Chapter II: Preface (2)

“When we had grown up to man’s estate,
Our father bid each of us choose a mate,
Of Fatherland blood, from the _black_ taint free,
As became a Dutch burgher’s proud degree.

“My brothers they rode to the Bovenland,
And each came with a fair bride back in his hand;
But _I_ brought the handsomest bride of them all--
Brown Dinah, the bondmaid who sat in our hall.

“My father’s displeasure was stern and still;
My brothers’ flamed forth like a fire on the hill;
And they said that my spirit was mean and base,
To lower myself to the servile race.

“I bade them rejoice in their herds and flocks,
And their pale-faced spouses with flaxen locks;
While I claimed for my share, as the youngest son,
Brown Dinah alone with my horse and gun.

“My father looked black as a thunder-cloud,
My brothers reviled me and railed aloud,
And their young wives laughed with disdainful pride,
While Dinah in terror clung close to my side.

“Her ebon eyelashes were moistened with tears,
As she shrank abashed from their venomous jeers:
But I bade her look up like a burgher’s wife--
Next day to be _mine_, if God granted life.

“At dawn brother Roelof came galloping home
From the pastures--his courser all covered with foam;
‘’Tis the Bushmen!’ he shouted; ‘haste friends to the spoor!
Bold Arend come help with your long-barrelled roer.’

“Far o’er Bruintjes-hoogtè we followed--in vain:
At length surly Roelof cried, ‘Slacken your rein;
We have quite lost the track’--Hans replied with a smile,
--Then my dark-boding spirit suspected their guile.

“I flew to our father’s. Brown Dinah was sold!
And they laughed at my rage as they counted the gold.
But I leaped on my horse, with my gun in my hand,
And sought my lost love in the far Bovenland.

“I found her; I bore her from Gauritz’ fair glen,
Through lone Zitzikamma, by forest and fen.
To these mountains at last like wild pigeons we flew,
Far, far from the cold hearts of proud Camdebóo.

“I’ve reared our rude shieling by Gola’s green wood,
Where the chase of the deer yields me pastime and food:
With my Dinah and children I dwell here alone,
Without other comrades--and wishing for none.

“I fear not the Bushman from Winterberg’s fell,
Nor dread I the Caffer from Kat River’s dell;
By justice and kindness I’ve conquered them both,
And the sons of the desert have pledged me their troth.

“I fear not the leopard that lurks in the wood,
The lion I dread not, though raging for blood;
My hand it is steady--my aim it is sure--
And the boldest must bend to my long-barrelled roer.

“The elephant’s buff-coat my bullet can pierce,
And the giant rhinoceros, headlong and fierce;
Gnu, eland, and buffalo furnish my board,
When I feast my allies like an African lord.

“And thus from my kindred and colour exiled,
I live like old Ismael lord of the wild--
And follow the chase with my hounds and my gun,
Nor ever repent the bold course I have run.

“But sometimes there sinks on my spirit a dread
Of what may befall when the turf’s on my head;
I fear for poor Dinah--for brown Rodomond
And dimple-faced Karel, the sons of the _bond_.

“Then tell me, dear Stranger, from England the free,
What good tidings bring’st thou for Arend Plessie?
Shall the Edict of Mercy be sent forth at last,
To break the harsh fetters of Colour and Caste?”

_Thomas Pringle._

_THE EMIGRANT’S CABIN AT THE CAPE._

AN EPISTLE IN RHYME.

Where the young river, from its wild ravine,
Winds pleasantly through Eildon’s pastures green,--
With fair acacias waving on its banks,
And willows bending o’er in graceful ranks,
And the steep mountain rising close behind,
To shield us from the Snowberg’s wintry wind,--
Appears my rustic cabin, thatched with reeds,
Upon a knoll amid the grassy meads;
And, close beside it, looking o’er the lea,
Our summer-seat beneath an umbra-tree.
This morning, musing in that favourite seat,
My hound, old Yarrow, dreaming at my feet,
I pictured you, sage Fairbairn, at my side,
By some good Genie wafted o’er the tide;
And after cordial greetings, thus went on
In fancy’s dream our colloquy, dear John.

_P._--Enter, my friend, our beehive-cottage door:
No carpet hides the humble earthen floor,
But it is hard as brick, clean-swept and cool.
You must be wearied? Take that jointed stool;
Or on this couch of leopard-skin recline;
You’ll find it soft--the workmanship is mine.

_F._--Why, Pringle, yes--your cabin’s snug enough,
Though oddly shaped. But as for household stuff,
I only see some rough-hewn sticks and spars;
A wicker cupboard, filled with flasks and jars;
A pile of books, on rustic framework placed;
Hides of ferocious beasts that roam the waste;
Whose kindred prowl, perchance, around this spot--
The only neighbours, I suspect, you’ve got!
Your furniture, rude from the forest cut,
However, is in keeping with the hut.
This couch feels pleasant: is’t with grass you stuff it?
So far I should not care with you to rough it.
But--pardon me for seeming somewhat rude--
In this wild place how manage ye for food?

_P._--You’ll find, at least, my friend, we do not starve:
There’s always mutton, if nought else, to carve;
And even of luxuries we have our share.
And here comes dinner (the best bill of fare)
Drest by that “nut-brown maiden,” Vytjè Vaal.
[_To the Hottentot Girl_]. Meid, roep de Juffrowen naar’t middagmaal.
[_To F._] Which means--“The ladies into dinner call.”

(_Enter Mrs. P. and her Sister, who welcome their Guest to Africa.
The party take their seats round the table, and conversation
proceeds._)

_P._--First, here’s our broad-tailed mutton, small and fine,
The dish on which nine days in ten we dine;
Next, roasted springbok, spiced and larded well;
A haunch of hartébeest from Hyndhope Fell;
A paauw, which beats your Norfolk turkey hollow;
Korhaan, and Guinea-fowl, and pheasant follow;
Kid carbonadjes, à-la-Hottentot,
Broiled on a forkèd twig; and, peppered hot
With Chili pods, a dish called Caffer-stew;
Smoked ham of porcupine, and tongue of gnu.
This fine white household bread (of Margaret’s baking)
Comes from an oven, too, of my own making,
Scooped from an ant-hill. Did I ask before
If you would taste this brawn of forest-boar?

Our fruits, I must confess, make no great show:
Trees, grafts, and layers must have time to grow.
But there’s green roasted maize, and pumpkin pie,
And wild asparagus. Or will you try
A slice of water-melon?--fine for drouth,
Like sugared ices melting in the mouth.
Here too are wild grapes from our forest-vine,
Not void of flavour, though unfit for wine.
And here comes dried fruit I had quite forgot,
(From fair Glen-Avon, Margaret, is it not?)
Figs, almonds, raisins, peaches. Witbooy Swart
Brought this huge sackful from kind Mrs. Hart--
Enough to load a Covent-Garden cart.

But come, let’s crown the banquet with some wine,
What will you drink? Champagne? Port? Claret? Stein?
Well--not to tease you with a thirsty jest,
Lo, there our _only_ vintage stands confest,
In that half-aum upon the spigot-rack.
And, certes, though it keeps the old _kaap smaak_,
The wine is light and racy; so we learn,
In laughing mood, to call it Cape Sauterne.
--Let’s pledge this cup “to all our friends,” Fairbairn!

_F._--Well, I admit, my friend, your dinner’s good.
Springbok and porcupine are dainty food;
That lordly paauw was roasted to a turn;
And, in your country fruits, and Cape Sauterne,
The wildish flavour’s really--not unpleasant;
And I may say the same of gnu and pheasant.
--But--Mrs. Pringle ... shall I have the pleasure ...?
Miss Brown, ... some wine?--(These quaighs are quite a treasure)
--What! leave us now? I’ve much to ask of _you_ ...
But since you _will_ go--for an hour adieu.
[_Exeunt Ladies._

But, Pringle--“à nos moutons revenons”--
_Cui bono’s_ still the burden of my song--
Cut off, with these good ladies, from society,
Of savage life you soon must feel satiety:
The MIND requires fit exercise and food,
Not to be found ’mid Afric’s desert rude.
And what avail the spoils of wood and field,
The fruits or vines your fertile valleys yield,
Without that higher zest to crown the whole--
“The feast of Reason and the flow of Soul?”
--Food, shelter, fire, suffice for savage men;
But can the comforts of your wattled den,
Your sylvan fare and rustic tasks suffice
For one who once seemed finer joys to prize?
--When, erst, like Virgil’s swains, we used to sing
Of streams and groves, and “all that sort of thing,”
The spot we meant for our “poetic den”
Was always within reach of books and men;
By classic Esk, for instance, or Tweed-side,
With gifted friends within an easy ride;
Besides our college chum, the parish priest;
And the said den with six good rooms at least.--
_Here!_ save for her who shares and soothes your lot,
You might as well squat in a Caffer’s cot!

Come, now, be candid: tell me, my dear friend,
Of your aspiring aims is _this_ the end?
Was it for nature’s wants, fire, shelter, food,
You sought this dreary, soulless solitude?
Broke off your ties with men of cultured mind,
Your native land, your early friends resigned?
As if, believing with insane Rousseau
Refinement the chief cause of human woe,
You meant to realise that raver’s plan,
And be a philosophic _Bosjesman_!--
Be frank; confess the fact you cannot hide--
You sought this den from disappointed pride.

_P._--You’ve missed the mark, Fairbairn: my breast is clear.
Nor wild romance nor pride allured me here:
Duty and destiny with equal voice
Constrained my steps: I had no other choice.
The hermit “lodge in some vast wilderness,”
Which sometimes poets sigh for, I confess,
Were but a sorry lot. In real life
One needs a friend--the best of friends, a wife:
But with a home thus cheered, however rude,
There’s nought so very dull in solitude,--
Even though that home should happen to be found,
Like mine, in Africa’s remotest bound.
--I have my farm and garden, tools and pen;
My schemes for civilising savage men;
Our Sunday service, till the Sabbath-bell
Shall wake its welcome chime in Lynden dell:
Some duty or amusement, grave or light,
To fill the active day from morn till night:
And thus two years so lightsomely have flown
That still we wonder when the week is gone.
--We have at times our troubles, it is true,
Passing vexations and privations too;
But were it not for woman’s tender frame,
These are annoyances I scarce would name;
For though perchance they plague us while they last,
They only serve for jests when they are past.

And then your notion that we’re _quite_ exiled
From social life amid these mountains wild,
Accords not with the fact--as you will see
On glancing o’er this district map with me.

* * * * *

_Thomas Pringle._

_THE VOLUNTEERS OF ENGLAND._

BY A COLONIST.

_Cælum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt._

A trumpet blast is pealing
’Mongst Albion’s echoing hills,
Arousing every feeling
That patriot’s bosom thrills:
O’er hill and dale resounding,
It sends its loud alarm;
The Freeman’s war-cry sounding,--
“For Hearths and Altars, arm!”

A Despot’s monster legions
Are on their haughty way;
A Despot’s warlike regions
Send forth their proud array,
To raze the broad foundations
Of Freedom’s Temple shrine,
And from among the nations
To blot her name divine.

From peasant’s lowly dwelling;
From baron’s ancient hall,
With bosoms proudly swelling,
Rise! sons of England, ALL!
From Cambria’s vales of beauty,
“Britons” of Britain, come,
Prompt at the call of duty,
With strong right arm “strike home!”

From every mist-clad mountain,
Sons of the hardy North,
From lake, and glen, and fountain,
Come in your manhood forth.
From Eastern fen and plainland,
From Western tarn and fell,
From islet, rock, and mainland
The nation’s gathering swell.

“WE COME!” in tones of thunder,
Rings echoing round the land;
“We come!” and scenes of wonder
Burst forth on every hand.
Workmen have sprung to warriors,
Herdsmen to heroes grown,
And rise, in living barriers,
Around VICTORIA’S throne.

Peasant and peer are joining,
Yeoman with baron stands;
Strength, wealth, and rank combining,
And nerving hearts and hands.
_Loyal_, if “horny-handed,”
Industry’s thousands come;
In brother’s compact banded
For Altar, Throne, and Home.

Hear it! to Heaven ascending,
A nation’s solemn vow;
While, at His altar bending,
To God _alone_ they bow.
“No foreign Home invading,
We strike no foreign throne;
But,--God from Heaven aiding,
To _death_ we guard OUR OWN.”

_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._

_July 2, 1861._

“_THE DEAR OLD LAND._”

A glorious land is the “Dear Old Land,”
Our fathers’ island home;
Tho’ its moorlands are cold when the snow lies deep,
And the mists round the sides of its mountains creep,
And the waves are white when the March winds sweep,
As they dash on its cliffs in foam.

’Tis changed since the days when the Druid old
Was seen in the forest glades;
When the wolf was tracked to his mountain den,
And the wild boar roused in the gloomy glen,
And the chase was a sport to test the _men_
That ranged through the leafy shades.

Where the victim bled on the altar stone,
Or died in a fiery grave;--
Where wild woods sheltered the outlaw’s band,--
Where the salt marsh mingled sea and land,
Proud mansions rise, or cities stand,
Or golden harvests wave.

A story of fame has the “Dear Old Land,”
And it dates from the days gone by;
When Right with Might the strife began,
And Freedom’s voice with the Fire-cross ran,
And the wakened Serf rose up,--a MAN,
To conquer his rights, or DIE!

There were hardy souls in the “Dear Old Land,”
In the stern dark days of yore,
When the arm could _do_ what the heart could _dare_,
And the threats of a tyrant were “empty air,”
And they made him tremble in his lair,
As they roused themselves in power.

A story of fame has the “Dear Old Land,”
And it is not ended yet.
Wherever the sea’s wild waves have curled
Her fleets proudly sail with flag unfurled,
And many a lesson they’ve taught the world,
Which the world will not forget.

And tell me the land, o’er the earth’s broad face,
Where her “braves” have not been found,
From East to West, with the glorious sun,
The sound of their drums when the day is done,
From realm to realm goes rolling on
Unceasing the wide world round!

* * * * *

But the warrior’s fame has stains of blood,
And it raises the widow’s wail;
Look we then on the glories whose milder rays
Will bring no tears to the eyes that gaze;
Whose trophies of triumph, whose songs of praise
The tenderest heart may hail.

There are spirits of _might_ in the “Dear Old Land,”
That have seized on a giant grim,
And the burdens which man and beast had borne
With sweat of brow, and frame hard worn
From morn till night, and from night till morn,
They have boldly laid on _him_.

He raises the load from the deep dark mine,
He speeds the loom amain;
He wields the ponderous hammer’s force,
Gives the ship ’gainst wind and tide free course,
And snorts in the breath of the iron horse
That nor weariness feels, nor pain.

’Tis glorious to ride at his headlong pace
’Mongst the crags of the forest glen,
To skim o’er the moorlands bleak and wide,
To pierce through the rock-ribbed mountain side,
As he _plays_ with the work--in giant pride--
Of twice ten thousand men.

There are spirits of _power_ in the “Dear Old Land,”
Who can bid the lightning speed
From North to South, from East to West,--
A courier swift that asks no rest,
But instant writes command or quest
Where the “ends of the world” may read.

There are spirits of _light_ in the “Dear Old Land,”
Who rejoice when “the Truth makes free;”
Who shout when a nation wakes in might,
And seizes its long denied birth-_right_,
And prisoned _souls_ burst forth to light;--
O, glorious sight to see!

There are spirits of _love_ in the “Dear Old Land,”
Who weep for their kindred’s wrongs;
And who _work_ as they weep, in patient power,
Through the livelong day,--through the midnight hour
While rescued victims blessings shower
From wondering, grateful tongues.

Then hail! all hail! thou “Dear Old Land,”
Where our fathers’ ashes lie;
There are sunbeams bright on this far off shore,
There are starlit skies when the day is o’er,--
And we never shall tread thy greensward more,
But we’ll love thee,--TILL WE DIE!

_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._

_THE FUNERAL IN THE ABBEY._

List! there is music sounding!
Not airy strains, that lead the mazy dance;
Not trumpet tones, that stir the warrior’s soul;
But soft, and slow, and solemn, as it swells
And rolls afar and dies, midst its own echoes
From vaulted roof, and lofty aisle dim-lighted,
Where clustering columns rise, and rainbow rays
Gleam in their varied glory o’er the scene.
’Tis in the sacred fane where sleeps the dust
Of those whom Britain loves to honour, who
Shed living honour by their deeds on _her_,
Challenging place upon the rolls of Fame.
Sages, and saints, and sons of song lie there;
Wresters of Nature’s secrets;--senators,
Whose thund’rous eloquence could awe the world;
Patriots whose lifeblood for their country flowed;
War chiefs who led her armies on to glory;
Statesmen with eye far-reaching, who could thread
Diplomacy’s dark mazes, and, the helm
With firm hand grasping, steer the nation’s bark
Through storms of strife to honour and to peace.
And royalty’s proud dust lies mouldering there,
’Neath sculptured marbles, or midst gilded shrines:
While high o’erhead the ancient banners droop.--
Monarchs of other days,--of other _ages_,
Successive generations of the great,
Who ruled the realm of England as _she_ grew
From isolate obscurity to greatness
That with a fame undying fills the world.

Lo! _there_,--an open grave! and heads are bare,
And bent;--and bosoms heave, and tears are falling
From youthful womanhood,--from hoary age.
_Men_ weep, as slowly through the reverent throng
Is borne what hides from view a shrivelled form,
Wasted and featureless: yet round that bier
Stand silently the great of many lands.
Britain’s high-born stand there; and kings of men
Of other realms stand there by envoy. There
The sons of science gather, and the friends
Of light and liberty. The Churches’ messengers
Look on in sadness there; and a vast throng,
Crowding around, sigh forth a _nation’s_ sympathy.
Tokens of reverent love,--azalea wreaths,
Laurel and myrtle, with fair flowers entwined,
Bright immortelles, branches of Afric’s palm,--
(Symbol of triumph e’en in death) are there.
And,--honour to the honour’d!--Britain’s Queen
Sign of “respect and admiration” sends,--
Her own, and royal daughter’s funeral gifts
To deck the bier.
And _who_ is it that thus
Draws to himself, in _death_, the eyes of nations?
Is it some warrior leader, who has died
In the proud hour of victory; and, wept
By a whole people’s tears, lies down to rest?
--Or is it one who, in a nation’s peril,
Has earned a nation’s gratitude by wise
And warning counsels in her council halls?
--Is it a _Prince_ has died? That royalty
Should sigh her grief, and nobles weep around?

’Tis LIVINGSTONE!--That name a thousand tongues
Through years of hope and fear alternate, uttered;
While he who bore it, deep in Afric’s wilds,
Solving her mystery of ages, trod
Her deserts, traced her streams,--a pioneer
Of science, commerce, liberty, and mercy.
--A “weaver boy” thus honoured!--Wherefore _not_?
He wore, indeed, no ducal coronet;
Nor dwelt in lordly hall. But “stamp” of “rank”[15]
He needed not, while Nature’s “gold” of manhood,
Solid, and pure, and bright, shone through his soul.

The “weaver boy,” in youthful prime, had yearned
O’er Afric’s sons enslaved; for his _own_ soul,
By “grace of God” emancipated, longed
To free from bondage “body, soul, and spirit”
Of those who were immortal as himself,
And co-redeemed, though dark in mind as hue.
He bore the Cross’s standard o’er the plains
Where wandering tribes by MOFFAT gathered dwelt;
And preached the Cross’s story in the tongues
Strange to his earlier years.--But as he stood,
And looked to “regions” yet “beyond,” where white man’s foot
Had never trod, _fresh_ longings filled his soul.
--“Millions dwell yonder:--all unknown to us,
They live and die in darkness: and they groan
In bitter bondage, where no ray of hope
Shines through the gloom.--I go to find the way:--
Let others follow.”
And he went,--alone;
And braved the desert blast, the serpent’s folds,
The jungle’s ambush, and the lion’s fang:
He braved the fevered swamp, the tropic sun,
The mountain torrent, and the savage spear.
Barbarian wonder followed in his steps;
And treachery shrank before the magic power
Of Christian kindness, single and unarmed.
He vanished from our sight,--and time rolled on
While he was lost from view.
At length was heard
Rumour of strange discoveries: lakes unknown
Had spread their silver waters to his gaze;
And mighty streams, through vales all green and glorious
Poured their vast floods o’er thundering cataracts,
Where men had deemed were nought but deserts drear.
“From ocean through to ocean” tropic realms
Were traversed with unfaltering footsteps, till
Regions before unknown, with all their wonders
Rose into view, and hidden tribes disclosed
Their being and their need.
He rested then
Awhile, and told his countrymen the story
Of his lone wanderings over Afric’s wilds.
Men wondered while they listened, as they heard
Of grassy slopes, and waving woods, and sparkling waters;
Of birds of beauty, flowers of gorgeous hues;
And these where they had pictured a Sahara,
With ’whelming sandstorms, and the death-blast dire
Of red simoom.
He rested not for long:--
The spell was on him, and his work not done.
And now he led a band, who bore the light
Of truth divine, to chase away the darkness
That brooded over regions bright and fair,
Where “man alone is vile.”--’Twas there he laid
The partner of his bosom, who had shared
The joys and sorrows of his younger years.
A grave by Shire’s Waters, far away
From home and kindred, holds the precious dust.

And now his ties to earth are loosened:--now,
The beckoning Hand that calls him onwards still,
Is seen more plainly,--and he follows. He
Would lift the cloud from regions still unknown;
Heard of but through the victims of a vile
Traffic in human blood. His soul was fired
With ardent resolution to destroy,
(Or perish in the contest) the dire curse
That blighted nations when they might be blest.

A vision rose before him:--These fair realms
Yielding earth’s teeming increase in exchange
For varied handiwork of other lands;--
An open-handed commerce giving boons
To honest industry, while _crushing down_
The cursed manstealer’s trade:--The light of truth,
Of _Christian_ truth, for mind, and heart, and life,
For family and nation, blending with
Prismatic rays by science shed around:
The darkness melting, heathen orgies vile
Yielding the place to worship bright and pure;
Songs of salvation where the savage yells;--
Slavery of mind and body killed together,
And Freedom smiling glad o’er all the land!
--This was his vision;--and it might be _true_;--
And he would _labour_ that it might,--to _death_!

Again, yet once again, the word, “Farewell!”
A _last_ farewell: we heard his voice no more.
The years rolled on,--and on: he came not back.
Tidings, indeed, there were; but “far between,
Like angel visits,” were those tidings brief,
That still he lived, and toiled,--the white man lone,
Who with such wondrous spell o’er savage minds,
And with charmed life, held pain and death at bay.
--And then came silence.----“Has he sunk _at last_?”
And then came _other_ tidings;--“He is _dead_!
And dead by murderous hands!”--And hearts were chilled
With horror, and stood still.--But some said, “No!
Not _thus_ will that brave spirit pass away.
Africa _knows_ his errand:--’tis _not_ so.”
Nor was it so. A kindred spirit sought,
And _found_ him!--and with all the old fire burning;
But with the _censer_ now well nigh consumed.
--“Come home with me, and _rest_: well hast thou earned
The right upon thy laurels to repose:--
The _world_ is yearning o’er thee:--Come and _rest_!”

“Not yet! not yet! There is _still_ work to do.
Let me but show the way to Afric’s _heart_:--
Leave me to trace the water-path by which
Old England’s white-wing’d sea-birds shall ascend,--
Bearing her light, and liberty, and peace,--
To roll away the dark reproach of ages;
And _then_,--MY WORK IS DONE.”
And STANLEY left him.

And then, th’ enfeebled frame, once more essaying
To climb the mountain, pierce the forest’s gloom,
Stem the swift torrent, cross the lake’s broad breast,
And wade the sedgy marsh,--_gave way at last_!
But still the spirit, o’er the flesh triumphant,
Registered till the “hand had lost its cunning,”
The record precious of that life’s last task,
Which only death could end....
He died alone: none saw the spirit part.
Thus had he willed to die;--_alone with_ GOD.
The morning greeting of his faithful band
No longer met the welcome, kind response.
The spirit had gone _home_; and gone in silence;--
And there knelt lifeless clay!
And none were nigh,
Save Afric’s swarthy sons. But these had learned
To love and reverence him whose _life_ was given
A sacrifice for injured Afric’s weal;
And they would guard his relics, e’en in death.
They left his _heart_ where _fitly_ it should rest;
And bore, in reverent hands, the faded form,
Rudely, but lovingly embalmed; and after days,
And weeks, and _months_, of weary toil,
Gave to its kindred their last sacred trust;--
And _there_ it lies!--and thousands stand around,
To do the martyr honour as he rests.

And now “his body” sinks from mortal sight,
Midst showers of amaranths, and fragrant flowers,
That, white and pure, fall fast from loving hands.
“Buried in peace,” it lies, ’mongst kindred heroes:
While white-robed choristers, and organ pealing,
Blend in the final, loud, triumphant strain,
And the high arches echo as they sing,--
“But his soul _liveth_! LIVETH EVERMORE!”

_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._

STORMBERG, _May 1874_.

_A FAREWELL TO ENGLISH FRIENDS._

“Far, far away!”
Simple, but sadly tender,
These words unlock the heart’s deep springs
And bid its fountains play.
What thoughts upon the spirit rush!
What feelings from the warm heart gush,
While we pause to think on those we love,
Now far, far away!

Far, far away!
We shall think on “happy England,”
And many a “sunny memory” will shed its golden ray,
And many a welcome and farewell
From unforgotten lips will dwell
Like music’s echoes in our minds
When far, far away.

Far, far away!
While our sails are proudly swelling,
While the breezes bear us onward, and the wild waves round us play,
While _our_ prayers rise to heaven above,
And ask its care for those we love,
Think on _us_,--pray for _us_,
The “Far, far away!”

Far, far away!
For “Afric’s sunny fountains”
Our seabird spreads her snowy wings
Midst ocean’s sparkling spray;
Old England’s shores are fading fast;
One look! the fondest, and the _last_;
For we go to DIE in distant realms
Far, far away!

_A MISSIONARY’S LAST FAREWELL TO ENGLAND._

Land of my birth, farewell! Thy shores are fading
In the dark distance, and the ocean’s waves
Are hiding thee from view; while, sadly aiding
To dim my vision of thy snowy cliffs,
My tears unbidden start. O happy land!
I did not know how much I loved thee, till
The breezes bore me from thee, and I gazed
A long last look.
I left thee when a child;
And Afric’s summer suns full forty years
Have burned upon my head, since in thy groves
My boyish footsteps wandered. But my heart
Was yet unwithered, and could quiver still
When sounded on my ear thy name of glory.

While oceans rolled between us, in my dreams
My thoughts were of thee: but in waking hours
I scarcely dared to hope to see thee more.
I lingered o’er the story of thy fame,
And joyed to claim thee as my native isle;
A day-star to the nations, that would fain
Follow, though from afar, thy track of light,
And in its beams find their own way to freedom.
In the far solitudes of regions dark
With heathen gloom, my pensive soul has mused,
And I have sighed to sun me in the light
Which long has been thy halo; light from heaven,
Amidst the brightness of whose gladdening rays
Thy temples, halls, and palaces have stood
Irradiate. But it might not, could not be.

At length I saw thee once again! and then
How thrilled my very heart-core as thy coasts
Loomed through the mists of morning on my view,
And thy proud vision of historic glory
Marched in its dioramic grandeur past!
I leaped upon thy freeborn soil once more:
Thy fields were laughing, glad with spring-tide flowers,
Thy greenwoods waving in the fresh wind’s breath;
Thy streams, bounding from winter’s cold embrace,
Threaded the vales with silver; while I stood
And gazed with rapture, fresh and pure as boyhood’s,
In ’wildering ecstasy. And then I swept
On steam-wings o’er thy plains, and round thy hills,
And down thy vales, ’mongst beauty ever changing:
Now looking on the cornfield’s waving gladness;
Now drinking fragrance from the hayfield’s breath;
Now wondering like a child, as ivied towers,
And slender church-spires, from their sheltering groves
Pointing to heaven, and old baronial halls,
Standing apart amidst their dark woods’ pride,
And crumbling castle-keeps, that tell of times
When warders blew their horns, and mailèd knights
Broke spears and shattered helms in tournament,
As these, and thousand more, went sailing by:
Till plunged at last amidst the ’whelming tide
Of thy great city’s life, I sank, a drop,
Into its vast and restless ocean-whirl.

* * * * *

But is it so? And I have really trod
Thy soil again? Or did I only _dream_?
Methought I mingled with thy multitudes,
And saw the swarms of thy industrial hives
Plying their ceaseless task, and piling stores
To meet the wide world’s wants. Methought I saw
Thy quickened life-blood of commercial being
Pour through its iron veins the vital stream,
Infusing universal energy.
Did not thy glorious structures rise before me--
Houses of mercy, halls and kingly courts?
Did not imperial Windsor glad my eyes,
Where England’s banner, free and proud, was waving;
Brother-like greeting the free winds of heaven?
Did I not wander through the gorgeous halls
Where England’s senators, in trumpet tones,
Have poured forth eloquence that awed the world?
Where, mildly ruling, sits a mother Queen,--
Her real throne a nation’s loving heart.
Have I not stood within thy sacred fanes,
Listening entranced, as billowing music rolled,
And distant, broke upon the sculptured stone
Like ocean’s waves upon their rocky bounds?
And--tenderer, dearer recollection still--
My mother’s and my childhood’s humble home,
With childhood’s memories clustering thick around it:
Did I not stand again upon its threshold,
And greet my childhood’s playmates? Ah! how changed!
Or was all this a dream? A happy dream,
That rose in brightness, and then passed away
For ever? No! It was not all a dream.
The welcome of warm hearts was _real_, and then
The glow of friendships formed was no illusion.
Men great and good have spoken sacred truth;
And I have listened with enraptured ears,
As eloquence of Heaven’s own kindling burst
In burning power from consecrated lips.
And I have seen the Church’s standard-bearers:
Men, crowned in hoary age with silver glory,
Have blessed me in the Master’s sacred name,
And bidden me God-speed in God’s great service.
And I have mingled with the throngs that sent
Up to high heaven their swelling song of praise,
That, as “the voice of many waters,” rose
Exultant from the lips and hearts of thousands,
When the glad tidings came that “God was raised
Up from His holy habitation” and
Was pouring forth His Spirit on the nations.

I did not dream when I beheld the light
Of holy rapture beam from thousand eyes:
I was not dreaming when I shared the glow
Of wondering gratitude with thousand hearts.
And when our “Hallelujah” rent the skies,
And our rapt spirits felt the bliss of heaven
Descend to meet us in the golden cloud
Of God’s own presence, ’twas a glorious truth,
A joy to feed the soul upon for ever!

And yet ’tis like a dream: for, scarcely seen,
Thy beauties fade from view; and the rich notes,
That thrilled the soul to rapture, thrill no more.
’Twas but a glimpse of glory,--and ’tis gone.
’Twas but a taste of joy that left the soul
Hungering with keener appetite. I go
Just as my spirit is awaking, quick
With new strange life and feeling; just
As awakens fresh the home-throb of my heart,
Owning its English birth.
Well, be it so!
’Tis God that bids me go; ’tis duty calls
Back to the land of darkness. Be it so!
’Tis well that I should go, ere silken webs,
Woven by Christian kindness round my heart,
Become too strong to leave me power to rend them.
I go, to look upon thee never more;
I go, but breathing prayers and blessings on thee.

O England, speck amidst the world of waters!
Thou art the world’s great wonder. Realms afar
Have heard thy voice, have seen thy light, have felt thy power.
Some, jealous, envy thee; some bless thy name,
The might of freedom, and the light of truth,--
The freedom that can burst the _spirit’s_ bonds,
The light that leads that spirit up to heaven,--
These are thy charge, and for the wide world’s weal,
Be faithful to thy trust, thou honour’d Isle!
Thou hast a glorious mission to the nations.
Hold fast the truth of God with strong right hand,
Cast forth the traitors that would “take thy crown.”
Still send thy sons, as Mercy’s angels, forth
To sound in silver tones, to far-off lands,
The trumpet of the everlasting gospel;
So shall Heaven’s smile be thy perpetual light,
And Heaven’s dread power, “a wall of fire,” thy guard.

* * * * *

And now ’tis past! nor faintest trace remains
Of headland, cliff, or mountain in the line
Of the far off horizon; and in vain
I strain my aching sight to catch one glimpse,
But one glimpse more. England, farewell!
Island of beauty, changing not with seasons;
Island of glory, dimming not with years;
Isle rich in blessings strewn by God’s own hand,--
My native Isle! A fond long last farewell!

_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._

ENGLISH CHANNEL, _October 9, 1859_.

_A REMINISCENCE OF 1820._

In the lone wilderness behold them stand,
Gazing with new strange feelings on the scenes
Now spread around them in a foreign clime,
Far from the sea-girt home that gave them birth.

They had been landed on a cheerless shore,
Dreary and solitary; and the hope
That erst had brightened all their visions, when,
O’er the blue waters looming from afar,
They had seen Afric’s mountains rise to view,
Had nigh been quenched again. But they had left
The barren strand, and over hill and dale
Had slowly toiled to reach a place of rest,
And give their children once again a home.

Men roughly kind, of speech and manners strange,
Had guided them; and bidding them farewell,
Had left them houseless in the wilderness,
Pitying, and wondering what their fate might be.
Fathers and mothers, with their children round them,
Stand on the green sward, while the sunny skies,
Flecked with bright clouds, bend o’er them from above,
And thoughts are far away o’er the wide waters.
The parting scene comes back to memory’s view,--
The last embrace of loved ones left behind,
The fears, and hopes, and prayers of that sad hour.

And now the little ones in thoughtless glee
Chase the bright butterflies of this strange land,--
Their new and untried home. Ah! ’twas for _them_
The fathers braved the storm-tossed waters, and
The mothers hushed their own alarms to peace,
When the loud tempest howled around the bark
That bore them onward o’er the surging waves.
_These_ gave the springs to their great enterprise,
And broke the bonds that else had held them still
In the old home circle of the Fatherland.

Dark days had been in England. Darker still
Seemed coming fast, and o’er the crowded throngs
Of Britain’s cities, stern adversity
Was frowning. Then the cry arose,
“What of our _children_? What awaits _them_ here?
Must we look on, and see their budding life,
_Before_ it blossoms, wither in our sight?
Are there not other lands where pining want
Shall cease to mock at honest industry,
That asks but leave to labour? Will no star
Of hope arise to point to happier climes
Where skies are not _all_ dark? Be it to rend
The ties of kindred, we must venture forth
Over the unknown seas, and seek a home
On foreign shores, where there is room to live,
And light to see a future for our children,
Happy and bright when _we_ have sunk to rest.”

And this is now their home.
’Tis lone and wild;
But there is beauty in its wildness. See!
Yonder are mountains; in their deep ravines
Dark woods are waving, whence in noisy flight
Wild parrots issue forth, while loonies hide
Amidst their deep recesses. Water springs
Send limpid streamlets down the mountain side,
Fringed with bright evergreens, and brighter flowers.

Issuing from yonder dark and craggy gorge,
Where lurks the stealthy leopard, and where shouts
With loudly echoing voice the bold baboon,
Kareiga winds its devious course along
Between its willowed banks; while here and there
The dark-leaved yellow wood lifts its proud head
In stately dignity. Along the vale
The wildwood’s sheltering covert stretches, where
The bushbok barks; the duiker, sudden, springs;
The timid bluebok through the moonlight glides;
And monkey mimics chatter saucily.

And there are feathered songsters in the groves;
Not with the thrush’s or the blackbird’s notes,
That flood Old England’s woods with melody;
But short, and sharp, and ringing in their tones,
Responsive to each other from afar,
While telling of a life of light and joy.

In the green pastures on the sunny slopes,
Where the mimosa’s golden blossoms shed
Gales of perfume around; and fertile soils
Promise the husbandman a rich return
To cheer him in his toil.
“This is our home!
A spot on earth we now can call _our own_;
A starting-point for a new life’s career.
Wake all our energies afresh! A brighter day
Has dawned at last upon us. Let us raise
A song of gratitude to Heaven,
And gird us for our duties.”

_PAST AND PRESENT._

Over the waters wide and deep
Where the storm-waves roll, and the storm-winds sweep,--
Over the waters see them come!
Breasting the billows’ curling foam,
Fathers for children seeking a home
In Afric’s Southern Wilds.

Wilderness lands of brake and glen,
The wolf’s and the panther’s gloomy den;--
Wilderness plains where the springbok bounds,
And the lion’s voice from the hill resounds,--
And the vulture circles in airy rounds,
Are Afric’s Southern Wilds.

“Hand to the labour!--heart and hand!
Our sons shall inherit an altered land:
Harvests shall wave o’er the virgin soil,
Cottages stand, and gardens smile,
And the songs of our children the hours beguile,
’Mid Afric’s Southern Wilds.

“Make we the pride of the forest yield;
Wrest from the wilderness field on field;
And to brighten our hope, and lighten our care,
And gain the aid of our Father there,
Raise we to heaven the voice of prayer
From Afric’s Southern Wilds.”

* * * * *

The locust clouds have darkened heaven;
The “rusted” fields to the flame are given:
The war-cry is echoing wild and loud;
For the war of the savage, fierce and proud,
Has burst like the storm from the thunder-cloud
On Afric’s Southern Wilds.

“_Never despair_, though the harvests fail;
Though the hosts of a savage foe assail;
_Never despair_; we shall conquer yet,
And the toils of our earlier years forget
In hope’s bright glory our sun shall set
’Midst Afric’s Southern Wilds.”

* * * * *

Our toilworn fathers are sinking to rest;
But their children inherit their hope’s bequest.
Valleys are smiling in harvest pride;
There are fleecy flocks on the mountain side;
Cities are rising to stud the plains;
The life-blood of commerce is coursing the veins
Of a new-born Empire, that grows and reigns
Over Afric’s Southern Wilds.

_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._

_April 10, 1861._

_A SOUTH AFRICAN WILDERNESS._

The wilderness! The wilderness! It stretches wide and drear,
As I stand amidst its solitudes with no companion near:
I watch the vulture sailing as he circles in the sky,
The ostrich stalking o’er the wilds--the springbok bounding by.

The wilderness! The wilderness! ’Tis where the lion roars;
And whence the wasting locust-flood its living torrent pours:
With rushing ruin on their wings, its myriad myriads sweep,
Like waters from the mountains, or the surges of the deep.

The wilderness! The wilderness! The desert blast is there;
And the sun sends down his fiery rays with fierce and blinding glare.
’Tis there the infant whirlwinds their new-born vigour try;
And spiral columns o’er the waste rise circling to the sky.

There gathering vultures’ sounding wings swoop on their hapless prey;
And they clamour round their victim ere life has ebbed away.
The “ringhals” rises on his coil at the startled traveller’s side;
The false mirage’s wavy streams in phantom ripples glide.

Strange sounds are in the wilderness: the wild dog’s plaintive wail,
As he calls his fellows from afar, comes faintly on the gale.
The vulture’s voice screams harshly, as he sights his prey on high;
The bursting meteor echoes from the regions of the sky.

A thousand insect voices, with their thousand notes are there;
With chirrup, ring, or buzz of wing, they fill the sounding air;
And waking fancy starts to hear the trumpet’s note afar;
The pibroch’s martial gathering, the barbarian’s cry of war.

But the wilderness has lessons: in danger’s lonely hour,
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._

_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._

_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.

_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_!

_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!

_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?