Chapter II: Night (2)

Tell me, where is Freedom’s home?
In forest wild--on ocean’s foam,
Amidst the laughing air
Of sunny skies?
Or is it where
The soft voluptuary lies
In rich luxuriousness ’neath marble dome?
Or does it dwell by moss-grown cell
Where the lone hermit woos the sylvan glen,
Deeming his mind, in solitude enshrined,
Blest with its happiness afar from men?

Tell me, which is Freedom’s path?
Where the step no limit hath,
As lightly borne along
The smiling earth
Man tunes his song
To soul-enamoured mirth,
Devoid of care and undisturbed by wrath?
Or when with schemes enwrapt in dreams
The young enthusiast on Hope’s golden wings,
By love inspired and ardent fancy fired,
Replenishes life’s cup from pleasure’s springs.

Tell me, then, does Freedom’s spell
Revel in the battle’s knell,
When the trumpet’s tone
Betokens death,
And a soul is gone
In every passing breath,
Whilst war’s loud clangour drowns each wild farewell,
When o’er the grave of the fallen brave
Memory’s bright tribute echoes Glory’s claim?
And was the cause, which sought the world’s applause,
Inspired by Freedom’s or Ambition’s aim?

Tell me, where does Freedom’s cry
Raise its purest notes on high?
Oh, not within the halls
Where Faction’s tongue
Excited calls,
As if th’ appeal it rung
Would burst the bonds of every social tie.
The brightest claim to lasting fame
Is when in spirit, fired with honest pride,
The patriot’s deed stirs nations to be freed,
As when a Hampden fell, or Sidney died.

Freedom, where is then thy home?
Eye may range and steps may roam,
And splendour vaunt its joys,
And he whose breast
The false world cloys
In solitude feel blest,
And fancy sport with some ideal gnome;
The pride of might, in war delight,
When the earth, bloodstained, rings with victory,
But, amongst all, who on thy spirit call,
Burns there a pure and sacred love of thee?

Freedom, thou of name sublime,
Born coeval with all time,
Can riches, arms,
Or power impart
Thy courted charms,
Unless the human heart
Insures thy smiles unsullied with a crime?
As when the soul from earth’s control
On the bright wings of Faith mounts up on high,
And offers prayer, in humble hope,--for where
God’s spirit dwells, oh, there is Liberty!

_G. L._

_THE GALLANT “TEUTON.”_

A tear let us give for the gallant “_Teuton_,”
And bewail the unfortunate dead,
And a wail let us raise for the friends that are gone,
As they sleep in their watery bed.

A wild shriek rings forth from the crowded deck,
Borne aloft on the wings of the breeze,
And a cry of despair lingers over the wreck
As she sinks to her berth in the seas.

The screaming sea-mew plumes his wings o’er their head,
As he rides at his ease o’er the wave,
While the wailing sea-gull swoops down o’er the dead,
And sports on their watery grave.

And the ravenous shark from his cave of gloom
Hurries forth through the dark ocean’s depth,
And frolicking round their wave-hidden tomb,
He gloats o’er the havoc of death.

Then a tear let us shed for the gallant “_Teuton_,”
And bewail the unfortunate dead,
While the screaming sea-mew sings their funeral song,
As he rides o’er their watery bed.

_H. Hartwell._

_THE SUNNY HILLS OF AFRICA._

The sunny hills of Africa, how picturesque and grand,
While clothed in mist the vales lie hid, like some dark spirit-land
The mountains in the distance seen, like hoary castles rise,
And banks of clouds suspended hang, like icebergs in the skies.

The flowery fields of Africa, how beautiful and gay,
The fairest blossoms deck the plains, and perfume fills the May,
While gushing streams from every kloof spread o’er the verdant green,
And browsing game upon the lands add beauty to the scene.

The country homes of Africa, where are their equals found?
A welcome always greets the ear, and gladness reigns around;
And as one cosily reclines upon the snow-white fleece,
He feels a thrill of thankfulness, of gratitude and peace.

Then should we not love Africa, and speak of her with pride,
And hang to her and cling to her whatever may betide?
And though we yield to other lands the palm for scenes of mirth,
Our song shall be for Africa--the land that gave us birth.

_H. Hartwell._

_THE SOUTHERN CROSS._

AN ODE.

Thou type of mysteries revealed,
In man forgiven;
And plainest record of the book unsealed,
Of starry Heaven!
God’s pictured Word, from age to age;
Alike familiar to the child and sage--
In fourfold harmony; like Christ’s Evangel page.

How mean to thee this world of sin,
This atom earth!
Or all the ponderous globes that swing within
Its astral girth.
Arcturus and his offspring fair--
Where are they? Mazzaroth--Orion, where?
And Pleiades? All, all eclipsed--for thou art there.

’Tis well, when Keills and Newtons write
With pens of gold;
That ages numberless have winged their flight,
Myriads untold!
Since thou’st been there; since thou hast taught
How, in His plan, who man’s redemption wrought,
That mystery of love was not an afterthought.

Ten thousand worlds have learned of thee
(Messiah’s sign),
What happier eyes were privileged to see
In Palestine.
But thou, unknown to Eastern seer,
Or king, or priest--we hail with reverence here--
Great harbinger of joy; to this our Ocean-sphere!

So dread we not the wondrous day,
O holy Cross!
When structures formed of stubble, wood, and hay,
Shall suffer loss.
When Time’s probation shall have past,
And heaven’s high starry cope her orbs shall cast,
Even as a tree her fruit, before the felling blast.

For thou immortal ensign bright,
Art still secure;
When worlds and suns and systems sink in night
Thou shalt endure.
Endure--Redemption’s emblem sweet,
Nor from Creation’s altered map retreat,
Nor pass away with noise, nor melt with fervent heat.

Till then, may faith and hope increase,
Firm, fixed above;
And make us with ourselves at heavenly peace--
True type of love!
Mid elemental tumults rife
Point us to Him, the Way, the Truth, the Life,
Rock Rimmon of our peace, to heal Baal-tamar’s strife.

_Stafford Cruikshanks._

_HON. WILLIAM PORTER, C.M.G._

AN ELEGY.

The mighty falls: Time’s restless wing
Has sped the day,
For him!--beloved as Camelot’s blameless king--
To pass away.
And briny tears bedew the date
In which that life so marvellously great,
Our friend--grand Porter’s self--succumbs, at last, to Fate.

He died at home: his labour ceased
Where it began;
While gathering honours, with his years increased;
Colossal man!
To Africa--that long abode,
His work and love discharged the debt he owed;
Long toil of years--to him--Life’s grandest Episode.

The Libyan clime, in youth became
His destined soil;
Where Time and Fate, the laurels of his fame,
Can ne’er despoil.
A grateful continent shall pour
Her griefs for him whose face we see no more:
And mourn as great a man as ever touched her shore.

Mourn, soil of grief, your champion bold,
Whose work is done;
Mourn, land of Ham, as Egypt did of old,
For Jacob’s son.
The mighty falls!--the Chieftain high--
Whose worth not Vaal nor Treasury could buy,
Had reached his native land, and reached it but to die.

Approach his grave; oh, sight sublime!
“Last scene of all.”
Let kindred spirits of the olden time
Attend his pall.
First that Athenian, who alone
In days of tyranny--not since unknown--
With voice of thunder moved the Macedonian throne.

Let Aristides, too, be there--
The just one still;
’Tis not in Death--on land, or sea, or air,
Such minds to kill.
Let mighty shades press to the van--
From Cataline’s arraigner to the man
Who raised a righteous wail for injured Hindostan.

Let crowding myriads view in tears,
The hero’s grave;
Earth yields to earth; a mortal disappears,
No love can save.
Lost but to sight; in fame alive,
Long shall his name our blinding tears survive,
And numbers from his dust, true virtue long derive.

Repose, great one, in lasting rest
Dear friends among;
What rank, what tribe, what country loved thee best
Remains unsung.
Pride of the Senate and the Bar!
’Tis ours, alas! to wail thy loss afar,
Who ’neath the Southern Cross long hailed thee as a star.

Thou wert our Statesman--to apply
Wise counsels best;
No selfish partisan to raise a cry
For East or West.
Prepared for Right to stand or fall--
Deaf to the foeman’s threat, or bigot’s call--
’Twas thine to live and die, the sire and friend of all.

Who shall succeed thee in our love?
Who fill thy chair?
Shall we, ignoring succour from above,
Yield to despair?
No, never, while in hour of need
A champion stands, as he who runs may read--
A Sprigg well worthy power; yea, Porter to succeed.

_Stafford Cruikshanks._

_ODE ON THE BRITISH SETTLERS’ YEAR OF JUBILEE._

NAM QUI HŒC DICUNT, PALAM OSTENDUNT SE PATRIAM QUŒRERE.

Epoch of hope! Auspicious year;
Our pride to see;
Hail to thy bright eventful advent here--
Grand Jubilee!
Since on these shores--our lot was cast,
Of years, seven Sabbaths number with the past;
Thy dawn, O sacred year! proclaim we now at last.

Chime for the Settlers’ Jubilee,--
Spire, turret, fane!
Resound abroad, with quickening ecstasy,
The proud refrain.
Late, by the Gospel-trumpet called--
O Africa! in Satan’s bondage galled,
Shout for the Jubilee, with spirit disenthralled.

Kloof, table-land, and peak sublime,
Take up the peal;
Chide o’er this wondrous, Heaven-acknowledged clime,
Man’s flagging zeal.
From that far bound, where hope first rose
On Lusitanian Vasco’s gathering woes,
To regions far beyond--where Transvaal Jordan flows.

How vast in prospect, mortal man,
One Spring appears!
In retrospect, how limited the span
Of fifty years!
Yet gaze around,--how few remain,
Who, in this land, first shared our joy or pain!
Nor doubt we, honoured dead, our loss has been your gain.

Shamgars and Jairs! our heroes true,
Your types of yore
Gain not by fair comparison with you,
In heaven-sent lore.
No chief, on Seir’s, or Bochim’s brow,
Not Gera’s son, nor him of “the rash vow,”
In zeal, for cause of right--transcends your glory now.

Your god-like clemency to life,
In conflicts fell;
The Zeebs and Orebs of each mortal strife,
Survive to tell.
The ruthless hand, with dagger bared,
In hour of conquest, by your mercy spared,
Has since, as that of friend, your love and bounty shared.

Far better learned your skill to pierce
The forest King;
Transfix grim Isgram, or the tiger fierce,
In his death-spring.
Like Kabzeel’s Worthy who could dare,
In time of snow, to savage haunts repair,
And slay the monster huge, e’en in his gory lair.

Not gold but prowess then was fame,
Throughout this land;
True stalwart valour was the test of claim
To Beauty’s hand.
What marvel to acquire such bays,
Each tried to emulate his fellow’s praise?
Oh, there were mighty men,--yea, “giants in those days”--

Then learned Moodie, Temlett sage,
And valiant Graham,
Bequeathed, in turn, to the historic page,
A lasting name.
As others of no mean degree,
Whose statesmen ken, and iron chivalry
Might worthily attain the rank of “the first Three.”

This of the dead,--embalmed in tears,
In fame alive;
And can we less revere their loved compeers,
Who still survive?
Ah no! their lives, to many a prayer,
Long, very long, may Heaven benignly spare,
And long each honoured brow its crown of glory wear.

Unwooed, chaste Clio, ever young,
Descends to save
Her British Settlers from Detraction’s tongue,
And Lethe’s wave.
The names of the adventurous few,
Her lamp of Truth displays aloft in view,
Enshrined among the world’s regenerators true.

Unutterably fair, behold,
The goddess bright!
In form and visage of ethereal mould,
Enrobed in light!
With golden harps--a seraph band,
Less prominent her tuneful sisters stand--
And thus a child of earth receives her high command:--

“Thou, favoured of the Vestal Nine;
Forensic Cole!
The special delegated task be thine,
Beyond control;
To celebrate this Jubilee--
In Delphic tones--not uninspired by me,
That envy’s self shall mark, for immortality.

Fail not to chronicle a state,
Beset with woes,
When, like Apollo, on its vision--late
Wise Porter rose;
Embodiment of Hyde and Hume--
My future Aristides to assume
In every council sway, and change a nation’s doom.”

It comes! the dawn of brighter times--
When, to our shores,
The ships of Chittim and remoter climes
Shall bend their oars!
When Africa, distressed no more,
Shall nobly emulate Columbia’s shore,
In European might, and Asiatic lore.

It comes, it comes! ye brethren dear,
Loud swell the song;
Lo, balmy Abib ushers in the year,
Expected long!
Illustrious in your thousands come!
High in your ancestors’ adopted home,
Raise to triumphal notes the grand memorial dome.

Rouse, Jubilants, by Truth made free,
Stand ever true;
Nor be your sires Promethean energy
Extinct in you.
Forget not,--even in Canaan’s land,
Though borne to conquest--with a mighty hand,
Your faithfulness to prove--unconquered nations stand.

Thrones raised upon our primal fall,
Yet mock the skies!
Fierce and unvanquished still,--yea, worthy all
Your war emprize.
Press, in His cause, expectant on,
Whose sovereign Presence, ever unwithdrawn
Inspires our Faith and Hope, in this Millennial dawn.

_Stafford Cruikshanks._

_DIVES REDIVIVUS._

’Tis of a rich man near an African hoek,
Imported from some part of Britain;
You’d say that account in the sixteenth of Luke
For him, in perspective, was written.

The purple, fine linen, and feasting in state,
Are all quite in point to the letter;
Save this, that no paupers are laid at his gate,
Experience has taught them all better.

To lordling and swell, he is all “hand-in-glove,”
With manners beseeming high station;
Every female in silk has his greeting of love,
And low bow--and hat salutation.

So much for the wealthy; alas for the poor!
When one of that number approaches,
Such welcome is found, as the comatose boor
Reserves for the foe who encroaches.

Our hero has those who describe him indeed,
’Gainst Vice an unsparing declaimer;
His name it is needless to write or to read,--
What odds be it Dives or Damer!

You’ll stare! he is one who on topics divine,
Has holiday phrases harmonious;
Right Reverend! how many would fondly incline
To think the description erroneous!

The pulpit he mounts, as the tyrant his throne,--
And bawls to the young and the hoary,
With a scowl and a gesture, a stamp and a tone
Which plainly belie his own story.

Does he toil for a master and home in the skies,
While in Mammon’s vile services flurried!
Pray God that he may never “_lift up his eyes_”
With the “_rich man_” who “_died and was buried_.”

_Stafford Cruikshanks._

_THE BURGHERS’ GATHERING._

“Fathers, whose sons have bled!
Sons, who have lost your sires,
Brothers, for brothers dead!
Arouse your martial fires.
Hurl retribution on the foe
That laid your slaughtered kinsmen low.”

Hark! ’tis your country’s call
That swells along the sky;
Come forth, brave Burghers all,
Responsive to the cry!
I hear the trumpet from afar;
It tells of strife and blood and war.

See! from each vale and glen
Pour forth the patriot bands--
A host of stalwart men,
True hearts and steady hands.
Let none be absent from that strife
For home, and liberty, and life.

Long has the combat raged,
Its war-path marked with blood;
Oft have the troops engaged
The foe, yet unsubdued,
For yon brave men, it now remains
Yon kloofs to clear,--to scour yon plains.

Arise then in your might!
Let friend encourage friend;
God will maintain the right;
To Him your cause commend.
On Him in humble faith rely,
And rush to certain victory.

Burghers! to arms! to arms!
Haste, mount each trusty steed!
Heed not the Prophet’s charms,
No hostile numbers heed!
On you your country’s hopes repose,
Her wrongs to avenge--to crush her foes.

Wide, wide then to the skies
Your banner be unfurled!
Your patriot enterprise
Shall ring throughout the world.
Where Britain’s standard waves, each land
Shall hear of your heroic band.

Think of the widow’s wail,
Think of the orphan’s moan!
Think of each harrowing tale,
Altars and hearths o’erthrown!
The midnight prowl--the ambuscade--
The traveller’s homeward path waylaid!

And call to mind the cries,
Fervent and numberless,
That shall to Heaven arise
For safety and success.
Your country breathes one common prayer,
And makes your weal its special care.

And should it prove your lot
To fill a warrior’s grave,
That consecrated spot
Where sleeps “the fallen brave,”
Watered by grateful tears, shall be
Dear to your country’s memory.

Fathers, whose sons have bled!
Sons, who have lost your sires!
Brothers, for brothers dead,
Arouse your martial fires!
Pour swift destruction on the foe
That laid your slaughtered kinsmen low.

_G. Impey._

GRAHAM’S TOWN,
_October 27th, 1851_.

_STORM IN TUGELA VALLEY, NATAL._

When once, at ev’ning’s mellow close,
The round moon lit the sky,
And all beneath in calm repose
In slumber rapt did lie--

Seated on high upon the steep,
Amid the moonlight glow,
I looked upon a valley deep,
And on a river’s flow.

Sudden, across the chasm wide
The heavy thunder growled,
While far below in sullen glide
The noble river rolled.

And now a thousand feet below,
Betwixt me and the stream,
The thunder-cloud, with lightning’s glow,
Obscures the river’s gleam.

Loud and more loud, and all about
The echoing hills among,
The spirits of the tempest shout
Their diapason song.

Full in the midst the cloud now parts,
And wars on different sides,
And through the gap the light moon darts,
Where bright the river glides.

----_Moodie_.

TUGELA, 1868.

_THE NATAL GOLD DIGGINGS._

TO GREENHORNS.

Herr Mauch’s all well I dare can tell--
But don’t you go a digging;
The tetse bites, the nigger fights,
And thieves are always prigging.

The lions growl, the jackals prowl
All round about the waggon;
And when, poor soul, you seize the bowl,
You find an empty flagon.

And sleep at night you cannot quite,
There’s such an endless squalling;
Mosquitos sting, hyenas sing
In human laugh-like brawling.

The zebras bound o’er shaking ground
In many a wild stampedo;
The blesbok, too, and sportive gnu,
Make noise as much as they do.

’Fore break of day you must away
To reach the doubtful water,
And if you’re not a steady shot
You ne’er a buck will slaughter.

So my advice to _Greenhands_ is--
Don’t with the goldfields meddle;
But stick to steak and Simms’ mild make!
And “Smouse” around and “peddle.”

And those who go--I hope they know
The lingo of the “Doppers;”
Their customs too, ’twas well you knew,
To shake them by their floppers.

With stolid stare, your head to bare,
And answer to each query;
From whence you hail, to where you sail,
And if your mother’s cheery.

In Kaffir _kraals_, look out for squalls;
Elope not with the “nieces,”
For if you do, the act you’ll rue
Amongst the “Makateses.”

Mid upper blacks you’ll want an axe,
For there there’s more than one tree;
And gifts a few you’ll carry to
Umziligazi’s country.

And now, good-bye, perhaps you’ll try
With crowbar, pick, and hammer,
To soften down stern Fortune’s frown,
And if you can’t, why, d----r.

----_Moodie_.

_NATURE._

A DAY ON THE HILLS, IN NATAL.

Of Beauty, Joy, and Life and Light, which dwell
In florid nature, be it mine to tell.
Majestic truth! with Beauty at thy side--
Irradiate maid of highest Heaven’s pride;
And thou, undying Harmony, attend,
Romance with fact, and fact with fiction blend.
Bright Virtue bring, by brilliant Fancy drest,
And called by man, Imagination, blest;
That she, companion of the muse, may show
The gentle thoughts that lofty souls should know.

Oh, well do I remember me, when late
I stood upon the beetling crags, to wait
The coming of the rosy-fingered morn,
And view the heavenly tints that thence were born.
Far, far beyond the mountain’s pencilled brow,
Defined so clearly in the mellow glow,
Leucothea grey precedes the flaming dye
With which Aurora paints th’ orient sky;
Robed in dark shadows lies that mountain now,
O’er which bright phosphor lifts his radiant brow,
While, all above, the leaden-coloured sky
Is cloudless to the little moon on high--
And brightly hangs that little circling moon,
Contrasting richly in that dull cartoon.
But oh, the star! the blazing star above,
The morning and the evening star of love,
Sheds silently upon the scene below
The glowing softness of its ardent brow,
Beams o’er the snowy clouds that calmly sleep
In outstretched slumber on the shadowed steep;
And viewed o’er these, assumes a lurid hue,
But flames the brighter for the contrast too--
E’en so as when along the o’ersnowed ways
Some chilly wanderer wakes the ruddy blaze,
It wears a lustre faint and pale, though bright,
And burns the fiercer in the dazzling light.
Essence of love--a tear by Sappho dropped,
Which Jove, in pity, in its falling stopped,
Suffused with light and his immortal fire
And hung above and granted to inspire
Love’s glowing bards, when beauty’s chain entwines
The heart that vents itself in am’rous lines.

Now far below, and o’er the shrouded world
Lie, densely clotted, fields of mist enfurled;
Jutting out that molten sea, the rugged peaks
Seem starting into life, to watch the freaks
Of Nature’s wildest fancy o’er her glades
That lie embosomed in those fleecy shades--
O’er hills and hills the snowy sheet extends,
And peaceful beauty to the landscape lends;
Hushed is all Nature in her slumber there,
And shrouded are her charms in veil so fair.
Now whisp’ring Zephyrs o’er the changing scene
Are sporting, where so late repose has been,
The mist in circling wreaths departs, nor stays
To idly wanton with the airy fays.
And sternly frowns that dusky mountain still,
And marks their fittings over moor and hill;
Like some fell giant of the early days
Beheld the dancing of the sportive fays.
Oh, for the power of Byron or of Moore,
To glow with one, and with the latter soar;
To find a vent for budding fancy’s throes,
And reap the soft luxuriance that she sows;
To snatch a glowing diction’s varied strain,
And paint the fire when it flames again;
So I might well portray fair Nature’s charms,
Depict the bounties of her lavish arms,
Invoke the strains that to the Nine belong,
And roll the happy tide of thrilling song.

But lo! the rainbow tints that fast succeed
Each other, proclaim th’ impatient speed
Of that bright sun that rules our universe,
Of Nature’s joys the sole, the constant nurse;
With burning gold he tips those ebon clouds
Whose jagged banks his glory now enshrouds--
Miniature mountains capped with melting snow--
They now appear ere fading ’fore his brow;
The upshot rays he darts through limpid air,
Through half-closed eyes in varied tints appear
The speedy maid, with bow of varied dye,
Throws beaming pleasure in the gladdened eye;
And from this giant peak on which I muse,
All space seems rife with kaleidoscopic hues.
And now Aurora opes the saffron gates,
And all the glory of the sky awakes--
“He flasheth forth like bridegroom to the feast,
Through the red portals of the fiery east.”
The glittering dew, with brilliant flashing clings
Around the scattered cobweb’s silken strings,
In pearly drops within the lily grows,
Loads the wild violet and the mountain rose;
In silvery sheen arrests each golden ray,
Refracts its stream in multi-coloured play,
As shivered mirrors on a flow’ry lawn
Reflect a thousand tints where one is born,
And filtering through these early morning beams,
Sinks spangling round the smoking mountain streams.

Resuming now my trusty Terry’s weight,
I wander on where fleeting game or fate
Does guide my steps--where o’er the sloping grounds
High in the air the exulting Oribe bounds--
“The rifle raised and levelled with the eye,
Sharp a short thunder rolls along the sky,”
Swift to the unconscious hind the leaden death
Speeds on the wings of fate and stops his breath;
With one quick spring he falls upon the plain,
No more o’er vernal lawns to bound again.
Or, where the wary Rhee buck, wild and shy,
Perceive afar the hunter drawing nigh,
Together rush in one affrighted band,
And wildly gaze and tremble as they stand;
Till fully scared, with one short cough, again
They sweep like wind across the sounding plain.
Where, mute and lonely on the impending steeps,
The mountain hawk his frequent vigil keeps,
With noiseless pinion shoots into the air,
And sails upon the wind that’s wandering there;
With head oblique he scans his native sky,
Then far below his piercing glances hie
To where his dreaded shade portentous sweeps
O’er wilds, where in the sun the coney sleeps;
With sudden fear the rocks with cries resound,
As dive the furry tribe beneath the ground.
Now down I stray to where yon rushing rill
Is tumbling down the rock-defended hill,--
Here grateful winds in many a whispered lay,
With mild impression o’er my forehead stray,
And here reclined, where shadowed flows the stream,
I lend myself to reverie and dream.

Remorseless Time has rolled long years away
Since last I faced wild ocean’s fresh’ning spray,
But still a charmed impression lingers o’er
The heart, when scenes she’s often felt before,
Come crowding on her corners, thick as waves
Roll closely sequent into lonely caves;
Which prompts me to retune my feeble lyre,
And sing the theme of which we never tire;--
But whence this thought that thus the past recalls
That sudden gleams and oft the mind appals?
Without the faintest cause or reason plain,
This lightning thought darts quickly on the brain,
Picturing in the clear mirror of the mind
The distant spot that long we’ve left behind,
In faithful semblance painting on her eye
The bygone scene to mem’ry now so nigh,
And then as sudden flies, unless as here,
We fix the shadow e’er it disappear.
Not ev’ry one has felt this vision leap
With magic bound upon their mem’ry’s sleep,
But some there are, who, startled by the spell,
Retain remembrance to the feeling well;
Each spoken word, each gesture will appear
To have been acted in some former year,
And oft we think we almost can foretell
The next words spoken in this passing spell.

But how shall I essay to shape my way
Through themes, that multi-genius ’fore my day,
Has wrought upon and left no point unviewed,
That varied Nature on their minds imbued?
How through exhausted pictures steer my course,
And shun the oft-used terms that almost force
Themselves upon expression, for they deem
They are the _sine qua nons_ of the theme,
And cling so firmly in the lab’ring breast,
That ’tis beyond its power to divest
Its chambers of these oft-recurring terms,
That stamp their image and implant their germs.
Coincidence of thought will oft produce
The same in words, and thus I do adduce
That censors ne’er will quibble in these times,
Nor scent a plagiarist in these stray lines.
So bear we on with that we have contrived,
Ne’er pausing to reflect from whence derived,
Nor spurn a passage for the reason that
Its semblance was in other brains begat--
For truth will charm though sung in echoed strain,
And changeless scenes instruct the bard again.

With long-swept rise and swiftly gathering sweep,
That seems to rake the bosom of the deep;
With curling crest and tint of lucid blue,
That glows with innate specks of snowy hue;
With pendent pause and darkly swelling breast,
That heaves as lovely woman’s in her rest;
The mighty eastern wave with booming roar
Falls thund’ring on old Afric’s rocky shore.
With busy spread he swamps the crannied rocks,
And now refills a thousand puny locks,
In seething eddies swirls and frets about,
Then shrinking back, he sinks, and hurries out.
Recalled, I ween, by some internal power
That guides his motion and directs his hour;
As does the heart, withdrawing in its turn,
The drop it late emitted from its urn.

Now further down along the sandy beach
The waves seem stretching to their utmost reach,
Then swift receding with the grating sand,
They curl in little rills along the strand,
While myriad tribes of sea-born insect life
Pursue their exit and enjoy their strife;
The fresh’ning sea-breeze spreads her airy wings,
And health and coolness to the seashore brings;
The tumbling porpoise bowl along the tide,
And now aloft, now down the billow glide,
And shrieking sea-birds swooping round the steep,
Skim the gay surface of the cresting deep;
The distant ship, as viewed from Komo’s cliff,
Seems almost dwindled to a fisher’s skiff;
As swiftly gliding o’er the seething surge,
She sinks beyond the horizon’s dusky verge;
While flaming in the painted west again,
“The sun’s last splendour lights the dazzling main.”
Lo! on the flushed horizon rolled along
Dark mountain lines of clouds embattling throng,
Mid blood-tipt peaks of fiercest fiery hue
Intensely sleeps th’ unutterable blue;
While gentle Hesperus from the empurpled sky,
Serenely lustrous as repose draws nigh,
Sinks sweetly smiling to her silken bed,
Where gorgeous robes and pillowing folds are spread,
And darkened Day leaves stretching o’er his grave
Deep crimson stains along the dark-blue wave.

My song has wandered from the mountain stream,
And Ocean’s wonders still employ my dream,
And here the cherished image of the brain
In pensive beauty shades the heart again;
Fond, foolish fancy, ever hov’ring nigh,
Paints her own idol on the wistful eye,
And breeds an atrophy’s insatiate ill,
Which though with nectar slaked, is cheerless still.
Oh, for the witching arts of ancient days,
When mortals, oft transmuted into fays,
Were given to guide the streamlet’s winding course,
And dwell enchanted at its bubbling source,
That I an Oread of my love might make,
To bless my steps through hunting glade or brake,
And roam with her where mountain cascades roll,
The guiding star, the Beatrice of my soul.
But to my theme--the sunny hours flow by,
And still unnumbered objects please the eye;
I watch the bubbles in their endless race,
For ever glancing o’er the brooklet’s face;
Oft at some sailing bud there sudden leaps
The finny darter of the glassy deeps;
While quiv’ring lilies in the current’s sweep,
In dancing movement, ceaseless motion keep;
I watch the butterflies in giddy flights,
Intensely mad, enjoying noon’s delights;
They meet, they turn, they hover here and there,
Then wildly scatter through the heated air.

The sun declines, behind the clouds he steals;
Loud o’er my head the sudden thunder peals,
And winged with lightning, awful echoes wakes
In caves rebellowing to the din it makes--
Dies on the breathless air, the song of birds,
And distant low the homeward wending herds;
The twitt’ring birds now seek the leafy brakes,
The lofty eagle now his perch forsakes,--
Forth from his castled rock he sudden flies,
And shuns in caves the fury of the skies.
Now heavy clouds o’ershade the verdant plain,
Then on the thirsty earth descend in rain;
And now the snowy hail, with rushing sound
Falls from its crystal quarries to the ground.
’Tis past! the sun a moment smiles in joy,
And rides his parting course without alloy;
While Zephyrs coy compound a gentle breeze,
And fan the air, and play among the trees.
Sunk o’er the mount, far in the tinted west,
The hidden sun has now declined to rest;
And ling’ring twilight, gloaming o’er the hill,
Sheds softest influence on the evening still.
I fain would cease, yet many thoughts still flow
Upon my mind, though ever waning low,
As when old Ocean’s billow-beaten shore
Has echoed to the wakened waters’ roar;
The o’erflown storm an agitation leaves
That still the less’ning wavelet on him heaves--
And still these little waves will ceaseless play
As ruling passions ever hold their sway;
Our primal thoughts will ever flow toward
Their consummation of their own accord,
As fountains, scattered o’er a mountain’s side
Will still, unto a point, converging, glide.

High on this hill I sound my rugged shell,
And sweep th’ untutored lyre; and should I swell
A strain of feelings purer than I feel
In th’ envenomed world below, and steal
The precepts of the Ethic muse to sing
Of that I practise not, forgive my string.
For still with joy is hailed the welcome hour
That bears respite from frequent trials’ power;
And all the puling prate of fashion’s twang,
And jarring accents of the city’s clang;
Releasing from the weary humdrum prose
That marks each dreary day’s monot’nous close;
And lifts us from the plain of low desires
To where Imagination never tires,
Where Contemplation plumes her ruffled wings,
And th’ untrammelled mind beholds all things,
As through a stained and softly coloured glass
One views the dream-like trees and waving grass,
And transports where kind Nature oft bestows
A soothing cup--nepenthe of our woes--
And though the harp be swept by bard profane,
If good the theme, the song is ne’er in vain;
For should his simple lay be nursed by fame,
Old Time forgets the follies of his name,
Effaces all the failings of his life,
And rears the strain that softens earthly strife.

And now, farewell!--dark shades enwrap the hill,
O’er dying day the dews in tears distil,
To shine again when with the morrow’s dawn
The golden light and joyous sun are born,
As gathered tears called forth by sorrow’s night,
In Beauty’s eyes, when lit by joy, are bright--
The sable Night, with dusky wings on high,
With silent pace invades the spangling sky--
And distant gleaming on th’ horizon’s verge,
The parting storm rolls out its solemn dirge--
And should this artless strain a thought afford
That strikes in gen’rous breasts a fellow chord,
Then, oh! forgive, that thus I rashly dare
From Nature’s hallowed charms the veil to tear--
But ever with her changing scenes imbued,
Her pleading beauties urge me to intrude.

----_Moodie_.

MELSETTER, _January 1868_.

_CONTENTMENT._

FOR MY MOTHER.

I am content to be
What God has made me: honour and renown
I seek not from this world, nor fear its frown.
God knows and honours me. His child and heir
He made me; then what matters it if here
Unknown and poor I live,--a little while,
And I shall bask in His benignant smile
To all eternity.

I am content to do
What God has bid me: He, the Master, knows
What work I am best fit for, and He shows
Me how to do it. _His_ command is law;
_His_ the responsibility. In awe
And fear of failure, I seek to _obey_
And leave results to _Him_, and daily pray
To be more faithful, true.

I am content to go
Where God sees fit to send me: _everywhere_
His presence I can feel, His sweet voice hear,
His footprints see, His guiding hand discern,
His loving-kindness taste, His precepts learn.
Each step, though dark and difficult the way,
Leads me but _nearer_ to eternal day--
_Farther_ from sin and woe.

I am content to take
Life’s good and ill: the hand that holds the rod,
And blessings too, is guided by my God.
He knows best which I need the most, and will
My cup with joy and sorrow wisely fill.
I wish to listen only to His voice
That bids me in prosperity rejoice,
Or suffer for His sake.

I am content to wait
Till Jesus calls me home.--’Tis true I long
To join in that celestial, happy throng,
And sing His praise, and see Him as He is,
And taste the joys of ransomed souls in bliss;
But still, resigned I wait at His command
Until He come to take me by the hand,
And lead me through the gate.

_Rev. F. J. Ochse._

BEACONSFIELD.

_NOT HERE._

_Here_ is not the place of rest,
Where sin and sorrow reign;
Where sighs and tears show that the heart
Is filled with grief and pain;
Where strength and beauty fade away;
Where flowers bloom but to decay;
Where sweet emotions cannot stay,
But come to go again.

_Now_ is not the time of rest,
While work is to be done;
While every moment hastens by,
And is for ever gone;
While souls are lying in the might
Of Satan, and the shade of night
Is threatening to quench the light
And leave our work undone.

_There_ in yon firmament on high,
Amongst the good and blest,
Where angels sing and seraphs praise--
The brightest and the best--
_There_ will our songs for ever rise
To God, the Object of all eyes,
_There_ we will find in heavenly skies
The _place_ and _time_ to rest.

_Rev. F. J. Ochse._

_REVELATION XXII._

VERSIFIED.

And He showed me a River, whose life-giving waters
Are pure and like crystal so clear.
It flows from the throne of the merciful Father,
And Jesus our Saviour so dear.

In the streets of the City and sides of the river
The Tree of eternal Life grows;
Its fruits are all savoury, its leaves are all healthy,
And healing to every one flows.

No curse shall be found in that city so glorious,
Where God and the Lamb ever reign;
There His servants shall serve Him, His children shall see Him,
His name in their foreheads remain.

No night shall be there,--neither candle nor sunlight,--
The Lord shall in glory there shine;
There in bliss they will reign, for the Lord God hath said it,
The God of the prophets divine.

“Behold, I come quickly, to bless him that keepeth
The sayings and words of this book;
Then seal not these prophecies, telling of judgment,
But let them all into it look.

“The time is at hand, and the unjust shall perish,
The filthy shall filthy remain,
The righteous shall still with more righteousness glitter,
The holy his pureness retain.

“Behold, I come quickly, let all this remember,
My righteous reward is with Me;
And surely to each one will I give a portion,
According as his works shall be.

“As I am the Alpha, so I am Omega,--
The First and the Last and the All;
And he who puts trust in the Offspring of David,
Shall stand and shall nevermore fall.”

The Bride and the Spirit together are saying:
“Oh, come to Him, thirsty one, come!”
And he who will hear it, and he who will have it,
May drink of that water from Home.

Once more He who testifieth all these things saith:
“Surely I will speedily come.”
My heart, with a longing response, gives the answer:
“Even so, Lord Jesus! oh come!”

_Rev. F. J. Ochse._

_EZEKIEL XLVII._ 1-12.

And I saw a little stream
Come trickling out from underneath the altar;
And as it rippled sunward with glad psalter,
It sparkled in its beam.

A tiny stream it was
As it issued from the threshold of its home;
But with growing bulk and power to overcome
The sandy desert, it became at length,
A mighty river, glorious in its strength,
O’er which I could not pass.

Both its sides were lined with trees
All along its strange course through the desert sand.
Trees of fruit and beauty in a barren land--
Trees with healing in their leaves for every pain--
Trees of fragrant odours floating o’er the plain,
Borne by the desert’s breeze.

Into the sea this stream
With strength and vitalising power flowed,
Till everything new life and vigour showed.
Great multitudes of fish this dead sea filled,
Which of its deadly saltness now was healed.
Thus ended my whole dream.

And when I woke methought
I saw God’s mercy, like this stream,--its source
The Upper Sanctuary--this world its course--
The secret of its healing power, the blood
Poured on the altar under which it flowed,--
Free pardon Jesus bought.

The Dead Sea’s awful gloom,--
Fit symbol of this world of death and sin.
Its new state, with the river pouring in
New life and health, where death and silence reigned,--
Fit emblem of the “paradise regained”
From sin’s eternal doom.

_Rev. F. J. Ochse._

_CHANGE._

Yes, all things change in this poor world of ours,--
The ocean’s waves, the sand upon its shores,
The rocks which bound it even slowly change.
Summer’s warm breath makes place for Winter’s cold.
Spring’s youthful freshness, beautiful and gay,
Is doomed to Autumn’s sadness, age, decay.
Life’s phases change: now happiness and joy;
Then misery and sorrow take their turn.
Now health and plenty, shared with loved ones near;
Then pain and sickness, poverty, despair,
For the poor, exiled, friendless wanderer.
Now in _this_ field, with friends and blessings rich,
The labourer works content; then parting comes,
And to a new and unknown sphere he turns
His wandering steps, and hopes and prays and works.
Friends also sometimes change: the tender flower
Of friendship often withers in the blast
Of cruel, sinful scandal, cursed of God.
Others indifferent grow: pleased by new friends,
The old ones are neglected and forgot.
Yes, all things change in this poor world of ours--
God’s love alone remains unchangeable.
His love alone can keep us constant, true.
No blast can wither friendship’s tender flower
That blooms beneath His atmosphere of love.
Then let all things in this poor world of ours
Change and decay;--no matter, we have _God_.
His promises are sure, His blessings great;
His faithful guidance will be ever ours.
A place awaits us in His glorious Home,
Where _we_ shall also be _unchangeable_.

_Rev. F. J. Ochse._

_HEAVENLY FRIENDSHIP._

There is a hand, whose grasp is love,
Though not a lover’s grasp;
Its touch wakes feelings far above
The lover’s fondest clasp.

There is an eye, whose sparkle shows
The tender holy flame
Of deep affection, and o’erflows
With love for each dear name.

There is a heart, whose throbs proclaim
A constant, ceaseless flow
Of life and love for all; the same
In happiness or woe.

A lip, whose words--to man on earth,
Are words of life and peace;
To God, are prayers of priceless worth,
Which never, never cease.

Such is our Saviour dear, our Heavenly Friend.
Most like Him is the mortal friend, who tries
To lead us ever nearer to that land
Where Friendship blooms in sunny, cloudless skies.

_Rev. F. J. Ochse._

_LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM._

From whence comes all this weariness of heart,
This anxious longing for a place of rest,
These greedy cravings for the silent tomb,
Where all in deep forgetfulness repose?
Surely man was not made to while away
His costly time in brooding over wrongs
And disappointments meeting him through life,
As if there were no rays of sunshine left
To gladden him along his way to Heaven.
His life is not an empty, idle dream,
But dread reality, composed of _facts_,
Whose fruits will follow with their just rewards.
He _has_ an object which to live for here;
And if that object be to live for God,
And for the good of those who him surround,
He may consider his a life well spent.
Then let us follow firmly duty’s call
With willing hearts, forgetful of the past,--
Still trusting in the strength and love of God,
Still striving further onward for the crown,
Still rising higher heavenward to our goal,
Till we at last that longed for Home attain,
And rest upon the bosom of our God.

_Rev. F. J. Ochse._

_THE DEFENCE OF RORKE’S DRIFT._

JANUARY 22-23, 1879.

Come listen for a moment,
All ye, whose peaceful life
In even flow is ne’er disturbed
By scenes of blood and strife;
Who sit around your hearth fires,
Secure from war’s alarms;
This humble lay sets forth to-day
A British deed of arms.

Left on the wild, lone border,
A small but fearless band,
Guarding the watery entrance
To savage Zululand;
On the warm mid-day breezes,
Like thunder’s distant sound,
Came the long roll of cannon
Far o’er the hostile ground,
And we wondered that our column
So soon the foe had found.

Then came two flying horsemen
Riding with loosened rein,
And the powdery dust like a whirlwind rose
As they scoured across the plain;
A few more rapid hoof-strokes,
And we heard the news they bore--
“In yonder glen nigh half our men
Lie weltering in their gore!

“’Twas shortly after noontide,
The column was away;
Swept the dark hordes in myriads down
Like wolves upon their prey;
Vainly the deadly hailstorm
Boomed from the cannon loud--
Vainly we tried to stem the tide
Of the black surging crowd.

“Our men, too soon surrounded,
Were slaughtered as they stood,
Facing their slayers to the last,
Dying as soldiers should.
How we escaped we know not,
From that fierce whirlwind’s frown,
But on this post a conquering host
E’en now is marching down!”

As men who dream, we heard them,
And awestruck, stood aghast;
And through each heart there went a chill
Like the breath of an icy blast;
We thought of those who left us
In the glow of their martial pride,
Now with the dead in the slaughter red,
Stark on the wild hill-side.

We looked to our defences
Ere darkness should come on,
And others passed from the fatal field,
They warned us, and were gone;
We called on them to aid us
In the approaching fight--
They would not hear--the voice of fear
Lent wings to their headlong flight.

“The foe comes down in thousands,
Away--for all is lost!”
“Not so--our orders are to hold
The Drift at any cost;
Long has the firing sounded
And succour may be nigh,
If not--why then we’re Englishmen,
At duty’s call we’ll die!”

We set to work undaunted
To raise a barricade,
With mealie bags and scattered stores
A breastwork soon had made;
And scarcely was it finished,
When burst upon our sight,
Dark as the lowering storm-cloud
Sweeps the blue vaulted height,
Moving along the fair hill-side,
In vast black lines extending wide,
Rank upon rank of warriors tried,
In panoply of savage pride
Advancing to the fight.

Above the dusky phalanx
We marked each ring-girt head,
We felt the hard earth tremble
Under their heavy tread,--
The martial tread of thousands
In full array of war--
Each sinewy frame well trained to wield
Broad assegai and tufted shield,
Washed upon many a hard-fought field
In vanquished foeman’s gore.

Yes, on they come in thousands--
One hundred strong we stand,
Against the very pick and flower
Of warrior Zululand:
And how may we resist them,
Or hope to hold our own,
Flushed as they be with victory--
The greatest e’er they’ve known?

They pressed in silence forward
At a swift but steady run,
Red glowed their blades in the golden beams
Of the declining sun;
With gliding undulation,
On, on their masses came--
A mighty crash--a lightning flash--
Streamed the death-dealing flame.
Still the black wave rolled onward--
Again the word rang out,
With the sharp volley’s crackling voice
Arose a deafening shout:
Blent with the rush of thousands
Over the rumbling ground,
The battle-cry pealed to the sky,
Starting the echoes round.

’Tis long since that wild slogan
Rallied these bands to war,
The dreaded hosts of Zululand
Now in the field once more;
Oft have the neighbouring tribesmen,
At the blood-curdling tone,
Awoke in the calm still hours of night,
To flee by their blazing kraals’ red light,
To forest thickets lone.

’Neath far Quathlamba’s ridges
Cut clear against the sky,
Where now, upon those grassy slopes,
Snug homesteads nestling lie;
As sweeping down resistless,
A black o’erwhelming flood,
The ruthless hordes fell on their prey,
And broad their dark destroying way
Was long mapped out, for many a day,
By ruins soaked in blood.

Their forward van all shaken,
They wavered--then fell back--
Bestrewn with dark grim corpses
Was all the gory track:
They turned to seek for cover,
They’d seen what we could do,
And overhead, with angry whiz,
Like hail their bullets flew.

And by their hosts surrounded,
Nigh forty men to one,
We vainly scanned the darkling waste
Ere twilight should be done;
As waif on the wide ocean,
Looks for the rescuing sail,
When dim shades sweep the surging deep,
And louder roars the gale.

Behind the western ridges
The sun’s red lamp sank down,
The twilight shadows seemed to cast
O’er all a threatening frown;
We gazed with mingled feelings
On the last-fading beam,
Should we, too, lie ’neath the cold grey sky,
Stark in the dawning gleam?

We looked at one another,
Then at the purpling west,
Then came the thought of our noble trust,
Filling each soldier breast;
And there, that trust defending,
We’d perish as we stood--
Telling of death seemed the night-wind’s breath,
Heavy and dank with blood.

Again the thrilling war-cry
In wild shrill notes rang out,
Again th’ infuriate mass bore down
Upon our frail redoubt;
They poured their swarming numbers
Over the barricade--
But one short stand, our gallant band
That first mad onslaught stayed.

Yet fiercer still and bolder
They rushed into the fight--
When to the smoke-beclouded sky
Shone a dull reddening light:
With a chill of consternation
We marked the lurid glare,
Knowing that then our wounded men
Were helpless lying there.

Then from the glowing furnace
We brought them one by one,
But the foe closed up too quickly,
Ere half our work was done;
We faced the yelling masses,
We braved the crackling fire,
Till through the smoke the fierce flame broke,
Forcing us to retire.

The cruel demons entered,
All eager for their prey,
The helpless sick and wounded
Were butchered as they lay;
As the huge flames roared upward
With red and hungry light,
In the fierce glare that met us there--
Stood all revealed the fight.

Widened the glowing circle
Crowded with clamouring bands,
All weirdly shone the flashing blades
Brandished by grisly hands;
Again, again upon us,
Poured the dark howling flood,
Quivered the ground beneath their bound,
Red with our comrades’ blood.

We thought of these comrades butchered
As they unresisting lay;
We ceased to give a passing care
To the issue of the fray;
We only longed for vengeance
On all the fiendish crew,
To let them feel our British steel,
To strike both oft and true.

The flaming pile sank inwards
With a roar like thunder’s tone;
Arose a sickening stench of blood
And many a gurgling moan;
Still the terrific war-cry
Blent with our furious shout,
Harder they pressed upon us--
Quicker we drove them out--
Hurling them back in the gory track,
Upon the clamouring rout.

And eyes with lust of carnage,
Like coals through the darkness gleamed,
And bayonet crashed with stabbing spear,
Thick the red torrent streamed:
Drowning the roar of battle--
Drowning the deafening clang--
Each demon yell, like a blast of hell,
Fiercer and higher rang.

Still the bright volley’s flashing
Showed the wild frenzied crowd,
Their shields and spear-hafts clashing--
Their war shouts pealing loud--
And myriad eyeballs glowing,
Like starlit ocean tossed--
And blood, like water, flowing,
When splintering weapons crossed.

Our bayonets blunt and twisted,
All dripping black with gore;
And many an open bleeding gash
Its own grim witness bore;
Our brains all faint and dizzy,
Our throats all parched with thirst,
At every shot our guns grew hot
As though about to burst.

Again, again, we met them
Through the long fearful night;
We fought as ne’er we fought before
And ne’er again may fight,
To ’venge our slaughtered comrades,
To guard our solemn trust,
And to reclaim our country’s name
Trampled in savage dust.

We stood upon our rampart,
As paled the morning star,
We saw the baffled foe retreat
Over the hills afar;
The long night’s deadly struggle
Seemed like a troubled dream--
Our peril passed, new hope at last
Came with the dawning gleam.

Piled high against our breastwork,
And scattered o’er the plain,
Four hundred of their warrior strength
Lay stark amid the slain--
Lay where their fierce hot lifeblood
The greedy earth had wet--
Still terrible, in threatening scowl,
Each grim dead face was set.

Our strength and ammunition
Alike were well-nigh spent--
On an approaching dust-cloud
Our eager glance was bent,
There moving slow and rising,
Far in the hostile land,
Till, through the haze, our straining gaze
Descried an armèd band.

Is it the foe returning,
’Gainst us in greater strength?--
We watched the distant column
Deploying in its length:
Hurrah--the British scarlet
Gleams in the morning sun--
We’ll see once more old England’s shore,
Her thanks we’ve fairly won.

Yes, for old England’s honour
And for her perilled might,
We strove with vast and whelming odds,
From eve till morning light;
And thus with front unflinching,
One hundred strong we stood,
And held the post ’gainst a maddened host
Drunken with British blood.

And twelve from out our number
Their brave career had run,
Their final muster-roll had passed,
And their last duty done;
So carefully we laid them
Deep in the green earth’s breast,
An alien sod above them trod;--
Peace with their ashes rest!

Her sons, in gallant story,
Shall sound old England’s fame,
And by fresh deeds of glory
Shall keep alive her name;
And when, above her triumphs,
The golden curtains lift--
Be treasured long, in page and song,
The memory of RORKE’S DRIFT.

_Bertram Mitford._

“_RORKE’S DRIFT._”

JANUARY 22, 1879.

On the wild river’s bank two horsemen appear,
They are bearers of tidings that fill them with fear;
“Haste, put us across, and prepare for the fight,
The Zulus are out in their uttermost might;
They rushed on our camp like a dark hungry flood,
And their spears are all red with our countrymen’s blood.”
“Hurrah, we will fight for Old England.”