leaves
That still the less’ning wavelet on him heaves--
And still these little waves will ceaseless play
As ruling passions ever hold their sway;
Our primal thoughts will ever flow toward
Their consummation of their own accord,
As fountains, scattered o’er a mountain’s side
Will still, unto a point, converging, glide.
High on this hill I sound my rugged shell,
And sweep th’ untutored lyre; and should I swell
A strain of feelings purer than I feel
In th’ envenomed world below, and steal
The precepts of the Ethic muse to sing
Of that I practise not, forgive my string.
For still with joy is hailed the welcome hour
That bears respite from frequent trials’ power;
And all the puling prate of fashion’s twang,
And jarring accents of the city’s clang;
Releasing from the weary humdrum prose
That marks each dreary day’s monot’nous close;
And lifts us from the plain of low desires
To where Imagination never tires,
Where Contemplation plumes her ruffled wings,
And th’ untrammelled mind beholds all things,
As through a stained and softly coloured glass
One views the dream-like trees and waving grass,
And transports where kind Nature oft bestows
A soothing cup--nepenthe of our woes--
And though the harp be swept by bard profane,
If good the theme, the song is ne’er in vain;
For should his simple lay be nursed by fame,
Old Time forgets the follies of his name,
Effaces all the failings of his life,
And rears the strain that softens earthly strife.
And now, farewell!--dark shades enwrap the hill,
O’er dying day the dews in tears distil,
To shine again when with the morrow’s dawn
The golden light and joyous sun are born,
As gathered tears called forth by sorrow’s night,
In Beauty’s eyes, when lit by joy, are bright--
The sable Night, with dusky wings on high,
With silent pace invades the spangling sky--
And distant gleaming on th’ horizon’s verge,
The parting storm rolls out its solemn dirge--
And should this artless strain a thought afford
That strikes in gen’rous breasts a fellow chord,
Then, oh! forgive, that thus I rashly dare
From Nature’s hallowed charms the veil to tear--
But ever with her changing scenes imbued,
Her pleading beauties urge me to intrude.
----_Moodie_.
MELSETTER, _January 1868_.
[Illustration]
_CONTENTMENT._
FOR MY MOTHER.
I am content to be
What God has made me: honour and renown
I seek not from this world, nor fear its frown.
God knows and honours me. His child and heir
He made me; then what matters it if here
Unknown and poor I live,--a little while,
And I shall bask in His benignant smile
To all eternity.
I am content to do
What God has bid me: He, the Master, knows
What work I am best fit for, and He shows
Me how to do it. _His_ command is law;
_His_ the responsibility. In awe
And fear of failure, I seek to _obey_
And leave results to _Him_, and daily pray
To be more faithful, true.
I am content to go
Where God sees fit to send me: _everywhere_
His presence I can feel, His sweet voice hear,
His footprints see, His guiding hand discern,
His loving-kindness taste, His precepts learn.
Each step, though dark and difficult the way,
Leads me but _nearer_ to eternal day--
_Farther_ from sin and woe.
I am content to take
Life’s good and ill: the hand that holds the rod,
And blessings too, is guided by my God.
He knows best which I need the most, and will
My cup with joy and sorrow wisely fill.
I wish to listen only to His voice
That bids me in prosperity rejoice,
Or suffer for His sake.
I am content to wait
Till Jesus calls me home.--’Tis true I long
To join in that celestial, happy throng,
And sing His praise, and see Him as He is,
And taste the joys of ransomed souls in bliss;
But still, resigned I wait at His command
Until He come to take me by the hand,
And lead me through the gate.
_Rev. F. J. Ochse._
BEACONSFIELD.
[Illustration]
_NOT HERE._
_Here_ is not the place of rest,
Where sin and sorrow reign;
Where sighs and tears show that the heart
Is filled with grief and pain;
Where strength and beauty fade away;
Where flowers bloom but to decay;
Where sweet emotions cannot stay,
But come to go again.
_Now_ is not the time of rest,
While work is to be done;
While every moment hastens by,
And is for ever gone;
While souls are lying in the might
Of Satan, and the shade of night
Is threatening to quench the light
And leave our work undone.
_There_ in yon firmament on high,
Amongst the good and blest,
Where angels sing and seraphs praise--
The brightest and the best--
_There_ will our songs for ever rise
To God, the Object of all eyes,
_There_ we will find in heavenly skies
The _place_ and _time_ to rest.
_Rev. F. J. Ochse._
[Illustration]
_REVELATION XXII._
VERSIFIED.
And He showed me a River, whose life-giving waters
Are pure and like crystal so clear.
It flows from the throne of the merciful Father,
And Jesus our Saviour so dear.
In the streets of the City and sides of the river
The Tree of eternal Life grows;
Its fruits are all savoury, its leaves are all healthy,
And healing to every one flows.
No curse shall be found in that city so glorious,
Where God and the Lamb ever reign;
There His servants shall serve Him, His children shall see Him,
His name in their foreheads remain.
No night shall be there,--neither candle nor sunlight,--
The Lord shall in glory there shine;
There in bliss they will reign, for the Lord God hath said it,
The God of the prophets divine.
“Behold, I come quickly, to bless him that keepeth
The sayings and words of this book;
Then seal not these prophecies, telling of judgment,
But let them all into it look.
“The time is at hand, and the unjust shall perish,
The filthy shall filthy remain,
The righteous shall still with more righteousness glitter,
The holy his pureness retain.
“Behold, I come quickly, let all this remember,
My righteous reward is with Me;
And surely to each one will I give a portion,
According as his works shall be.
“As I am the Alpha, so I am Omega,--
The First and the Last and the All;
And he who puts trust in the Offspring of David,
Shall stand and shall nevermore fall.”
The Bride and the Spirit together are saying:
“Oh, come to Him, thirsty one, come!”
And he who will hear it, and he who will have it,
May drink of that water from Home.
Once more He who testifieth all these things saith:
“Surely I will speedily come.”
My heart, with a longing response, gives the answer:
“Even so, Lord Jesus! oh come!”
_Rev. F. J. Ochse._
[Illustration]
_EZEKIEL XLVII._ 1-12.
And I saw a little stream
Come trickling out from underneath the altar;
And as it rippled sunward with glad psalter,
It sparkled in its beam.
A tiny stream it was
As it issued from the threshold of its home;
But with growing bulk and power to overcome
The sandy desert, it became at length,
A mighty river, glorious in its strength,
O’er which I could not pass.
Both its sides were lined with trees
All along its strange course through the desert sand.
Trees of fruit and beauty in a barren land--
Trees with healing in their leaves for every pain--
Trees of fragrant odours floating o’er the plain,
Borne by the desert’s breeze.
Into the sea this stream
With strength and vitalising power flowed,
Till everything new life and vigour showed.
Great multitudes of fish this dead sea filled,
Which of its deadly saltness now was healed.
Thus ended my whole dream.
And when I woke methought
I saw God’s mercy, like this stream,--its source
The Upper Sanctuary--this world its course--
The secret of its healing power, the blood
Poured on the altar under which it flowed,--
Free pardon Jesus bought.
The Dead Sea’s awful gloom,--
Fit symbol of this world of death and sin.
Its new state, with the river pouring in
New life and health, where death and silence reigned,--
Fit emblem of the “paradise regained”
From sin’s eternal doom.
_Rev. F. J. Ochse._
[Illustration]
_CHANGE._
Yes, all things change in this poor world of ours,--
The ocean’s waves, the sand upon its shores,
The rocks which bound it even slowly change.
Summer’s warm breath makes place for Winter’s cold.
Spring’s youthful freshness, beautiful and gay,
Is doomed to Autumn’s sadness, age, decay.
Life’s phases change: now happiness and joy;
Then misery and sorrow take their turn.
Now health and plenty, shared with loved ones near;
Then pain and sickness, poverty, despair,
For the poor, exiled, friendless wanderer.
Now in _this_ field, with friends and blessings rich,
The labourer works content; then parting comes,
And to a new and unknown sphere he turns
His wandering steps, and hopes and prays and works.
Friends also sometimes change: the tender flower
Of friendship often withers in the blast
Of cruel, sinful scandal, cursed of God.
Others indifferent grow: pleased by new friends,
The old ones are neglected and forgot.
Yes, all things change in this poor world of ours--
God’s love alone remains unchangeable.
His love alone can keep us constant, true.
No blast can wither friendship’s tender flower
That blooms beneath His atmosphere of love.
Then let all things in this poor world of ours
Change and decay;--no matter, we have _God_.
His promises are sure, His blessings great;
His faithful guidance will be ever ours.
A place awaits us in His glorious Home,
Where _we_ shall also be _unchangeable_.
_Rev. F. J. Ochse._
[Illustration]
_HEAVENLY FRIENDSHIP._
There is a hand, whose grasp is love,
Though not a lover’s grasp;
Its touch wakes feelings far above
The lover’s fondest clasp.
There is an eye, whose sparkle shows
The tender holy flame
Of deep affection, and o’erflows
With love for each dear name.
There is a heart, whose throbs proclaim
A constant, ceaseless flow
Of life and love for all; the same
In happiness or woe.
A lip, whose words--to man on earth,
Are words of life and peace;
To God, are prayers of priceless worth,
Which never, never cease.
Such is our Saviour dear, our Heavenly Friend.
Most like Him is the mortal friend, who tries
To lead us ever nearer to that land
Where Friendship blooms in sunny, cloudless skies.
_Rev. F. J. Ochse._
[Illustration]
_LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM._
From whence comes all this weariness of heart,
This anxious longing for a place of rest,
These greedy cravings for the silent tomb,
Where all in deep forgetfulness repose?
Surely man was not made to while away
His costly time in brooding over wrongs
And disappointments meeting him through life,
As if there were no rays of sunshine left
To gladden him along his way to Heaven.
His life is not an empty, idle dream,
But dread reality, composed of _facts_,
Whose fruits will follow with their just rewards.
He _has_ an object which to live for here;
And if that object be to live for God,
And for the good of those who him surround,
He may consider his a life well spent.
Then let us follow firmly duty’s call
With willing hearts, forgetful of the past,--
Still trusting in the strength and love of God,
Still striving further onward for the crown,
Still rising higher heavenward to our goal,
Till we at last that longed for Home attain,
And rest upon the bosom of our God.
_Rev. F. J. Ochse._
[Illustration]
_THE DEFENCE OF RORKE’S DRIFT._
JANUARY 22-23, 1879.
Come listen for a moment,
All ye, whose peaceful life
In even flow is ne’er disturbed
By scenes of blood and strife;
Who sit around your hearth fires,
Secure from war’s alarms;
This humble lay sets forth to-day
A British deed of arms.
Left on the wild, lone border,
A small but fearless band,
Guarding the watery entrance
To savage Zululand;
On the warm mid-day breezes,
Like thunder’s distant sound,
Came the long roll of cannon
Far o’er the hostile ground,
And we wondered that our column
So soon the foe had found.
Then came two flying horsemen
Riding with loosened rein,
And the powdery dust like a whirlwind rose
As they scoured across the plain;
A few more rapid hoof-strokes,
And we heard the news they bore--
“In yonder glen nigh half our men
Lie weltering in their gore!
“’Twas shortly after noontide,
The column was away;
Swept the dark hordes in myriads down
Like wolves upon their prey;
Vainly the deadly hailstorm
Boomed from the cannon loud--
Vainly we tried to stem the tide
Of the black surging crowd.
“Our men, too soon surrounded,
Were slaughtered as they stood,
Facing their slayers to the last,
Dying as soldiers should.
How we escaped we know not,
From that fierce whirlwind’s frown,
But on this post a conquering host
E’en now is marching down!”
As men who dream, we heard them,
And awestruck, stood aghast;
And through each heart there went a chill
Like the breath of an icy blast;
We thought of those who left us
In the glow of their martial pride,
Now with the dead in the slaughter red,
Stark on the wild hill-side.
We looked to our defences
Ere darkness should come on,
And others passed from the fatal field,
They warned us, and were gone;
We called on them to aid us
In the approaching fight--
They would not hear--the voice of fear
Lent wings to their headlong flight.
“The foe comes down in thousands,
Away--for all is lost!”
“Not so--our orders are to hold
The Drift at any cost;
Long has the firing sounded
And succour may be nigh,
If not--why then we’re Englishmen,
At duty’s call we’ll die!”
We set to work undaunted
To raise a barricade,
With mealie bags and scattered stores
A breastwork soon had made;
And scarcely was it finished,
When burst upon our sight,
Dark as the lowering storm-cloud
Sweeps the blue vaulted height,
Moving along the fair hill-side,
In vast black lines extending wide,
Rank upon rank of warriors tried,
In panoply of savage pride
Advancing to the fight.