And ears are strained for victory’s sights and sounds;
We wait for tidings, for indeed we know
In British armour bravery still abounds.
Forward! and soon the victory shall be yours,
Avenge the slaughtered dead about Khartoum,
Nail to the colours England’s last commands,
Stern and sincere, “Room for Sir Garnet, room!”
Forward; and drive the Arab hordes beyond
The reach of Nile’s exhilarating flood,
And teach fanaticism what it means
To traffic heedlessly in Christian blood.
_Garret Brown._
[Illustration]
_EPITAPH ON A DIAMOND DIGGER._
Here lies a digger, all his chips departed--
A splint of nature, bright, and ne’er down-hearted:
He worked in many claims, but now (though stumped)
He’s got a claim above that can’t be jumped.
May he turn out a pure and spotless “wight,”
When the Great Judge shall sift the wrong from right,
And may his soul, released from this low Babel,
Be found a gem on God’s great sorting table.
_A. Brodrick._
KIMBERLEY, 1875.
_AFRIC’S GREETING_
TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS ALEXANDRA, PRINCESS OF WALES, ON HER WEDDING DAY,
MARCH 10, 1863.
Royal Lady! O’er the ocean
Afric’s greeting speeds to thee!
Borne on sighs of fond emotion;
Full of loyal, true devotion;
Honest, candid, open, free,
Just what Britons’ love should be.
Fresh from every heart and hand;
Warm as is our sunny land;
Hopeful as the future life
Must be, of our Albert’s wife;
Full of frank and honest pride,
As thy husband at thy side
Must be, owning thee as bride.
Lady! o’er Britannia’s sea
Afric’s greeting speeds to thee!
Lady! though we are not near thee--
Far by wave and storm exiled:--
Twofold is the love we bear thee--
Love of parent and of child.
Parent’s love, for thy youth still hath
Claim to parent’s anxious care;
Child’s love, for when Heaven willeth
Thou that honoured throne must share;
Then, as now, our hearts will greet thee,
Though _far distant be the day_;
For we love our peerless Sov’reign
And would keep her while we may.
That pure reign which comes before thee,
Crowned by virtues erst unknown,
Teaches thee a golden secret
Ne’er before to monarchs known.
Teaches thee the golden secret,
Won by virtue from above,
HOW TO RULE A LOYAL PEOPLE
AND RETAIN THEIR FERVENT LOVE.
Imitate it! Emulate it!
Thus our hopes of thee fulfil;--
Thus thy great and loyal people
Will be great and loyal still.
Thus, dear lady, o’er the sea
Afric hopes and prays for thee!
_H. W. Bidwell._
GRAHAMSTOWN, _May 1863_.
[Illustration]
_ROBERT GODLINTON._
Born in London, September 1794; died at Grahamstown, 30th May 1884.
Mourn, Africa! your oldest, noblest sage
Sleeps the long sleep. Your noblest? Aye! for he
Whose name the roll of true nobility
Next heads, may well be proud. How bright a page
His history fills. The _Franklin_ of our age,
Who wrought for Truth, for Liberty, and Light.
The aim of all his fourscore years and ten
Was “Peace on earth and good will towards men;”
Right for the wrongèd weak--for wronging right
Confusion. How he strove with sword, tongue, pen,
As soldier, statesman, writer! giving all
The glorious dower of his heart and brain
To us and God: until He took again
The life, which could we, we would fain recall.
The measure of his influence who can tell?--
We know not whether from that distant home
To which th’ All-Wise has ta’en him, he may come
In spirit to the land he served so well.
But this we know:--The good that he has wrought,
Th’ examples set, the lessons he has taught,
As scattered seed on Time’s e’er-rolling flood
Immortal are, and can but work us good.
_H. W. Bidwell._
[Illustration]
_THE DIAMOND DIGGER._
ON FINDING HIS FIRST LARGE DIAMOND.
(_From the drama “I. D. B.”_)
What change of luck! O Fortune! they have well
Compared thee to a woman;--ever flying,
But luring on, when Hope-led we pursue;--
And when we scorn thee, coming back, all smiles,
O’erwhelming us with richest, choicest favours.
(_Looks at the diamond._) Can it be real?--Can I believe my eyes?
A gem like thee would grace a monarch’s crown;
Aye! and would buy his empire from him too.
For smaller and less precious gems than thee
Have monarchs been betrayed and empires sold.
For less than thee, Beauties, whose hearts of steel
Not all the worship of true love could move,
Have given their charms to arms they else had loathed.
But oh! thou glittering bauble! Canst thou buy
One sigh of pure affection! one small grain
Of Truth?--Call back the loved ones gone?
Give respite to the wretch condemned to die?
Or win redemption for a soul that’s lost?
Ah, no! Truth is the bright, pure gem!
Compared with her thou’rt very dross indeed.
Yet thou art mine! mine! mine! my own!
Mine only! And as yet no other eyes
But mine have gazed upon thy dazzling splendour.
How strange it seems that thou who hast lain hid
Down in the very heart of Earth; and in
The very womb, as ’twere, of hoary Time,
Cycles long, long ere History was born,
Now comest forth, like some new-chos’n Sultana
From the zenana’s gloom, where all her light,
Her glory, and her beauty, blazed in vain!
The fabled Sleeping Beauty sure thou wert!
I the proud Prince whose vivifying touch
Called thee to light and gave thy splendour life;--
The thought is overpowering; and the feeling
With which I call thee mine is not all joy.
I’ve heard how gems like thee, which it has cost
The owners years of patient toil to win,
Have caused their death when won;--that woe, not bliss,
Have followed their possession; and a thrill
While now I clutch thee seemeth to forebode
Some coming evil. Were it known I go
About with a king’s ransom in my pocket,
My life would not be safe. No! I must hide
Thee as a thief would hide his stolen prize.
_H. W. Bidwell._
_THE LAST OF THE BOWKERS._
A DIRGE.
Alas! Is it true that the great R. M. Bowker
No longer in Parliament covets a place?
But follows his brethren--this gigantic joker?
The greatest--the last of a very slow race.
First Thomas the tartar; then William the wailer,
Knocked under; they couldn’t keep pace with the age.
Now the last of the trio, great Robert the _railer_,
Has made his _Bow cur_tly and gone from the stage.
But oh! in the Senate the _gap_, will be shocking!
Long, long will be missed that cantankerous face--
He stood six feet three in his veldschoen and stocking.
’Twill take a braw chiel, mon, to _fill up_ his place.
Though his broadcloth was broadest, his humour was broader--
Though his legs were the longest, the length of his jaw
Out-did them; yet he was ne’er once called to order,
By the fierce little knight whose mere wig’s nod was law.[28]
There may in the future be low jokes and high jokes;
And good jokes and jokes good for nothing at all--
But no more his sly jokes, his wry jokes and dry jokes--
For this _flower_ of all jokers is gone to the _wall_.
But oh! on the road, as life’s journey we drag on,
Whether main road or branch, Grief will turn on _her_ main,
To think how that highly distinguished buck wagon
Will ne’er take that _buck_ of a _wag on_ again.
Yet, a paradox, trekking along on the mail road,
He was, as I’ll prove, though ’twill nothing avail.
Though he growled at the railroad and kept the old frail road,
The whole of his journey he kept _on the rail_.
But what of the “House” without one Bowker in it?
Like a waggon deprived of its break, down ’twill go,
And the whole span of Parliament into infinite
Disorder will rush, with their _Achter os flauw_.
Well, peace to the _manes_ of these shaggy old lions!
May the song of the steam-engine lull them to rest;
May they, free from “obstruction,” “protest,” and “defiance”
(But not in a buck-waggon) go to the blest.
Be this their escutcheon:--A steam-engine rampant,
A patriot floored on the floor of the “House,”
A skinned nigger salient--sixteen oxen couchant,
A waggon smashed up, and a broken-down smouse.
_H. W. Bidwell._
UITENHAGE, _May 21_.
[Illustration]
_THE DRUNKARD’S CHILD._
FOUNDED ON ONE OF J. B. GOUGH’S THRILLING ANECDOTES.
“I cannot spare that book, papa--
Take all I have beside;
But that my poor, my dear mamma,
Gave me the day she died,
“And bade me keep it for her sake;--
If all your money’s spent
Sell all my toys, but do not take
My little Testament!
“She told me that I there might read
The way to heaven above.
I cannot part with it indeed!--
Her last dear gift of love.”
There stood beside that couch of straw,
All haggard, wretched, wild,
The drunkard father, staggering o’er
His sweet but dying child.
And as she spoke, a father’s tear
Stole down his bloated cheek;
And thus he cried, “Hush, Fanny dear!
’Tis not your book I seek.
“But oh! this cursed, burning thirst,
Has made me mad, I think;
I take your book!--I’d perish first--
And yet I must have drink!--
“Come, child! no more that sad pale look!--
There--dry your weeping eye,
I would not steal your little book
For all the world--not I!”
Her sighs and sobs are now at rest,
For see! the maiden sleeps;--
But closely to her little book,
The Testament, she keeps.
There bathed in beauteous tears she lay,
Like some half drooping flower,
Cropt ere the sun had kissed away
The grief of evening’s hour.
There stood the man; his burning tongue
Half cursing his intent,
As stealthily from Fanny’s breast
He took the Testament.
Not all a father’s love could break
The dread, the cursed spell
That binds the drunkard to his glass,
And drags his soul to hell.
But deaf to sweet affection’s voice,
Dead to the fear of sin,
Away he bore the cherished pledge
And bartered it for gin.
Now once again he dares beside
That wretched couch to stand;
And gazes on his dying child
The bottle in his hand.--
How shall he meet her dying face?
He dare not, cannot think,
But all reflection, all disgrace
Drowns in absorbing drink,--
But see! his little daughter wakes,
And seeks her book in vain,
Yet murmurs not--how calm she takes
The sickness and the pain.
But though the ghastly hues of death
O’er her wan features roll,
A beam of immortality
Is borrowed from the soul,
That lightens up her waning eye
With an unearthly light,
That tells the spirit plumes its wings
For an eternal flight.
“Father,” she cried, “I’m dying now;
Nay, father! do not weep!--
I know you took my Testament
When I was fast asleep.
“But I forgive you, father dear!
Come!--sit down by my side!--
Say! do you think I’ll get to heaven?
You know how hard I’ve tried.
“I think I shall--I know I shall--
For in my book I read
‘_Let little children come to Me_,’
That’s what the Saviour said.
“But, father, when I get to heaven
And my poor dear mamma,
And all those angels pure and bright
Shall speak of you, papa!
“And ask me what you did with it,
My mother’s darling book--
What shall your Fanny say to them?--
Father!--how ill you look!”--
“Oh! mercy, child!” the father cries,
“What hope is there for me,
Oh! I have broken all the ties
Of loved humanity!--
“See here!” and with a dreadful oath
The bottle down he cast--
“Thus do I break the drunkard’s chains
--I’ve freed myself at last.”
“Nay! curse not, father dear, but pray.”--
“How can I pray,” he cried.
“I’ll teach you, father; come this way!--
There--kneel down by my side!”--
He knelt, and in response to her,
Repeated word for word--
“_To me a sinner deep and black
Be merciful, O Lord!_”
She died--and as the angels bore
Her little spirit home,
They sang in joy o’er the drunkard’s soul
Thus rescued from its doom.[29]
_H. W. Bidwell._
[Illustration]
_THE ANGEL’S MESSAGE._
’Twas a beautiful evening:--towards the calm west
The god of the summer triumphantly rolled;
As the glory gates oped to receive their bright guest
They let out a torrent of heaven’s own gold.
It mellowed the lawn, where the poplar’s tall spire
Threw a shade, which dissolved as it longer became.
It lit up the hall like a temple of fire
As its old Norman windows reflected the flame.
All was silent; for Philomel yet did not raise
His song, which both sadness and rapture inspire:
The thrush and finch ceased their vesper of praise
To gaze on the glory: and mutely admire.
The newly born zephyr, so gentle and mild,
Strayed over the lawn to a chamber above,
Where her sad mother sighed o’er her withering child,
The frail blossom born of unsanctified love.
Oh! the sigh from an innocent heart--like the breeze
Which distils from the flowers those essences rare,
Too subtle for e’en the inquisitive bees--
Is laden with sweetness that medicines care.
But not so the breathings exhaled from the breast
Where guilt makes a sepulchre, shame finds a home;
And the hope that with virtue alone deigns to rest,
With its heavenly solace may never more come.
Yet the scene was so tranquil, the grandeur so calm,
That its influence e’en to that sad heart would steal;
Like an angel of charity pouring its balm
To soothe the deep wound that it never might heal.
And the mother sat watching that dear life, whose ebb
Was so stealthy, that even love’s fears were beguiled,
Till the spider-fay sleep spun its magical web
’Twixt the frail one’s fond eyes and her innocent child.
And the soft zephyrs played on each delicate brow,
Like tender caresses of angels unseen;
Now lifting a curl from a forehead of snow,
Now kissing a cheek where a tear-pearl had been.
They are dreaming--Hark!--Whence that mysterious sound?
Like the wild harp of Æolus disturbed by the wings
Of some spirit that playfully hovers around,
And fan into song the invisible strings;
Or the hymn which the spirit of God’s universe
Sings unto the planets and suns, as they roll,
Or the chorus celestial beings rehearse
When they welcome to heaven an innocent soul.
Lo! a ladder of sunbeams shoots down from the skies
To the child, and a host of bright beings appear;
And as they descend their sweet voices arise
More loud and distinct on the mother’s rapt ear.
Oh! ne’er has the tongue of a mortal expressed
The accents that fall on the ears of the soul,
The thoughts to an atom of spirit addressed
By its infinite, mighty, mysterious whole.
The silver-winged choristers press round the pair;
The chorus has ceased; but a voice far more sweet
In its unaided melody, takes up the air,
Which feebly the muse thus essays to repeat.
“This is the dear sister our love longs to win,
Soft!--bear her away to the home of the blest,
Ere a pang of earth’s sorrow, or taint of its sin,
Hath stricken or sullied her innocent breast.”
They raise her; again in rich harmony blend
The sweet voices; a glance half of joy, half of pain
They beam on the mother, then gracefully wend
Their ethereal pathway to heaven again.
The chorus expires:--their images shown
In the dimness of distance like faint shadows seem;
Till the gates now regained are wide open thrown,
And each form stands revealed in the outrushing gleam.
The child is upraised in a halo of light
More radiant far than was e’er seen on this earth;
It smiles an adieu!--then departs from the sight;
The gates close:--it enters its heavenly birth!
All was dark till a bright star appeared in the place,
Shedding down like a beacon of hope its pure ray,
And the mother awaking, rushed forth to embrace--
Not her child--but the husk which its soul cast away.
And oft, when the earliest shadows of night
Veil the earth, the bereaved one will gaze on that star;
There is joy in its glory and hope in its light,
For it seems like her child looking down from afar.
_H. W. Bidwell._
GRAHAMSTOWN, 1862.
[Illustration]
_THE “CHURL” OF THE PERIOD; AND ANOTHER._
A LEGEND OF THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE.
THE CHURL.
Wild, wild was the night on the wild, wild karoo--
Confoundedly wild near the kraal called “Barroo”
(Although after Kirkwood’s advertisement readin’,
You’d think “Barroo Kraal” Hottentot-Dutch for Eden);
Well, the storm monarch _reigned_ in this wild wilderness,
And a trav’ler who _hailed_ from the port Little Bess,
_Reined_ his charger and then through the darkness did peer,
Twigged some _lights_ and concluded a _liver_ was near;
For he _longed_ that he _shortly_ some shelter might find,
Did this travel-worn _Reed shaken_ by the wild _wind_.
The _lightning_ was blazing behind and before,
So he _thundered_ away at the house of the Boer.
In a _crack_ and his _crackers_, mynheer did appear,
And exclaimed, “In de naam van de drommel, wie’s daar?”
Said the stranger, “I’m shaking from toe-tip to crown,
These roads _shake_ me up, so I crave a _shake-down_!
Barroo Kraal’s some distance,--my steed is so weary,
He’d _ne’er crawl_ to _carry_ me _near_ to friend _Cary_.
I don’t _care-a-button_ how poor is your cheer,
But in mercy I pray you to put me somewhere.”
Mynheer gave a grunt, and he slammed to the door,
And our friend was “left out in the cold” as before.
Three months had passed by when quite early one day
This _intractable_ Boer made _tracks_ to the Bay.
He was met by our friend, who had now ceased to roam,
And kindly invited to go with him home.
So he went with our friend and entered his house,
And was thus introduced to his genial spouse.
“I’ve brought _home_ a queer kind of _homo_, my dear,
Let not _home-opathy_ curtail your cheer,
Get best things in season, in order to show
Hospitality’s here as well’s up by Barroo!”
The table soon groaned ’neath the daintiest store
That ever yet tickled the taste of a Boer--
Mynheer guzzled coffee with Hennessy’s “stick” in,
And stowed away no end of broiled ham and chicken;
The crevices filling up well with poached eggs,
Till, tight as a drum, he arose on his legs--
His host arose also--and cried, “You old beast!
You’ve sat at my table and gorged at my feast!
And you’re welcome. You taught me some three months ago
How _you_ receive trav’lers who can’t reach ‘Barroo;’
I’ve returned you the compliment, old boy, to-day,
For I’ve shown you how guests are received at the Bay--
Lest the lesson be lost on so churlish a lout,
Take that, sir!--and that!” and he kicked him bang out.
ANOTHER.
A Governor felt it his duty to go
To arrange matters ’twixt one King John and his foe,
Between whom had arisen bloodthirsty dissensions,
But t’wards this Boer King he’d the kindest intentions.
John couldn’t have treated him worse had he been
The agent of Moshesh instead of the Queen.
Not a single gun popped off a sensation louder--
(Perhaps that’s because he was hard up for powder)--
But, for all that was done by this potentate bold,
Sir Philip too might have stopped “out in the cold,”
For the welcome John gave him a name comes in handy,
The _spirit_ he showed to his guest was _Boer-Brandy_.
Three months had passed by, and King John, now at peace,
From work and for office obtained a _re-lease_;
So primed well with blue-blacks he thought he’d go down
To spend _them_ and his holidays there in Cape Town.
When the Governor heard John was coming that way,
He said, “’Tis my turn at ‘reception’ to play.
Let those guns which since Duke Alfred came have been mute
Be _charged_ to _discharge_ him a royal salute,
Cripps! _lion_ King John, like a real _kingly brute_;
And soldiers! be sure you do the right thing,
Let an _orderly_ tend this _disorderly_ king!
Get rolls of tobacco his pipe well to cram,
And lay in a stock of Cape smoke and schiedam,
And order some horse hides, first hand, from our knacker’s,
To make him a pair of right regal Boer crackers--
He’ll go to bed in them, but that doesn’t matter;
Put him up in my bed, ’twill his vanity flatter,
I can sleep on the sofa or hearthrug instead--
We must heap coals of fire on King Johnny’s head.
He has shown me how _friends_ are received in the _Free_
State; I’ll show him how _foes_ are received here by me.
MORAL.
’Twill be strange now if all this “reception” and rout
Should end in John’s getting the “dirty kick out.”
_W. H. Bidwell._
UITENHAGE, _24th June 1869_.
_WELCOME._
Let gladness fill our British homes,
All hearts rejoice! a victor comes:--
Not like the conquerors of yore
With laurels stained by human gore.
Let earth a floral welcome yield,
No devastation marks the field
Whereon his victory was gained,
His triumph’s peaceful and unstained.
Let little children’s voices rise,
For no discordant orphans cries
Shall mar their glee. His deeds, though great,
And pregnant with the will of fate,
Are heralds of a happier day,
And pure and innocent as they.
Let gentle ladies lend their cheers,
His conquest’s free from widow’s tears;
Let manly voices swell the strain,
His course is not o’er brother’s slain;
No soldiers scarred and maimed proclaim
A bloody source of all his fame.
His triumph is o’er ancient wrong,
O’er prejudices old and strong,
Time honoured; time dishonouring--
Peace, Justice, Hope, ’tis his to bring.
Children of loyal men! ’tis meet
Your cherub voices fresh and sweet
Should rise to heaven in welcome cheers;
For when in your maturer years
The seed ’tis his blest work to sow
Shall spring up round you--with you grow,
And cover like some sheltering tree
Your future, happier destiny.
Your voices then much deeper grown,
Shall tell to children, then your own,
How Wodehouse and his noble dame
’Midst shouts of infant welcome came;
How ranged like soldiers on the green
You sang “GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS QUEEN.”
He comes like meteor bright and bold,
Scorning the track traversed of old
By orbs whose fastly waning light
Is sinking in the realms of night.
He seeks the cradle of the dawn,
Where Freedom’s sun proclaims the morn--
This day we’ll give to joy at least;
This day the light dawns in the East,
And soon beneath its genial ray
North, South, East, West, shall feel ’tis day.
_H. W. Bidwell._
GRAHAMSTOWN, _Feb. 1, 1864_.
[Illustration]
_PRECEPTS FOR YOUNG AND OLD._
I’d like to speak a word to you, my pretty, careless child!
I’d learn the spell that daily lures you ’midst the blossoms wild,
I’d join you and the butterflies with which you sport and play,
As innocent, as beautiful, as fairy-like as they.
I’d like to scan the purity that halos your fair brow,
To fathom all the gentle thoughts that through your bosom flow--
But oh! the wish is doubly vain, ’tis not for heart like mine
To enter that pure heaven which forms the fairy land of thine.
I’d like to speak a word with you, my timid blushing maid--
Pausing at every step you take as if you were afraid!
As if by instinct you foresaw the weeds of woe and strife,
That grow up in the pathway of your unseen future life.
Oh! happy, ten times happy, were you could you shun the wild
And rugged waste; and turning back for ever, be a child.
You cannot! then I’d say to you, retain as best you may
The pure and holy freshness of your childhood’s cloudless day!
I’d like to speak a word with you, my bold and wayward youth!
I’d counsel you to cherish in your heart the love of truth;
I’d caution you ’gainst wantonness and arrogance and pride,
And bid you fear your passions more than all the world beside.
I’d have you honour age whose precepts now you hear with scorn,
Remember! we were men, my boy, long, long ere you were born,
Have trodden long ago the path which you have yet to tread,
And now bequeath experience which may serve you when we’re dead.
I’d like to speak a word with you, brave sir, in manhood’s prime!
The world seems now your heritage, and ’tis so--for a time.
Aspire! for ’tis your birthright, but remember while you mount
You’re but a steward and some day must yield up your account.
You’re wealthy!--turn not from the poor! they share your right to live,
Or God would not have made them:--as you’ve received, so give;
Nor like the unjust creditor, seize all man’s laws allow,
You will need mercy at the last, see that you mete it now!
I’d speak to you, grey-headed man! now tottering at death’s door,
Gazing on life’s red page, by sin and sorrow blotted o’er.
How wistfully you eye that past you never may recall,
And wish, since life must end like this, you’d never lived at all.
Oh! look to Him whom you despised, while ’twas your lot to live;
Remember! mercy is His will; His first wish to forgive.
Haste! for that dark door opens! be saved while yet you may!
Alas! that it should close again, and you should pass away.
_H. W. Bidwell._
GRAHAMSTOWN, _October 1, 1863_.
_BE KIND TO ONE ANOTHER._
Be kind to one another!
Th’ alchemist’s magic stone
That turns to gold the dross of life,
Is love and love alone.
How many who now fret and weep
All minor griefs might smother,
If they would but this mandate keep,--
“Be kind to one another.”
Be kind to one another!
Sweet words and gentle looks
Set free the love-streams of the soul,
As springs unlock the brooks;
But pride and coldness seal the hearts
Of good men from each other.
If thou wouldst learn men’s nobler parts
Be kind to one another!--