Chapter III: Preface (3)

The rock rears high his haughty form,
And challenges proud the ocean storm;
And he tosses the wild waves raging back,
As his challenge provokes their fierce attack.
But again, and _again_, and _again_ they come;
And vainly the rock resists its doom:
The waves are mighty, and _know_ their might:--
“_Never_ have we been vanquished in _fight_!
We _kiss_ the sands of the yielding shore,
We _rend_ the rock in his pride of power:
Be it soon, be it late, thy fate is sealed;
Be it soon, be it late, _thou shalt surely yield_.”
--And it yields at last: with a headlong leap
It buries its shame in the foaming deep,
And the waves toss high their plumy spray,
As they dance triumphant around their prey.

And yet, little shell, I find thee here,
And nothing hath wrought thee harm or fear;
Though shattered rocks, and a wreck-strewn shore,
Give tokens dire of the ocean’s power.
Tell me, tiny, beautiful thing!
Filmy and frail as the butterfly’s wing;--
An _infant’s_ finger could crush thee to dust;--
_What_ hast thou then wherein to trust?
And whence thy courage and power to brave
The surging might of the wild sea wave?
“I have not braved the ocean’s might;
I reared no front with the waves to fight.
I yielded me meek to the billow’s force,
As it swept me along in its onward course.
My _weakness_ was strength in the tempest’s hour,
And my _safety_ I found in the ocean’s power.”

* * * * *

And here, if he would, might _man_ discern
A truth he is “slow of heart” to learn.
He rears his will ’gainst the will of heaven,--
And his proudest plans are to fragments riven.
Let him meekly yield to the sovereign sway
That even the sea’s “proud waves” obey;
And though over life’s ocean tempests roar,
And wrecks are strewn over “life’s last shore,”
Borne like the shell on the billow’s breast,
He shall land in a haven of endless rest.

1858.

_A TRIBUTE OF SYMPATHY TO THE DEFENDERS OF GLEN LYNDEN._

Away! Away! Away!
There are patriot voices calling!
Glen Lynden’s band
Holds the foe in hand,
Though its watch-worn sons are falling.

Away to the mountain glen!
Where the warwhoop wild is yelling,
And the savage howls
As he darkly scowls
On the white man’s flame-wrapped dwelling.

There is life-blood reeking there!
Where our slaughtered friends are lying;
Not boldly slain
On the battle-plain,
But each by his hearth-stone dying.

Away Away! Away!
To horse, to rifle springing,
While the widow’s sigh
And the orphan’s cry
In our ears,--in our _hearts_ are ringing!

They were dwelling in peaceful vales,
Nor fear nor danger knowing;
’Midst their flocks spread wide
O’er the mountain side,
And milk and honey flowing.

The vine and the fig-tree’s cheer;--
The cornfields waving gladness,
The shearer’s throng,
And the reaper’s song
Left cause nor room for sadness.

There was childhood’s guileless glee,--
There was maiden beauty blooming;
There was ripe old age,
With its wisdom sage,
And its honour,--life perfuming.

And there were thankful hearts
For peace and plenty given;
The voice of prayer
Ascended there
And the song of praise to heaven.

And where are they _now_?--Ah! where?
There are homeless orphans weeping;
The widow’s wail
Is on the gale,
The sire in his gore lies sleeping.

* * * * *

And are there dastard souls,
Whose homes these homes were shielding,
Who can coldly read
While their brothers bleed,
Nor aid nor pity yielding?

Brand “COWARD” on his brow!
Write “TRAITOR” on his bearing,
Who views from afar
Our “homestead” war,
And basely shrinks from sharing!

To your arms! To your arms! Away!
What! _cease_ from the strife?--No, never!
Till the neck of the foe,
To earth bent low,
We have _conquered_ a peace FOR EVER!

_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._

1851.

_THE COLOURS OF THE FIRST 24^{TH}._

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE SURVIVING OFFICERS AND MEN OF THE REGIMENT.

“Preserve the _colours_, MELVILLE! _We_ stand _here_;
And--to the _end_.” ’Twas thus that PULLEINE spoke,
On ISANDLANA’S dark and fatal day;
Firm and resolved his mien, and calm his words,
Though death was nigh him, and he saw it:--
The camp stormed
By overwhelming myriads, and the yells
Of savage victors ringing in his ears
Demon-like, while they drowned the dying groans
Of hundreds, sinking low beneath the stroke
Of the blood-reeking Zulu assegai;
O’erwhelmed, but _not_ dishonoured.
They had fought
As British soldiers fight,--tens against thousands,--
Till the last charge was spent; and then,--“cold steel”
Grew hot in Zulu life-blood, and in heaps
Their dying foes lay round them.--’Twas in vain!
Hundreds had strewn the ground before their fire;
Yet, heedless of their fall, had _thousands_ more
Recklessly trampled them in onward rush,
And wild contempt of death.
As the surf breaks
And strews with spray the shore, wave urging wave,
Blind to its leader’s fate,--the Zulu host
Rolls its dark waves,--_its_ dead, as yet, unmissed,
With thousands in reserve to fill their place.
Man after man the British soldier falls,--
Falls where he stood,--his right arm’s strength exhausted,
And his _dead_ foes hurled on his bayonet’s point,
To clear the way for others!
PULLEINE saw
His own end near,--and gave his dying charge:--
“Preserve the COLOURS! Let no savage hands
Stain the old honour of ‘the 24th.’
Come _death_,--if come it must, but _not_ disgrace!”
And MELVILLE took the COLOUR,--_sacred trust_!
_And bore it from the field._ One farewell grasp,
One mutual gaze, and then they sadly part,
Comrades in arms, to meet on earth no more.
“Men of the 24th. _I_ stay with _you_;--
We bide it to the end.”--A ringing cheer
Shows the old fire unquenched; and though no hope
Of succour nerves their arm, they face the foe,
Till men and their commander sink together,
And join in death their comrades gone before.

* * * * *

The fight is done:--the cannon’s boom is stilled;
Stilled is the rocket’s rush,--the rifle’s ring.
The yell of onslaught,--the defying cheer,--
Wails of the wounded, and the dying groan
Rise on the breeze no longer; nor the shrieks
Of hapless followers of the camp, unarmed,
And slaughtered in their helplessness.--The spoils
In savage triumph proudly borne away
With battle song of victory, upraised
By myriad voices ’mongst the echoing hills,
Are passing from the scene. The hush of death
Has settled all around; and gloomy night
Spreads her dark pall o’er the now silent field.
But where is MELVILLE? How shall _he_ escape?
Leagues must he traverse of a hostile land
Ere he can safely place his sacred trust.
And, scattered far and wide in headlong flight,
“Native Contingents” from the field of death
Urge their fear-stricken way with failing strength;
While ruthless foes, red-handed, strike them down
On every side. “Where? where is _he_? the guardian
Of his dead regiment’s honour? Who shall say?
For, be it that he fights his way alone--
Horseman or footman, through the host of foes--
Or be it he evades their hot pursuit,
There crosses still his path, and bars his way,
The river boundary in summer flood,
The swirling waters as they rush and roar,
Mock at the wearied limbs that reach their banks,
And can _no more_, although the foe is on them!
Numbers die here; numbers plunge in--and drown.
Dies Melville too? Have any seen him fall?
Or has he dared the river with his charge?
Grasping the COLOUR, could he breast the flood?
Or is he swept away? Alas! none knows.
Explore the river! search its wooded banks;--
Men, horses, arms, caught ’midst entangling branches,
May yield _some_ relic of the lost one,--
Ah!
Who lies _here_? MELVILLE!--And who lies _here_?
COGHILL _with_ MELVILLE, side by side in _death_!
Slain, though the raging flood was braved and conquered:
Slain, though escaped the hot pursuit beyond:
Slain in a mutual, last attempt to save
From the wild waters _that_--than LIFE more dear.
Hard, hard the fate--wrecked when the port was gained!
Shield we from vulture’s greed the sad remains,
By hasty cairn--and breathe a hurried prayer--
’Tis all we can--till worthier rites be paid--
But hark! that shout! “The COLOUR! lo! the COLOUR!”
Snatched from the turbid waters, drenched and torn,
But SAVED! by friendly branches caught and held.
Hark how the glen resounds! Cheer answers cheer;
And the wild rocks with rapturous echoes ring.
They are not “24th” men who have found
The prize and its dead guardians:--What of that?
They share a soldier’s sympathies, and feel
The joy of brother soldiers as their own.
Mark now the swift return, while, borne aloft,
The sacred emblem challenges from far
The eager outlook--Ha! ’tis seen! ’tis seen!
The quick-eyed sentinel has caught it, and
There bursts the shout exultant from his lips.
The spark electric sets the camp on fire;
“The COLOUR! lo! the COLOUR! HONOUR SAVED!”
Rush from all sides the eager throng to greet
And welcome--while with cheers the camp resounds.
And now once more in martial order stands
The remnant of the regiment, to receive
And place in its old shrine the rescued treasure.
A guard of honour from the reverent hands
Of those who bear it take the precious pledge--
More precious for its perils--and it rests--
Dearer than ever in the regiment’s heart.

MELVILLE and COGHILL! twins in death--your names
Belong to history! On Fame’s bright scroll
They stand already blazoned. Men from far
Shall visit as a shrine your hero grave;
And grey-haired veterans in after years
Shall tell their children how, long, long ago,
At ISANDLANA’S deadly, woe-fraught fight,
Ye saved the honour of “the 24th,”
And DIED IN SAVING IT!

_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._

_OUR BOYS._

“Our boys came back from the army’s van;
Toilworn with travel each horse and man,--
Bronzed nigh to blackness each face and hand,--
But bright every eye of the youthful band.

They had sprung “to the front” at the war’s first call,
And a warrior’s welcome had greeted them all.
“_First in the field!_--’twas your _father’s_ wont;
And the right to your place in the army’s front,
Through the whole campaign ye shall yield to none,
Rest horses awhile, boys, and then,--march on;
_Elliot_ and _Bailie_ your leaders shall be,
And your post the heights of the deep Bashee.”

* * * * *

Loud through the camp the “Assembly” rings;
Quick to the saddle each horseman springs,--
And “Eastward ho!” is the warlike cry,
As “Headquarter” cheers give a warm “Good-bye!”

The camp is reached, the “Division” joined,
The “arms of the Service” all combined;
The “fellows” of “Number 6” are there,
Ready each peril and toil to share;
Second to none in the pluck they show,
And eager as any to face the foe.
There are black “allies,” but with leaders _white_,
To show them the way the “English” fight.

And now they chafe at the long delay;
The halt grows tedious from day to day.
Weary of seeing the wild war-dance
They long for the welcome word “Advance!”
The foe is escaping, and drives afar
His flocks and herds from the field of war.

The slow-footed order comes at last,
And the camp wakes up at the trumpet’s blast;
The column forms quick, as the bugles ring,
The skirmishers scatter on either wing
Where the war-song rises in savage pride,
And its echoes come back from the mountain side.

Few are the chances of open fight,
But enough to tell that the hearts are right,
And eager for battle with warriors bold,
While sparing and shielding the helpless and old.
Once and again is the issue tried,
Ere sinks the “sons of Kauta’s” pride.
Once and again!--’tis useless all;--
They front the white man but to fall.

And now on the march, to wondering eyes,
The land’s bright beauties around them rise;
The green hill’s verdure,--the vale’s soft sweep,--
The beetling crag on the mountain steep.
The view sublime o’er the gorges grand,
Where the Bashee winds towards ocean’s strand.
While fountains sparkle--and woodlands wave
O’er the shore that the sea’s blue waters lave.
Alas! alas!--with its beauties rare,
That the war-smoke should blacken a land so fair.

All is not sunshine; storm-winds rise,
And torrents pour from the darkened skies:
Dreary the march o’er the mist-clad heights,--
Weary the watch through the dark cold nights;
Baffling the beat of the driving rain,
Baulking the conflict again and again.
But no chilled spirits;--the hearts beat strong,
And the fiercer the rainstorm the louder the song.

“Our Boys” came back when their work was done;--
O’er river and mountain their march had gone,
They had stood on Umtata’s farther shore,
Where no white man’s army had stood before.
The foe is scattered,--the land is swept,
By the bands in the rear the “drifts” are kept.
But the toil is telling,--the steeds fail fast;
Umtata’s battle must be the last.

Proud the dismissal “our Boys” receive:--
“First in the field, and the last to leave.”
Prouder the welcome awaiting them here,
As the end of the homeward march draws near.
The cannon is booming!--“They come! They come!”
And the crowds thicken fast at the “Welcome Home!”
Where pennons are streaming, and banners wave,
To hail the return of the youthful brave.

Dark through the dust-cloud the column nears,
And hearts are throbbing ’midst rising tears.
Mothers and sisters, with straining eyes,
Are striving to pierce the strange disguise
In which toil, and combat, and dust, and storms
Have almost hidden the well-known forms
Of sons and brothers long lost from view,
And now emerging to life anew.

To the burst of “The conquering heroes come;”
To the tenderer strains of “Home, sweet home!”
Their march holds still through the thronging crowd,
While kerchiefs are waving, and cheers ring loud,
Till they halt at the spot where the march began,
When they started to join the army’s van.

“Our Boys” had come back to rest awhile;--
To sun each heart in a mother’s smile;--
To tell in a sister’s or loved one’s arms
The thoughts that had cheered them ’midst war’s alarms.
And fathers were waiting with hearts that swell,
To learn if their “lads” had borne them _well_,--
And the warrior spirit had waked to life
In the _first strange_ vision of mortal strife.
And little prattlers were waiting there
More eager than any to claim their share,
Looking with wondering hearts and eyes
On trophy shields and assegais,
And clustering round their knees to know
How their “big brothers” had beaten the foe.

Once more the “Assembly” rings aloud,
And the “Boys” muster fast ’midst the gathering crowd.
They have come their last “Dismiss!” to hear,
And bid good-bye to the camp’s rough cheer,
To shake brave _Harvey’s_ warm right hand,
Who had headed them _well_ through Galekaland.

* * * * *

“Boys! I had thought to dissolve your ranks,
And send you home with your country’s thanks.
But again from the mountains the war-cry sounds,
And the tribes on the border are breaking bounds;
The country may need you, hearts and hands,
While taming the pride of the Gaika bands:
Are you willing to answer a _second_ call?”
“_Willing! aye Willing!_ One and All!”

The response rang out, to be drowned among
The echoing cheers of the listening throng;
And if proud we had been of “our Boys” before,
Our triumph and pride gathered head the more,
As they turned from their homes to encamp again,
(With those homes in sight) on the tented plain.
Ready once more, at the trumpet’s clang,
To spring to horse as at _first_ they sprang.

_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._

_IN THE DROUGHT LANDS OF SOUTH AFRICA._

THE RAIN.

It was a land of rills,
Of mountains, kloofs, and hills;
High peaks were westward; eastward the great main--
A rich good land, and free
Men lived in liberty,
Worked and had quiet sleep, and loved the rain.

Thus was it for a time
In this fair sunny clime--
Flocks prospered; prospered, too, the bearded grain,
There only was good cheer,
And farmers felt no fear
When Nature’s lavish bounties fell in rain.

But there came a change,
Clouds were few and strange--
The stored-up waters soon began to wane;
Broken and weak all day,
The streamlets ceased to play,
The sun glared on with no sweet veil of rain.

And lo! the land lay dry--
No moisture in the sky;
The streams dry--sterile the once fertile plain;
And round the empty tank
The ocean feebly sank--
Alas, why cometh not the wished-for rain!

The gentle animals whose fleeces give
The means whereby the people hope to live,
Lie down and die. It seems that ne’er again
Life-giving showers shall fall.
In churches now they call,
“O God, in mercy, send us down the rain!”

All Nature cries aloud--
Oh, come, life-giving cloud!
The flowers, the grass, all herbage green is slain,
The corpse-like earth is black,
Skeletons form a track
O’er regions mourning for the want of rain.

Now has the joyful sight
Filled us with pure delight--
Of fatness dropping from the clouds again;
From mountains to the sea,
One Hymn of Jubilee
Should thank the Master who has sent the rain.

_Alex. Wilmot._

_THE LANDING OF THE BRITISH SETTLERS OF 1820._

(_Written on occasion of the celebration of the Settlers’ Jubilee in Grahamstown, in 1870._)

Winds of the North blew cold with icy breath,
And parting seemed a sorrow like to death,
When fifty years ago our little band
Of British settlers left their native land.
They said farewell for ever! ah, farewell
The friends, the joys, the land, they loved so well.
We never more shall stand
On that dear English land,
Nor view our native skies;
Gone each familiar face
Of whose sweet loving grace
Dear memories rise.

Spring shall come back again,
Smiling on hill and plain,
We shall be gone;
Our old homes will be gay
With sunshine and the may,
From our hearts flown.

Farewell, dear land of birth!
Farewell our native earth--
Hill, plain, and river;
Farewell, each dearest friend,
May God all blessings send--
Farewell for ever!

Away they go, ’midst mist and sudden gale,
O’er stormy seas, through Biscay’s Bay they sail.
The sun is covered by dark lowering cloud,
And heaven seems hidden in a dusky shroud.
Hark! the huge vessel felt the thund’ring stroke,
While whelming waves in sudden deluge broke;
The seas around for horrid vengeance rave,
And every yawning gulf now seems a grave.

Again--the storm is o’er, with steady breeze
They glide in safety upon summer seas,
Whose azure surface as a mirror tries
To catch the sunny radiance of the skies.
Here gorgeous tinted sunsets come at even,
To show ten thousand gateways into Heaven--
While gentle zephyrs on the ocean play,
And balmy night succeeds the heat of day.

The twinkling beacons show how far they roam;
No longer the pale pole-star points our home;
The starry banners of the North are furled,--
The Southern Cross shines on a Southern world.
Now soon, with ecstasy, they hear the cry,
Land! land in sight! the land we can descry.
And now the longed-for shores before them rise,
With mountain peaks which fringe the azure skies;
Tall beetling crags frown o’er the breaker’s roar,
Whose white-tipped billows kiss a sandy shore;
’Tis Afric! land of mystery and fear,
Of burning climate, and of desert drear,
Where the fierce lion and fiercer savage roam;
Here is your bourne,--here is your future home.

Supplies obtained within a western bay,
Again they sally forth upon their way,
And round that Cape which, hid in misty forms,
Towered o’er the ocean’s verge “the Cape of Storms,”
Whose dangers Diaz did not fear to cope,
And proved it to the world Cape of Good Hope.
The oceans which this Cape for ever lave
While time shall last is that great sailor’s grave;
And Nature’s self proclaims his honours here,
By such a monument o’er such a bier.
Along the coast they sail. With pleasured eyes
They view new shores--new hills, new plains, arise,
The Cape St. Blaise and Longkloof Mountains past,
The hoped-for, longed-for haven comes at last;
Then, ’midst the glories of an April day,
They cast their anchor in Algoa Bay,
Whose outstretched arms receive in their embrace
Those dauntless settlers of a Northern race.
Here first brave Diaz stayed his vent’rous sail,
First here sought refuge from wild western gale,--
On a small isle, when tempests ceased to toss,
Planted Faith’s emblem there, “The Holy Cross.”
Religion’s banner thus was first unfurled,
First reared within this savage Southern world.
Bare sand-hills line a tract of barren coast,--
No town, or village, can the seaport boast;
The vacant beach and bleak hill-side show clear
The work that waits the hardy pioneer:
O’er walls of surf they reach the welcome strand,
And the first British settlers touch the land.
Upon this South-sea strand--
Unto this savage land--
Welcome, ye little band,
Fit to brave danger.

Losses and wars will be
Fires of adversity,
Tests which you cannot flee
Trials and sorrow.

Yours for success to fight;
Yours to defend the right;
Striving with all your might
For life and freedom.

Under benignant skies,
Fruits on the plains shall rise,
As labour’s sacrifice
To the Creator.

Herds, flocks, and trade shall be
Proof of your industry,
Making prosperity
Smile upon labour.

Sons of the great and free,
On! let your motto be,
“God and the right for me,
Forward for ever.”

Why come they here, amidst the desert’s gloom?
To raise a nation from a lifeless tomb;
To bid fair plains the fruits of labour yield;
To tend the flock; to plough the fertile field;
The wealth of commerce by success to gain;
To found a home where peace and plenty reign.
These are your tasks: but oh! with hardships drear,
With toils unnumbered you must labour here;
For blasted crops, and floods, and drought shall come,
And savage yells around your burning home.
On toilsome sand they wander up and down,
Through numb’rous tents which form a canvas town;
With curious eyes all view the motley throng,--
Huge waggons dragging their slow length along,--
The wily Bushman and the Bechu’an,
The Hottentot, the Boer, and Englishman.
Here strange plants bloom beneath this southern sky,
And graceful aloes raise their blossoms high,
While prickly cacti and the feathery reed
Grow rank and common as the worthless weed.
And now they strike their tents. All “Parties” go,
They leave the sandy beach in waggons slow,
And cross the bushy plain, and Zwartkrops’ stream,
Whose jungle-covered heights above them gleam;
O’er hills, o’er plains, they “trek”--and through the kloof,
Where the high rocky crags their paths o’er-roof,--
Where brilliant birds and gorgeous flowers are seen,
Screened by pavilions of perpetual green,--
Euphorbia raise their candelabra high,
And vivid bush o’er-curtains half the sky.

North, south, east, west, the settlers scatter wide,
By stream, by valley, and by mountain side.
They raise rough homesteads, and by labour’s strain
Soon see around them fields of smiling grain.
Alas, their labour’s vain! Too soon they view
The crops unhealthy, and of dusky hue;
Gaunt famine stalks upon the treach’rous soil,
And failures thrice renewed repay their toil.
Behold dark discontent with angry frown
Upon their hills and valleys settles down.
Again--dawn rises out of horrid night,
Relief has come and prospects are more bright;
They, now successful in the arts of peace,
Find, like the Argonauts, a golden fleece.

But trials still more hard have yet to come,
With Kafir yell and sight of blazing home.
The Kafirs long have angry passions nursed,
And now the flames from smouldering embers burst.
“Must we still retreat from the haunts of man
To the desert drear and the wild Bushman,
Where the lion and jackal are forced to flee,
With the wildebeeste and oribe?
Ah, no; in foray and vengesome fight,
We will dare the invader’s utmost might;
And from bushy ambush again shall fly
Our shaft of destruction, the assegai.”
The sky is lurid with a coming storm;
Against the white man common cause they form--
Their bands of hatred gather from afar,
And league together in a cruel war.
Fierce, treacherous, false, in untamed freedom bold,
The kloof or bush was still the Kafir’s hold;
They sought not battle in the open field,
But used the weapons cunning loves to wield:
To lie in wait, to strike a sudden blow
Of ambushed vengeance on a dreaded foe;
With poisonous lies to sue for speedy peace;
To plot more murder in a brief release;
To pause, to strike with double force the blow;--
The flaming homesteads light them to their foe;
And women’s screams for mercy, drowned in blood,
Cry out for vengeance to an angry God.
And foremost mingling in that awful strife,
The settlers fought for wife, for child, for life.
They see around them hideous signals rise,
The _Kafir’s Fiery Cross_ illumes the midnight skies.
They rush from burning homes, or die, as brave men die,
With face unto the foe and hopes in God on high.
And then, ye swarthy warriors, then began
Unequal warfare with the strong white man.
The assegai is measured with the gun;
The gage once taken up, war is not done
Till Hintza’s death, and Gwanga’s gory tide,
And Waterkloof, and many a red hillside,
And burning huts, and savage screams of woe,
Have proved the prowess of your British foe.
Three dreadful wars have Kafir fierceness proved,
And thrice their vengeance sought the white man’s blood;
While thrice their warriors have been taught to know,
How vain their battle against such a foe.
Sir Harry Smith’s and Cathcart’s names rank high
With those renowned in English chivalry,
And many a nameless kloof’s mimosas wave
O’er the brave British soldier’s grave;
And Bowker’s, Southey’s, Currie’s names shall be,
With those of others, kept in memory.[16]

Queenstown and Cradock’s volunteers lay down
Their warlike weapons,--while King Williamstown
Rests on its arms by the Buffalo’s side,
And starts new commerce on East London’s tide.
The settler’s city in success has grown,
And busy commerce smiles on Grahamstown;
And Port Elizabeth, their landing-place,
Still striding onward in progressive race,
Makes commerce speed its sails from Algoa Bay,
And sends new products o’er the watery way;
And far and near the bustling towns arise,
Planted and nursed by settlers’ enterprise.
To God Almighty let us thanks upraise,
To Him all glory; to Him endless praise.

Now fifty years have passed. Here is the field
Of dauntless energy, and this the yield;
Their advent here we celebrate in days
Which well can speak the British settler’s praise,--
Their glory with their memory is blent,
THE EASTERN PROVINCE IS THEIR MONUMENT.

_Alex. Wilmot._

_IN THE COUNTRY OF MANKORAAN._

(NORTH OF THE VAAL RIVER, DECEMBER, 1882.)

Ah sad are our hearts,
Our souls full of trouble,
Ruin’s harvest has come--
We are left as the stubble.

The white man is here
For our fields and our cattle;
No hope is now left us--
No chance in the battle.

We look on like men
Who are used to disaster,
And see ruin’s night
Falling faster and faster.

Or like animals struck
By the swift assegai,
We are sentenced to death,
We have only to die.

From Limpopo to Vaal
Has the mandate been given,
“From his veld and his home
Must the black man be driven.”

From the homes of our youth,
Which our eyes love to scan,
We are forced from the kraals
Of our chief--Mankoraan.

We starve in the veld
So blooming and verdant;
The invader is lord,
The owner--his servant.

Christianity--lo!
To your justice we fly;
Protect us at once,
Or we perish and die.

_Alex. Wilmot._

_DRINK._

Behold the Moloch of our Pagan days,
The Bacchic God, whom all his votaries praise;
For “Io Bacchus” is a modern hymn,
Chanted in praise of drink ’midst festive din.
The god is worshipped here in our own days,
Enshrined in radiance ’midst the hotels’ blaze--
Or, where the drink-shop, with its beaming light,
Attracts the moth-like worshippers at night--
The sacrificial victims never fail,
With gait unsteady, and with features pale--
Still they come on; nor sex nor age is spared,
Recruits by thousands easily are snared;
Here comes the husband, with unsteady tread,
And offers up for drink his children’s bread;
His weary wife soon learns to follow in,
And drown her wretchedness in draughts of gin;
The starving children, outcast and forlorn,
From Virtue’s path at once are quickly torn.
Hence, from this nursery of sin and grief,
We get the outcast woman and cunning thief;
And the first lessons of the murderer’s sin
Are taught in brawls amidst the tavern’s din.
Moloch of drink! to thee are offered still
Youth, beauty, fortune, science, art, and skill;
Thousands of votaries drink thy poisoned cup,
And health, strength, life are freely offered up
In thy fell service. Life-blood still is poured
In new libations--neither plague nor sword
Obtains its victims, in the town or field,
In such abundance as thy altars yield.

“The cheerful cup, the drinking cup, goes round!’
Convivial spirits gladly hail the sound.
See here, in wretched misery, crawls along
The shadow of a man once hale and strong,
At one time wealthy--held in high esteem;
He loved, and was beloved--his upright mien
Told of an upright heart, till drink stepped in,
And all the train of curses following sin.
Then farewell heaven and friends, and peaceful life,
And welcome squalor, penury, and strife;
His once-loved partner learns from him to shrink,
Her life a martyrdom, her murderer Drink!
His son and daughter--God in heaven to be
The cause of such great crime and misery!
The girl, an outcast, walks the midnight street;
The boy skulks, trembling, ’fore policeman’s feet.

“In festive houses festive cups go round!”
Widows and orphans shudder at the sound.
A death-knell tolls in every drinking song,
To some most heedless ’midst the drinking throng.
Ah! when the nations suffer, is it well
To wreath with flowers the portal of their hell?
When tens of thousands perish by the cup.
For neighbour’s sake, for God’s sake, give it up!
Its use is lawful, let its disuse be
Heaven’s key for thee and thousands--Charity.

Not blasting fire from heaven so surely kills,
As burning draughts which flow from Bacchic rills.
See nations fall, as oaks by lightning stroke,
Their glories rivened, and their manhood broke.
Britain! “the Kafirs” curse before they die,
The cup--their poison, and thy infamy--
In Afric’s land are riveted new chains,
And freedom flies when drunkenness remains.

_Alex. Wilmot._

_SOUTH AFRICA REDIVIVA._

Bright land which stretchest down through Southern seas
On which the Sun loves well to look--South Africa--
Thou now hast wakened--and the stirring breeze
Which comes from the northward fills thee with a soul.
Arise, throw off thy shackles and advance--
Among the nations claim thy place, and live!
The time has come to shake off thy dull sleep
Of slavery and apathy: thou wast made to be
A home for millions of the brave and free.

For God has blest thee with a dower of wealth,
Of tree, of herb, of pasture, and of field:
Thy children laugh aloud in jocund health,
And all things men require thy plains can yield;
At faintest knock thy mountain portals ope,
Revealing treasure glimpses fair to see--
Rich diamonds, metals, aye, Imperial gold,
Are in the dower which God hath given thee.
Arise, ye Lotus-eaters of the South, and know
The plenteous blessings which from labour flow.

As men have reaped great Europe--pouring down
From Scandinavia and far Baltic’s wave,
So must our future too be reaped--now sown,
The crops will grow above this era’s grave.
South Afric calls aloud to Europe, filled
With overflowing energy and youth,
Come in your thousands--work as your fathers willed,
With strength, with power, with energy and truth.
Good Hope will turn to Hope at last fulfilled,
And Southern Africa be great--as God has willed.

_Alex. Wilmot._

_THE BEAUTFUL ISLAND OF DREAMS._

“They come, the shapes of joy and woe,
The airy crowds of long ago,
The dreams and fancies known of yore
That have been and shall be no more;
They change the cloisters of the night
Into a garden of delight.”--_Golden Legend._

When sorrow’s dull clouds o’ershadow the soul,
And the sunshine of life is concealed,
When the waves of misfortune still over us roll,
There is sometimes a refuge and shield,
In a calm little harbour lit up by its sun,
With genial though transient beams,
’Tis hailed as a shelter whene’er it is won--
The Beautiful Island of Dreams.

When pursued by avenging demons of hate,
The wretched oft pause in their path,
And find a retreat and a respite from fate--
A brief lull in the tempest of wrath;
In the fair fairy bowers where in shadowy light,
Illusion reality seems,
Whose oceans are bridged by the visions of night--
The Beautiful Island of Dreams.

And still in this desert as onward we roam,
On a dull and a desolate track,
Fast journeying on to Eternity’s home,
We sometimes in Dreamland look back;
And in slumber behold the dear friends that have gone;
And the past or the future now seems
Rich with memory or hope to that oasis flown--
The Beautiful Island of Dreams.

_Alex Wilmot._

_CAPE OF GOOD HOPE._

There is a land, unknown to fame,
A land whose heroes have no name
In the grey records of past age;
Unchronicled in hist’ry’s page,
Untamed by art, yet wild and free,
That land lies in the Southern sea--
It laughs to heav’n which smiles on it;
There midway in wild waters set,
With suns serene and balmier breeze
Than ever swept these northern seas,
Its beetling crags rise vast, and war
With oceans, meeting from afar,
To break their billows on its shore,
With fearful never-ending roar.

Bold mariners who sailed of old
Through unknown seas in search of gold,
Saw those dark rocks, those giant forms,
And, fear-quelled, named them “Cape of Storms.”
O land of storms, I pine to hear
That music which made others fear;
I long to see thy storm-fiend scowl,
I long to hear the fierce winds howl,
Hot with fell fires, across thy plains.

Thou glorious land! where Nature reigns
Supreme in awful loveliness,
O shall thy exiled son not bless
Those hills and dales of thine, where first
He roamed a careless child; where burst
Thy tropic splendour on his eye;
Where days were spent, whose mem’ries lie
Deep ’neath all afterthought and care,
Yet rise more buoyant than the air,
And float o’er all his days? O home
Of beauty rare, where I did roam
In childhood’s golden days, my pray’r
For thee soars through this northern air.

Land of “Good Hope!” thy future lies
Bright ’fore my vision as thy skies!
O Africa! long lost in night,
Upon the horizon gleams the light
Of breaking dawn. Thy star of fame
Shall rise and brightly gleam; thy name
Shall blaze on hist’ry’s later page;
Thy birth-time is the last great age;
Thy name has been, slave of the world;
But, when thy banner is unfurled,
Triumphant Liberty shall wave
That standard o’er foul slav’ry’s grave,
And earth--decaying earth--shall see
Her freest, fairest child in thee!

_William Rodger Thomson._

UTRECHT, 1856.

_GOOD HOPE._

“Good Hope” for this good land yet,
If we would but dare and do;
If we would but stand with ready hand
To grasp ere the blessings go.

“Good Hope” for this good land yet,
If we would but stay life-streams,
Which will past us flow while we, too slow,
Stand rapt on the bank in dreams.

“Good Hope” for this good land yet,
If we would but cease to hope
That the rain will drop and bring a crop
While we idly sit and mope.

“Good Hope” for this good land yet,
If we work, e’en while we wait
For the sun and rain to ripen grain
We have sown, then left to fate.

“Good Hope” for this good land yet,
If we use each heav’n-sent gift
As means to an end, and do not spend
Our best without care and thrift.

“Good Hope” for this good land yet,
If we live and struggle still
To a better life, through toil and strife,
With a stout heart and strong will.

“Good Hope” for this good land yet,
If our faith be active trust,
And not blind belief, which, at each grief,
Still mourns that what must be, must.

“Good Hope” for this good land yet,
If we would but trust in God,
And the Christ, who came and took our name
To bless, not to turn the sod.

_William Rodger Thomson._

_ODE._

(FROM HORACE.--_Lib._ ii. _Od._ 18.)

No ivory--no golden ceiling
Adorns my modest home;
No marble pillars, wealth revealing
Proudly support the dome.
No regal fortune, princely dwelling,
Hath fate vouchsafed to me,
I am not clad, in state excelling,
In robe of sovereignty:
A vein of wit, by nature’s blessing,
And honest heart are mine.
Yet me to honour, nought possessing
The wealthiest incline;
Why should I then the gods importune
To add unto my store,
Contented with my humble fortune
I could not wish for more.
Day hastes to follow day, and truly
New moons but come to die,
The tomb awaits thy ashes duly
Mid all thy pageantry.
Yet mindless of the fatal hour
On high thou build’st the hall,
Insatiate with thy wealth and power
Thou fain would’st seize on all;
Thy neighbour’s farm, thy neighbour’s dwelling,
All would’st thou have for thee,
’Gainst justice and ’gainst law rebelling
With base cupidity;
While from their home unjustly driven
The husband and the wife
(The babes exposed to winds of heaven)
Must linger out their life:
But one sure homestead there remaineth
Than all on earth more sure,
The dark abode where Orcus reigneth
Alike o’er rich and poor,
Just earth entombeth ev’n the poorest
With sons of royalty,
And Charon thou in vain allurest
For gold to set it free:
Great kings renowned in ancient story
He holdeth in his might,
Far famed of old for warlike glory
Now doomed to endless night:
Invoked in pity he hath risen,
And uninvoked,--to free
The hapless poor from their earth-prison
And grant them liberty.

_E. B. Watermeyer._

_AFTER A STORM._

Morning has come upon us,--from the day
Has rolled each darkling cloud, the orient view
Unveils with gorgeous sun, and deep clear blue.
But ocean riots still;--in ponderous play
Thousands of heavy surges plunge away,
Dazzling with snow-white foam, or swiftly woos
Iris to paint all brightly tinted hues.
Strangely fair magic, mid their shivered spray,
Around us many a little whale-bird skims,
Dipping its tiny bosom in the deep,
Then instantly uprises blithe and high,
Even as the heart unthralled by earthly things
Will walk this troubled earth yet ever keep
Its dearest home up in the azure sky.

_E. B. Watermeyer._

_AMMAP AND GRIET._

A LEGEND OF THE ’NOSOP.

On a huge rock of granite stone,
A dark-skinned maiden stands alone,
Her eyes with vengeance gleam.
’Twas in a wild and savage glen,
Far from the busy haunts of men,
Where ’Nosop rolls its stream.

And who is she? What does she there?
Alone beside by the lion’s lair!
Has she no woman’s fear?
She had--but all that fear is gone,
She stands upon that very stone,
Because she knows he’s near.

“Dark-skinned maiden, come away,
Tempt not thus the beast of prey,
Haste, haste, your life to save.”
“No, no,” the dark-skinned maiden cried,
“He tore my Ammap from my side,
And vengeance I will have!”

A white man stood behind a tree,
A double-barrelled gun had he,
And steady was his aim;
She knew not that his help was nigh,
But lightly poised the assegai,
When forth the lion came.

He sees her! With a single bound
He strove to reach the vantage ground,
But ere the rock he gained,
The dark-skinned maiden’s aim was true,
Downwards the fearful weapon flew,
And in his side remained!

He fell, and writhing in his pain,
Madly he strove, but strove in vain,
To rise upon his feet.
“Ah, ah,” the dark-skinned maiden cried,
“This day I was to be his bride,
He tore my Ammap from my side,
Ah, ah, revenge is sweet.”

Beneath that rock of granite stone,
On which the white man stands alone,
The lion writhes in pain.
The dark-skinned maid is at his side
She drew a dirk, her Ammap’s pride,
He never rose again.

Some months had rolled away, and then,
Within that very lion’s den,
Were found the bones of Griet;
And to this day, who ventures nigh
That granite rock, will hear the cry,
“Ah, ah, revenge is sweet!”

But visitors are very rare,
The native seldom ventures there,
He rather turns aside.
And why? Because he fears to meet
The wandering ghost of faithful Griet
With Ammap at her side.

_S. A. M._

_SONNETS OF THE CAPE._