Chapter II: Night (3)

We heard them, a moment our pulses stood still,
Then went we to work with a heart and a will--
Two stores to defend--with a hundred, all told,
And thirty sick mates. “Come, boys, let’s be bold;
Let’s fasten the waggons together with chain,
And build up our ramparts with sacks full of grain.”
“Hurrah, we will fight for Old England.”

What is that coming on like a herd of black game,
Round the hill to the south, with the speed of a flame,
With feathery plumes like wild manes flaunting high,
And a sound like a myriad wings in the sky?
The _Zulus_! for now in the sun’s glance appears
The quivering lightning-like sheen of their spears.
“Now, boys, let us fight for Old England.”

_They are on us!_ Six hundred at first, with wild cries--
The lust of the battle still red in their eyes--
The blood of our comrades still wet on each blade,
And see! there come thousands behind to their aid--
But, thanks to the heads that directed our hands,
All firm and unbroken our little camp stands.
“Hurrah, we will fight for Old England.”

It stands like a rock the Atlantic’s wild wave
Breaks over and harms not.--We took and we gave--
They leapt on our “walls” with stab, hiss, and yell--
They came on in thousands, dark legions from hell!
Our bayonets were ready, our rifles were _there_,
And their small tongues of flame spoke of death in the air!
“Hurrah, how we fought for Old England.”

They took half our fort--foot by foot--inch by inch--
They lighted the roof, and yet none would flinch;
We threw up another redoubt with the maize,
And fought by the light of the hospital blaze
When the darkness came down--and all through the night
Surrounded, we kept up the terrible fight.
“Hurrah, how we fought for Old England!”

Ah! who shall declare what brave deeds were done,
Ere the world woke again to the light of the sun?
For twelve long, long hours we stood at our posts,
And beat back, how often! the enemy’s hosts.
We had our revenge for the blood that was shed,
At dark “Isandhlwana”--_they paid for our dead_.
“Hurrah, how we fought for Old England.”

Day broke, and the devils had silently gone,
We counted their dead, more than twenty to one!
Our loss was Fifteen--so we set up a shout
That frightened the vultures slow sailing about.

* * * * *

In the heart thrill of nations will live your reward,
Oh! brave “Twenty-fourth,” oh! brave Bromhead and Chard--
“Hurrah, how you fought for Old England.”

_A. Brodrick._

PRETORIA, 1882.

_BEFORE ULUNDI._

We had to retreat, entirely by Zulus surrounded--
We had to retreat, but we cut our way through as you know.
Bold Beresford lingered, while loudly the bugle was sounded,
And turned in his saddle to take a last look at the foe.

A trooper’s horse dropped; its rider lay stunned for a minute--
But quick as the lightning the storm-cloud in summer reveals,
A voice cried, “Come, quick! see the stirrup--now set your foot in it--
And jump up behind, for the devils are close to our heels.”

“No, here I’ll remain. Go on, and don’t mind me, your honour,
Ride on, save yourself, if I’m killed I shall never be missed.”
But the mare had to carry that day double burden upon her--
“Come up, or by heaven, I’ll give you the weight of my fist.”

Then away went the mare, and many a yell from pursuer
Rose high on the air while fast o’er the wild veld they fled,
No braver heart beat on that day, no braver or truer
Than his whose strong arm snatched a comrade from realms of the dead.

Ere sundown they rode into camp and quickly dismounted,
And then they shook hands and parted, “To arms!” was the call.
Of all the good deeds that were done, oh! shall not be counted
Bold Beresford’s ride with the Sergeant the bravest of all?

_A. Brodrick._

PRETORIA, 1882.

_THE BARON’S ADVENTURE._

(A FACT.)

Voici une pétite chanson
Pour le Baron de Sanson
A story--a tale, what you call episode--
On the trials he meet
Wiz his cart (de visite)
On ze laissez-faire, what you call Idle-burg Road.

You know how he state
Dis country is great?
And most be duv-velop, c’est vrai, it is true--
Vel, listen my story--
I tell con amore,
Ze Baron he nearly vos duvvel op too.

Ze chemin vos von mud,
Ze rain vos ze vlood,--
He arrive by ze river, ze water vos “grand,”
His friend look to him
And say, “Can you swim?”
Zen jomp comme un poisson and sit on ze land.

Mais le Baron vos tumble,
He make one big jumble,
And mix vis ze buggy and turn razzer pale,
And ze friend, he that voss up
Say to me, “It’s von toss up
What side is ze Baron, ze head of ze tail?”

We make a big screamin’,
Zey fling a big reim in--
Zey catch ze brave Baron--comme ça--par la jambe--
Ze clothes vos departed,
He sigh, zen he started--
And after some cognac he say, “Vare I am?”

Ah! but he vos plucky,
He say he vos “lucky”--
He vos bruise on his back, and scratch on his knees--
Ze horses vare no vare!
Ze buggy turn ovare!
So he walk for five miles--in top boots and chemise?

_A. Brodrick._

PRETORIA, 1882.

_SOUTH AFRICAN COURTSHIP._

The girl I love was bred and born
Close to the “winding” neck of Horn,[20]
’Neath Cashan’s purple splendour.
She is so fair, she is so good,
That, in her simple womanhood,
You cannot mar or mend her.

You cannot mar her or improve--
Her voice is like the wild wood dove
Cooing by river branches,
Her neck (unlike the neck of Horn)
Is white as Alpine snow down-borne
By summer avalanches.

She is as graceful as the beech--
Her lips are ripe as blooming peach,
Or like small twin tomatoes;
Her hair is black, her earrings jet,
Nature and art together met--
For she to each a part owes.

Her teeth are white as sea-cow’s tusk,
And gleam upon you in the dusk--
Her eyes blue as seringa;
Her foot is shapely, and her hand,
And on her finger shines a band
Of gold--her little finger!

I saw her standing on a chair
In a dark orange grove--aware,
I fancy, of my presence;
For though she neither looked nor turned,
Her cheek with more than sunset burned,
As if she felt Love’s essence.

She raised herself upon her toes--
Regardless of her boots and hose
(The day was one of March’s),
She picked the fruit above her head,
And softly as a Zephyr said,
“Mij oompie, bier is nartjes.”[21]

I took the fruit, I took her hand--
I squeezed them both--you understand?
I said, “Oh! let us wander
Beyond this darksome orange grove,
And talk of cattle--or of Love--
My gentle Afrikander.”[22]

I spoke to her in broken Dutch,
Or damaged English with a touch
Of “Afrikander” in it.
I said to her--what did I say?
I said “ah! ja,” I said “ah! nay,”
And said so every minute.

I said “ah! ja, ik dank _u_ veel,”[23]
I’d thrown away the “nartje” peel
And sucked the juices there-in;
I said “I love you,” fruitful theme,
In such a case (I do not dream)
A man becomes Man-darin.

She stood just then as once stood Ruth,
“Amid the alien corn”--in truth
’Twas at no latticed casement--
’Twas in her father’s “mealie” ground
I spoke--she started at the sound
In mealies and a_maze_ment.

Oh! wonder not such things are done
So quickly ’neath a tropic sun--
“There is no time to tarry”--
Love ripens faster than the pine,
The Lover says “Will you be mine?”
Next week they go and marry.

I told her of my cows and calves,
And how with Thomson I was “halves,”
And totted up the figures--
How waggons of my own, one, two,
Were earning much at Se-coo-coo-
Ni’s, fighting ’gainst the niggers.

I told her that I was an Earl
Disguised--she swallowed it, dear girl--
I said I would repay her,
If she would give her heart to me,
A man used to society,
A gentleman “Karreweijer.”[24]

She said she’d cows and calves as well,
And oxen too, which she could sell--
A “rustbank”[25] chair and poodle,
And breathing then a pensive sigh
She said, “some land too, by and by,
A fourth of father’s _boedel_.”[26]

We sought her Pa--he smoking sat,
Beside him dogs upon a mat;
He relished it, like butter--
He dropped his pipe and heaved a sigh,
Then took a “tot”--then winked his eye
And said, “Neef jij kan vat haar.”[27]

So when I wed her, I shall “trek,”
And go and live near Horn’s long neck--
’Neath Cashan’s regal splendour;
Around her neck I’ll place my arm,
I’ll get a quarter of the farm--
And throughout life defend her!

_A. Brodrick._

PRETORIA, 1882.

_THE BETTER LAND._

AFTER SHEMANS.

I hear thee speak of a better land,
Where farms are picked up, and the veld is grand;
Where game is plenty, and Natives weak,
And will work without giving us (gratis) cheek.
Father, oh! where is that home for the Boer?
Shall we not seek it and slave no more?
We will, we will, my child!

Is it far away where the placid breast
Of N’Gami shines in “the purple west?”
Is it where Hermanus two years ago,
Found elephant, sea-cow, and buffalo?
Is it wooded or plain, inclined for flats?
Is it far, far north by old Selekats?
Not there, not there, my child!

Is it past the Blueberg, and through the fly,
Where the men of Zoutpansberg used to die?
Is it north of Mapog or Sekookoon,
Where Mauch beheld Mrs. Sheba’s “_Roon_?”
Near Origstadt or St. Lucia’s Bay,
Where heaps of the bones of our fathers lay?
Not there, not there, my child!

Is it on Zambesi, that mooi stream,
Where the veld’s so thick that the cows’ milk’s cream,
Where the sun’s so hot that all day we sleep--
Where Law and Government will be cheap?
Is it through the sand?--on the desert’s hem?
Oom Piet--oh! is it Gee-roo-salem?
Not there, not there, my child!

I have not seen it, my gentle neef,
It belongs to no regular King or Chief;
But far to the west, and near the sea,
Where the Damaras’ dwell (spelt with capital “D.”)
There is the land of our Hope--and Doom,
Far beyond Secheel, and beyond Sekoom.
It is there, it is THERE, my child!

_A. Brodrick._

PRETORIA, TRANSVAAL, 1879.

“_DOLLY._”

A REMEMBRANCE.

Hers was the voice that moved us when we woke,
In childish prattle, or in broken song,
Hers was the smile, that like a sunbeam broke
Through all our clouds, and shone all cares among.
And now, like dearest things of priceless cost,
We only feel her value, when she’s lost.

So small, so young, and yet she made a place
We ne’er can fill, which never can be filled;
Where e’er we turn, we still can see her face,
And in the silent night our hearts are thrilled
By her small voice, as if what was our own
Feared yet to leave us, and to be alone.

We only understand our bitter loss,
But not the little life so filled with pain,
We cannot understand the heavy cross
Borne by our darling flower without a stain:
We only know a grace has from us passed,
And a dark cloud upon our lives is cast.

Her little playmates stood with awe and love
Around her grave, and sang the while she slept;
But when the bright blue sky was hidden above,
They stood in silence, and in silence wept;
They knew her little feet would never tread
Again this earth, which covered her fair head.

Farewell, dear child! We still shall touch thy hand,
We still shall see thy face, and hear thy tongue.
Where art thou? In the far-off heavenly land,
With Christ’s protecting love around thee thrown?
Where art thou? Shall we meet thee ne’er to part,
And know thee as of old--Light of our heart?

_A. Brodrick._

PRETORIA, _November 17, 1874_.

_GOING HOME._

FROM THE TRANSVAAL TO ENGLAND.

Why are we going? Joking apart--
To wake our soul, and lift our heart,
To wear the crust from the mildewed brain,
And stand in the ranks of the world again.
To see, hear, feel, each beauteous thing;
That civilisation alone can bring;
To walk ’neath roofs that knew the flow
Of music, centuries ago;
To stand in temples where have trod,
For ages, worshippers of God;
To stand by marts where Argosies
At anchor lie, from distant seas,
Ships that say: “all _’neath_ the sun
By ties of nature are made one;”
Ships that tell with their white wings furled
How throbs _with one great pulse the world_!

Why are we going? To see, though men,
The Home where we lived as boys, again;
To see _her_ face in its sunset glow,
That lighted the Home of our _Long ago_,
To feel our rough rind fall away,
And our hearts receive the light of day.
Let us drop the pen, and the lightsome word,
And think of that dear old Home. How stirred
Are memories as we sit and sigh,
And the years on lightning feet flit by,
And the patient Love, the watchful care,
Rise out of the distant landscape fair,
And a word of deepest love will rise
For her, who now longs with tear-filled eyes
To welcome the way-worn wand’rer _home_,
Just as of old her boy will come!
No change in the love, that bore all ills,
As eternal as God’s own grassy hills.

_A. Brodrick._

PRETORIA, 1879.

_THE OXFORD BIBLE._

ON WORN-OUT SAILS BEING USED AS MATERIAL FOR THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER ON WHICH BIBLES ARE PRINTED.

The breezes free of the great white sea
Have filled us with strength and life;
And the ocean gales have driven our sails
In the midst of the billows’ strife.

To the South from North have we oft gone forth
To sail o’er the bright sunny seas;
We’ve been kissed by an air most pure and fair,
And been lulled by the evening breeze.

Full many a time, in a tropic clime,
We’ve been wooed by the sun’s hot breath,
And mid frozen hail we have felt the flail
Of the Lord of the Ice and Death.

Under stormy skies, amid Nature’s cries,
We have struggled and fought for life,
And then wearied and worn with work well borne,
We have finished our early strife.

Our labours had ceased, and we were released
From the sun and the winds and the gales,
Our voyages passed, we sank down at last
As old, tattered, and worn-out sails.

But we now rise again with glad refrain,
We rise in a book of peace,
Amid hymn and psalm, and words of balm,
And a message which ne’er shall cease.

And risen we find our sea is the mind,
Our voyage is fair and free;
Through brain and through soul, we pass to the goal
Of God and Eternity.

_Marie._

_THE LAST MISSION OF THE SAILS._

The sails of the ships are lying,
White on the floor of the mill,
Scarr’d with the wounds of the weather,
But sweet with the sea scent still.
Fresh from the spray of the sunshine,
And braving the tempest’s rage,
To the whirr and the hum of the wheels they come,
And the calm of the printed page.

Aloft from the spreading yard-arms,
They bent o’er the distant seas,
To the blast of the frozen Horn
Or sigh of the tropic breeze.
A message of might is tokened
On the cloths of each tattered sail,
For they bear the brand of the Storm King’s hand
In the strain of the sea and gale.

In a fairer form, and purer,
They come from the mill at last,
Transformed, as man hereafter,
When the wondrous change is past.
Between the boards of the Bible
The sails of the ships shall rest,
While they speed again o’er the troubled main
With the Master’s Word impressed.

_Adamastor._

_THE WORN-OUT SAILS._

Take down the sails, the worn and ragged sails,
Let them no longer flutter in the breeze,
And bear the gallant vessels to and fro
Over the seas, the blue and smiling seas.

They are so old, and worn, and tattered now,
Their work is done--shall they be cast away
As worthless rubbish, only fit to lie
And moulder in the dust-heaps, to decay?

No; put them to a greater, nobler use,
Give them a better purpose than before,
When the sun shone upon them white and new,
And when from shore to shore the ships they bore.

Wash all their dust, and stains, and spots away,
And fashion from them paper pure and fair,
And then when this thou hast completed, in
The leaves let God’s own blessed word appear.

Let the glad message of the Gospel shine
Upon the unsullied whiteness of each page,
The gentle words our blessèd Saviour spoke,
And the grand thoughts of prophets old and sage.

The worn-out sails, great service they have done,
We will not let them perish and decay,
This, their last work, the greatest and the best,
It shall preserve them in our land for aye.

The stately ships that sail the ocean wide,
Can England guard from foe and hostile band;
But God’s word in the people’s hearts, is still
The secret of the greatness of our land.

_E. L. B._ (_Alice_).

_IN MEMORIAM._

Gordon is dead: and lo! the unconscious wire
Carries the mournful message on its way,
Girdling the globe with news of direst truth,
From Egypt’s minarets to broad Cathay.

The Christian soldier, and the Christian man,
Sleeps by the side of Nile’s historic wave,
Rescued by Death, his freedom is secured,
And now he wears the garments of the brave.

In vain the stubborn fight of Abu Klea;
In vain Metammeh’s more than brilliant charge;
Gordon is dead; England is craped in black,
And funeral echoes pall the world at large.

’Twas treachery that struck the fatal blow;
Traitors within the walls of far Khartoum,
Laid the invincible for ever low,
And sealed their own irrevocable doom.

Vengeance is sometimes slow but always sure,
The might of England rushes to the fray,
Even now the Mahdi’s reign is almost o’er;
Vengeance is England’s, and she will repay.

Forward, Sir Garnet! even here our eyes
And ears are strained for victory’s sights and sounds;
We wait for tidings, for indeed we know
In British armour bravery still abounds.

Forward! and soon the victory shall be yours,
Avenge the slaughtered dead about Khartoum,
Nail to the colours England’s last commands,
Stern and sincere, “Room for Sir Garnet, room!”

Forward; and drive the Arab hordes beyond
The reach of Nile’s exhilarating flood,
And teach fanaticism what it means
To traffic heedlessly in Christian blood.

_Garret Brown._

_EPITAPH ON A DIAMOND DIGGER._

Here lies a digger, all his chips departed--
A splint of nature, bright, and ne’er down-hearted:
He worked in many claims, but now (though stumped)
He’s got a claim above that can’t be jumped.
May he turn out a pure and spotless “wight,”
When the Great Judge shall sift the wrong from right,
And may his soul, released from this low Babel,
Be found a gem on God’s great sorting table.

_A. Brodrick._

KIMBERLEY, 1875.

_AFRIC’S GREETING_

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS ALEXANDRA, PRINCESS OF WALES, ON HER WEDDING DAY, MARCH 10, 1863.

Royal Lady! O’er the ocean
Afric’s greeting speeds to thee!
Borne on sighs of fond emotion;
Full of loyal, true devotion;
Honest, candid, open, free,
Just what Britons’ love should be.
Fresh from every heart and hand;
Warm as is our sunny land;
Hopeful as the future life
Must be, of our Albert’s wife;
Full of frank and honest pride,
As thy husband at thy side
Must be, owning thee as bride.
Lady! o’er Britannia’s sea
Afric’s greeting speeds to thee!

Lady! though we are not near thee--
Far by wave and storm exiled:--
Twofold is the love we bear thee--
Love of parent and of child.
Parent’s love, for thy youth still hath
Claim to parent’s anxious care;
Child’s love, for when Heaven willeth
Thou that honoured throne must share;
Then, as now, our hearts will greet thee,
Though _far distant be the day_;
For we love our peerless Sov’reign
And would keep her while we may.

That pure reign which comes before thee,
Crowned by virtues erst unknown,
Teaches thee a golden secret
Ne’er before to monarchs known.
Teaches thee the golden secret,
Won by virtue from above,
HOW TO RULE A LOYAL PEOPLE
AND RETAIN THEIR FERVENT LOVE.
Imitate it! Emulate it!
Thus our hopes of thee fulfil;--
Thus thy great and loyal people
Will be great and loyal still.
Thus, dear lady, o’er the sea
Afric hopes and prays for thee!

_H. W. Bidwell._

GRAHAMSTOWN, _May 1863_.

_ROBERT GODLINTON._

Born in London, September 1794; died at Grahamstown, 30th May 1884.

Mourn, Africa! your oldest, noblest sage
Sleeps the long sleep. Your noblest? Aye! for he
Whose name the roll of true nobility
Next heads, may well be proud. How bright a page
His history fills. The _Franklin_ of our age,
Who wrought for Truth, for Liberty, and Light.
The aim of all his fourscore years and ten
Was “Peace on earth and good will towards men;”
Right for the wrongèd weak--for wronging right
Confusion. How he strove with sword, tongue, pen,
As soldier, statesman, writer! giving all
The glorious dower of his heart and brain
To us and God: until He took again
The life, which could we, we would fain recall.
The measure of his influence who can tell?--
We know not whether from that distant home
To which th’ All-Wise has ta’en him, he may come
In spirit to the land he served so well.
But this we know:--The good that he has wrought,
Th’ examples set, the lessons he has taught,
As scattered seed on Time’s e’er-rolling flood
Immortal are, and can but work us good.

_H. W. Bidwell._

_THE DIAMOND DIGGER._

ON FINDING HIS FIRST LARGE DIAMOND.

(_From the drama “I. D. B.”_)

What change of luck! O Fortune! they have well
Compared thee to a woman;--ever flying,
But luring on, when Hope-led we pursue;--
And when we scorn thee, coming back, all smiles,
O’erwhelming us with richest, choicest favours.
(_Looks at the diamond._) Can it be real?--Can I believe my eyes?
A gem like thee would grace a monarch’s crown;
Aye! and would buy his empire from him too.
For smaller and less precious gems than thee
Have monarchs been betrayed and empires sold.
For less than thee, Beauties, whose hearts of steel
Not all the worship of true love could move,
Have given their charms to arms they else had loathed.
But oh! thou glittering bauble! Canst thou buy
One sigh of pure affection! one small grain
Of Truth?--Call back the loved ones gone?
Give respite to the wretch condemned to die?
Or win redemption for a soul that’s lost?
Ah, no! Truth is the bright, pure gem!
Compared with her thou’rt very dross indeed.
Yet thou art mine! mine! mine! my own!
Mine only! And as yet no other eyes
But mine have gazed upon thy dazzling splendour.
How strange it seems that thou who hast lain hid
Down in the very heart of Earth; and in
The very womb, as ’twere, of hoary Time,
Cycles long, long ere History was born,
Now comest forth, like some new-chos’n Sultana
From the zenana’s gloom, where all her light,
Her glory, and her beauty, blazed in vain!
The fabled Sleeping Beauty sure thou wert!
I the proud Prince whose vivifying touch
Called thee to light and gave thy splendour life;--
The thought is overpowering; and the feeling
With which I call thee mine is not all joy.
I’ve heard how gems like thee, which it has cost
The owners years of patient toil to win,
Have caused their death when won;--that woe, not bliss,
Have followed their possession; and a thrill
While now I clutch thee seemeth to forebode
Some coming evil. Were it known I go
About with a king’s ransom in my pocket,
My life would not be safe. No! I must hide
Thee as a thief would hide his stolen prize.

_H. W. Bidwell._

_THE LAST OF THE BOWKERS._

A DIRGE.

Alas! Is it true that the great R. M. Bowker
No longer in Parliament covets a place?
But follows his brethren--this gigantic joker?
The greatest--the last of a very slow race.

First Thomas the tartar; then William the wailer,
Knocked under; they couldn’t keep pace with the age.
Now the last of the trio, great Robert the _railer_,
Has made his _Bow cur_tly and gone from the stage.

But oh! in the Senate the _gap_, will be shocking!
Long, long will be missed that cantankerous face--
He stood six feet three in his veldschoen and stocking.
’Twill take a braw chiel, mon, to _fill up_ his place.

Though his broadcloth was broadest, his humour was broader--
Though his legs were the longest, the length of his jaw
Out-did them; yet he was ne’er once called to order,
By the fierce little knight whose mere wig’s nod was law.[28]

There may in the future be low jokes and high jokes;
And good jokes and jokes good for nothing at all--
But no more his sly jokes, his wry jokes and dry jokes--
For this _flower_ of all jokers is gone to the _wall_.

But oh! on the road, as life’s journey we drag on,
Whether main road or branch, Grief will turn on _her_ main,
To think how that highly distinguished buck wagon
Will ne’er take that _buck_ of a _wag on_ again.

Yet, a paradox, trekking along on the mail road,
He was, as I’ll prove, though ’twill nothing avail.
Though he growled at the railroad and kept the old frail road,
The whole of his journey he kept _on the rail_.

But what of the “House” without one Bowker in it?
Like a waggon deprived of its break, down ’twill go,
And the whole span of Parliament into infinite
Disorder will rush, with their _Achter os flauw_.

Well, peace to the _manes_ of these shaggy old lions!
May the song of the steam-engine lull them to rest;
May they, free from “obstruction,” “protest,” and “defiance”
(But not in a buck-waggon) go to the blest.

Be this their escutcheon:--A steam-engine rampant,
A patriot floored on the floor of the “House,”
A skinned nigger salient--sixteen oxen couchant,
A waggon smashed up, and a broken-down smouse.

_H. W. Bidwell._

UITENHAGE, _May 21_.

_THE DRUNKARD’S CHILD._

FOUNDED ON ONE OF J. B. GOUGH’S THRILLING ANECDOTES.

“I cannot spare that book, papa--
Take all I have beside;
But that my poor, my dear mamma,
Gave me the day she died,
“And bade me keep it for her sake;--
If all your money’s spent
Sell all my toys, but do not take
My little Testament!

“She told me that I there might read
The way to heaven above.
I cannot part with it indeed!--
Her last dear gift of love.”

There stood beside that couch of straw,
All haggard, wretched, wild,
The drunkard father, staggering o’er
His sweet but dying child.

And as she spoke, a father’s tear
Stole down his bloated cheek;
And thus he cried, “Hush, Fanny dear!
’Tis not your book I seek.

“But oh! this cursed, burning thirst,
Has made me mad, I think;
I take your book!--I’d perish first--
And yet I must have drink!--

“Come, child! no more that sad pale look!--
There--dry your weeping eye,
I would not steal your little book
For all the world--not I!”

Her sighs and sobs are now at rest,
For see! the maiden sleeps;--
But closely to her little book,
The Testament, she keeps.

There bathed in beauteous tears she lay,
Like some half drooping flower,
Cropt ere the sun had kissed away
The grief of evening’s hour.

There stood the man; his burning tongue
Half cursing his intent,
As stealthily from Fanny’s breast
He took the Testament.

Not all a father’s love could break
The dread, the cursed spell
That binds the drunkard to his glass,
And drags his soul to hell.

But deaf to sweet affection’s voice,
Dead to the fear of sin,
Away he bore the cherished pledge
And bartered it for gin.

Now once again he dares beside
That wretched couch to stand;
And gazes on his dying child
The bottle in his hand.--

How shall he meet her dying face?
He dare not, cannot think,
But all reflection, all disgrace
Drowns in absorbing drink,--

But see! his little daughter wakes,
And seeks her book in vain,
Yet murmurs not--how calm she takes
The sickness and the pain.

But though the ghastly hues of death
O’er her wan features roll,
A beam of immortality
Is borrowed from the soul,

That lightens up her waning eye
With an unearthly light,
That tells the spirit plumes its wings
For an eternal flight.

“Father,” she cried, “I’m dying now;
Nay, father! do not weep!--
I know you took my Testament
When I was fast asleep.

“But I forgive you, father dear!
Come!--sit down by my side!--
Say! do you think I’ll get to heaven?
You know how hard I’ve tried.

“I think I shall--I know I shall--
For in my book I read
‘_Let little children come to Me_,’
That’s what the Saviour said.

“But, father, when I get to heaven
And my poor dear mamma,
And all those angels pure and bright
Shall speak of you, papa!

“And ask me what you did with it,
My mother’s darling book--
What shall your Fanny say to them?--
Father!--how ill you look!”--

“Oh! mercy, child!” the father cries,
“What hope is there for me,
Oh! I have broken all the ties
Of loved humanity!--

“See here!” and with a dreadful oath
The bottle down he cast--
“Thus do I break the drunkard’s chains
--I’ve freed myself at last.”

“Nay! curse not, father dear, but pray.”--
“How can I pray,” he cried.
“I’ll teach you, father; come this way!--
There--kneel down by my side!”--

He knelt, and in response to her,
Repeated word for word--
“_To me a sinner deep and black
Be merciful, O Lord!_”

She died--and as the angels bore
Her little spirit home,
They sang in joy o’er the drunkard’s soul
Thus rescued from its doom.[29]

_H. W. Bidwell._

_THE ANGEL’S MESSAGE._

’Twas a beautiful evening:--towards the calm west
The god of the summer triumphantly rolled;
As the glory gates oped to receive their bright guest
They let out a torrent of heaven’s own gold.

It mellowed the lawn, where the poplar’s tall spire
Threw a shade, which dissolved as it longer became.
It lit up the hall like a temple of fire
As its old Norman windows reflected the flame.

All was silent; for Philomel yet did not raise
His song, which both sadness and rapture inspire:
The thrush and finch ceased their vesper of praise
To gaze on the glory: and mutely admire.

The newly born zephyr, so gentle and mild,
Strayed over the lawn to a chamber above,
Where her sad mother sighed o’er her withering child,
The frail blossom born of unsanctified love.

Oh! the sigh from an innocent heart--like the breeze
Which distils from the flowers those essences rare,
Too subtle for e’en the inquisitive bees--
Is laden with sweetness that medicines care.

But not so the breathings exhaled from the breast
Where guilt makes a sepulchre, shame finds a home;
And the hope that with virtue alone deigns to rest,
With its heavenly solace may never more come.

Yet the scene was so tranquil, the grandeur so calm,
That its influence e’en to that sad heart would steal;
Like an angel of charity pouring its balm
To soothe the deep wound that it never might heal.

And the mother sat watching that dear life, whose ebb
Was so stealthy, that even love’s fears were beguiled,
Till the spider-fay sleep spun its magical web
’Twixt the frail one’s fond eyes and her innocent child.

And the soft zephyrs played on each delicate brow,
Like tender caresses of angels unseen;
Now lifting a curl from a forehead of snow,
Now kissing a cheek where a tear-pearl had been.

They are dreaming--Hark!--Whence that mysterious sound?
Like the wild harp of Æolus disturbed by the wings
Of some spirit that playfully hovers around,
And fan into song the invisible strings;

Or the hymn which the spirit of God’s universe
Sings unto the planets and suns, as they roll,
Or the chorus celestial beings rehearse
When they welcome to heaven an innocent soul.

Lo! a ladder of sunbeams shoots down from the skies
To the child, and a host of bright beings appear;
And as they descend their sweet voices arise
More loud and distinct on the mother’s rapt ear.

Oh! ne’er has the tongue of a mortal expressed
The accents that fall on the ears of the soul,
The thoughts to an atom of spirit addressed
By its infinite, mighty, mysterious whole.

The silver-winged choristers press round the pair;
The chorus has ceased; but a voice far more sweet
In its unaided melody, takes up the air,
Which feebly the muse thus essays to repeat.

“This is the dear sister our love longs to win,
Soft!--bear her away to the home of the blest,
Ere a pang of earth’s sorrow, or taint of its sin,
Hath stricken or sullied her innocent breast.”

They raise her; again in rich harmony blend
The sweet voices; a glance half of joy, half of pain
They beam on the mother, then gracefully wend
Their ethereal pathway to heaven again.

The chorus expires:--their images shown
In the dimness of distance like faint shadows seem;
Till the gates now regained are wide open thrown,
And each form stands revealed in the outrushing gleam.

The child is upraised in a halo of light
More radiant far than was e’er seen on this earth;
It smiles an adieu!--then departs from the sight;
The gates close:--it enters its heavenly birth!

All was dark till a bright star appeared in the place,
Shedding down like a beacon of hope its pure ray,
And the mother awaking, rushed forth to embrace--
Not her child--but the husk which its soul cast away.

And oft, when the earliest shadows of night
Veil the earth, the bereaved one will gaze on that star;
There is joy in its glory and hope in its light,
For it seems like her child looking down from afar.

_H. W. Bidwell._

GRAHAMSTOWN, 1862.

_THE “CHURL” OF THE PERIOD; AND ANOTHER._

A LEGEND OF THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE.

THE CHURL.

Wild, wild was the night on the wild, wild karoo--
Confoundedly wild near the kraal called “Barroo”
(Although after Kirkwood’s advertisement readin’,
You’d think “Barroo Kraal” Hottentot-Dutch for Eden);
Well, the storm monarch _reigned_ in this wild wilderness,
And a trav’ler who _hailed_ from the port Little Bess,
_Reined_ his charger and then through the darkness did peer,
Twigged some _lights_ and concluded a _liver_ was near;
For he _longed_ that he _shortly_ some shelter might find,
Did this travel-worn _Reed shaken_ by the wild _wind_.
The _lightning_ was blazing behind and before,
So he _thundered_ away at the house of the Boer.

In a _crack_ and his _crackers_, mynheer did appear,
And exclaimed, “In de naam van de drommel, wie’s daar?”
Said the stranger, “I’m shaking from toe-tip to crown,
These roads _shake_ me up, so I crave a _shake-down_!
Barroo Kraal’s some distance,--my steed is so weary,
He’d _ne’er crawl_ to _carry_ me _near_ to friend _Cary_.
I don’t _care-a-button_ how poor is your cheer,
But in mercy I pray you to put me somewhere.”
Mynheer gave a grunt, and he slammed to the door,
And our friend was “left out in the cold” as before.

Three months had passed by when quite early one day
This _intractable_ Boer made _tracks_ to the Bay.
He was met by our friend, who had now ceased to roam,
And kindly invited to go with him home.
So he went with our friend and entered his house,
And was thus introduced to his genial spouse.
“I’ve brought _home_ a queer kind of _homo_, my dear,
Let not _home-opathy_ curtail your cheer,
Get best things in season, in order to show
Hospitality’s here as well’s up by Barroo!”

The table soon groaned ’neath the daintiest store
That ever yet tickled the taste of a Boer--
Mynheer guzzled coffee with Hennessy’s “stick” in,
And stowed away no end of broiled ham and chicken;
The crevices filling up well with poached eggs,
Till, tight as a drum, he arose on his legs--
His host arose also--and cried, “You old beast!
You’ve sat at my table and gorged at my feast!
And you’re welcome. You taught me some three months ago
How _you_ receive trav’lers who can’t reach ‘Barroo;’
I’ve returned you the compliment, old boy, to-day,
For I’ve shown you how guests are received at the Bay--
Lest the lesson be lost on so churlish a lout,
Take that, sir!--and that!” and he kicked him bang out.

ANOTHER.

A Governor felt it his duty to go
To arrange matters ’twixt one King John and his foe,
Between whom had arisen bloodthirsty dissensions,
But t’wards this Boer King he’d the kindest intentions.
John couldn’t have treated him worse had he been
The agent of Moshesh instead of the Queen.
Not a single gun popped off a sensation louder--
(Perhaps that’s because he was hard up for powder)--
But, for all that was done by this potentate bold,
Sir Philip too might have stopped “out in the cold,”
For the welcome John gave him a name comes in handy,
The _spirit_ he showed to his guest was _Boer-Brandy_.
Three months had passed by, and King John, now at peace,
From work and for office obtained a _re-lease_;
So primed well with blue-blacks he thought he’d go down
To spend _them_ and his holidays there in Cape Town.
When the Governor heard John was coming that way,
He said, “’Tis my turn at ‘reception’ to play.
Let those guns which since Duke Alfred came have been mute
Be _charged_ to _discharge_ him a royal salute,
Cripps! _lion_ King John, like a real _kingly brute_;
And soldiers! be sure you do the right thing,
Let an _orderly_ tend this _disorderly_ king!
Get rolls of tobacco his pipe well to cram,
And lay in a stock of Cape smoke and schiedam,
And order some horse hides, first hand, from our knacker’s,
To make him a pair of right regal Boer crackers--
He’ll go to bed in them, but that doesn’t matter;
Put him up in my bed, ’twill his vanity flatter,
I can sleep on the sofa or hearthrug instead--
We must heap coals of fire on King Johnny’s head.
He has shown me how _friends_ are received in the _Free_
State; I’ll show him how _foes_ are received here by me.

MORAL.

’Twill be strange now if all this “reception” and rout
Should end in John’s getting the “dirty kick out.”

_W. H. Bidwell._

UITENHAGE, _24th June 1869_.

_WELCOME._

Let gladness fill our British homes,
All hearts rejoice! a victor comes:--
Not like the conquerors of yore
With laurels stained by human gore.
Let earth a floral welcome yield,
No devastation marks the field
Whereon his victory was gained,
His triumph’s peaceful and unstained.

Let little children’s voices rise,
For no discordant orphans cries
Shall mar their glee. His deeds, though great,
And pregnant with the will of fate,
Are heralds of a happier day,
And pure and innocent as they.

Let gentle ladies lend their cheers,
His conquest’s free from widow’s tears;
Let manly voices swell the strain,
His course is not o’er brother’s slain;
No soldiers scarred and maimed proclaim
A bloody source of all his fame.
His triumph is o’er ancient wrong,
O’er prejudices old and strong,
Time honoured; time dishonouring--
Peace, Justice, Hope, ’tis his to bring.

Children of loyal men! ’tis meet
Your cherub voices fresh and sweet
Should rise to heaven in welcome cheers;
For when in your maturer years
The seed ’tis his blest work to sow
Shall spring up round you--with you grow,
And cover like some sheltering tree
Your future, happier destiny.
Your voices then much deeper grown,
Shall tell to children, then your own,
How Wodehouse and his noble dame
’Midst shouts of infant welcome came;
How ranged like soldiers on the green
You sang “GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS QUEEN.”

He comes like meteor bright and bold,
Scorning the track traversed of old
By orbs whose fastly waning light
Is sinking in the realms of night.
He seeks the cradle of the dawn,
Where Freedom’s sun proclaims the morn--
This day we’ll give to joy at least;
This day the light dawns in the East,
And soon beneath its genial ray
North, South, East, West, shall feel ’tis day.

_H. W. Bidwell._

GRAHAMSTOWN, _Feb. 1, 1864_.

_PRECEPTS FOR YOUNG AND OLD._

I’d like to speak a word to you, my pretty, careless child!
I’d learn the spell that daily lures you ’midst the blossoms wild,
I’d join you and the butterflies with which you sport and play,
As innocent, as beautiful, as fairy-like as they.
I’d like to scan the purity that halos your fair brow,
To fathom all the gentle thoughts that through your bosom flow--
But oh! the wish is doubly vain, ’tis not for heart like mine
To enter that pure heaven which forms the fairy land of thine.

I’d like to speak a word with you, my timid blushing maid--
Pausing at every step you take as if you were afraid!
As if by instinct you foresaw the weeds of woe and strife,
That grow up in the pathway of your unseen future life.
Oh! happy, ten times happy, were you could you shun the wild
And rugged waste; and turning back for ever, be a child.
You cannot! then I’d say to you, retain as best you may
The pure and holy freshness of your childhood’s cloudless day!

I’d like to speak a word with you, my bold and wayward youth!
I’d counsel you to cherish in your heart the love of truth;
I’d caution you ’gainst wantonness and arrogance and pride,
And bid you fear your passions more than all the world beside.
I’d have you honour age whose precepts now you hear with scorn,
Remember! we were men, my boy, long, long ere you were born,
Have trodden long ago the path which you have yet to tread,
And now bequeath experience which may serve you when we’re dead.

I’d like to speak a word with you, brave sir, in manhood’s prime!
The world seems now your heritage, and ’tis so--for a time.
Aspire! for ’tis your birthright, but remember while you mount
You’re but a steward and some day must yield up your account.
You’re wealthy!--turn not from the poor! they share your right to live,
Or God would not have made them:--as you’ve received, so give;
Nor like the unjust creditor, seize all man’s laws allow,
You will need mercy at the last, see that you mete it now!

I’d speak to you, grey-headed man! now tottering at death’s door,
Gazing on life’s red page, by sin and sorrow blotted o’er.
How wistfully you eye that past you never may recall,
And wish, since life must end like this, you’d never lived at all.
Oh! look to Him whom you despised, while ’twas your lot to live;
Remember! mercy is His will; His first wish to forgive.
Haste! for that dark door opens! be saved while yet you may!
Alas! that it should close again, and you should pass away.

_H. W. Bidwell._

GRAHAMSTOWN, _October 1, 1863_.

_BE KIND TO ONE ANOTHER._

Be kind to one another!
Th’ alchemist’s magic stone
That turns to gold the dross of life,
Is love and love alone.
How many who now fret and weep
All minor griefs might smother,
If they would but this mandate keep,--
“Be kind to one another.”

Be kind to one another!
Sweet words and gentle looks
Set free the love-streams of the soul,
As springs unlock the brooks;
But pride and coldness seal the hearts
Of good men from each other.
If thou wouldst learn men’s nobler parts
Be kind to one another!--

Be kind to one another!
What though a churlish elf
Thy neighbour seem! Must thou retort,
And be as bad thyself?
Couldst thou the secret heart behold
Of any erring brother,
Thou in the worst wouldst find some gold--
Be kind to one another.

Be kind to one another!
Life is too short to waste
In foolish enmity and strife,--
Time flies with ruthless haste;--
Soon death with an impartial hand
Will level foe and brother,
Oh! prize the hours thou mayst command--
Be kind to one another!

_H. W. Bidwell._

_PADDY’S LOVE SYMPTOMS._

FOR MUSIC.

Oh! what have you done wid me, Daisy?
You plump little rosy young witch!
Sure my head and my heart’s so unaisy
I scarcely can tell which is which.
Whene’er I come in your sweet presence
It’s telegraphed all o’er I feel;
If I touch you, och! murther! it kills me
Jest like an electrified eel.

Your eyes are like flashings of lightning,
Glancing there, darting here, oh! so frisky;
Your sweet breath’s more intoxicating
By far than old Irish whisky!
Each eye, each limb, and each action,
Your garments, too, every stitch
Are all bent on Patrick’s destruction,
You plump little rosy young witch!

I learned a long speech to say to you
When I came to your house t’other day,
But I sat there as dumb as mackerel,
And that’s every word I could say.
For my heart grew so awfully jealous
To think that my tongue should address you,
That it jumped up and stuck in my throttle
Before I could gasp out “God bless you.”

I told the good father confessor
My troubles, says he, “Pat! I’m sure
You’re bewitched by some wicked young fairy,
And I only know one means of cure!”
But he says that same cure is quite aisy,
He’ll soon make all right, if I bring
To church, one fine morn, my sweet Daisy,
And likewise a little gold ring.

_H. W. Bidwell._

_PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY OF HUMBUG._

Great is the power of Humbug. Credulous, very, is Bunkum,-- Bunkum that seeth things only as they are distorted by Humbug,-- Humbug that useth poor Bunkum’s vanity, whims, and caprices As medicines through which to show him the facts and the figures around him. Facts are reputed as stubborn; but not half so stubborn as asses, Asses who spurn out at facts and bray at the mention of figures, Figures that show that the West is the spot that aboundeth in asses. Great is the power of Humbug, credulous very are asses; Hast thou not heard of a quadruped, of this same genus--Jerusalem-- Innocent slave of a needy but very ingenious carpenter? Carpenter, who the green spectacles fixed on the nose of his neddy,-- Neddy, who straightway ate shavings, thinking them first-rate green forage? That was the triumph of Humbug over the weakness of Bunkum. Even thus Bunkum devoureth the rubbish presented by Humbug. True that the simile’s wooden; true that the metaphor’s donkeyfied! Asinine also and wooden the subject it seeketh to illustrate. Solomon’s famed for his wisdom,--Molteno’s Solomon’s prophet-- Small is the profit that Solomon’s wisdom secureth his minions; He putteth green spectacles fast on the nose of poor Western neddies,-- The poor mokes believe his chaff grass, and devour it all with much gusto. Figures are all topsy-turvable; may be read backwards or forwards; Sixes inverted are nines, and nines with their tails off are ciphers,-- All Western donkeys are curtailed, thus _there_ is _no end_ of asses. Dobson went forth from the East with his cranium crammed full of figures, Figures which made the inflated Westerns to let off their gas And collapse like mere bubbles of error when pierced by the arrows of truth. Dobson retired from the conquest to rest ’neath the shade of his laurels, Molteno purloined his figures and curtailed his nines and his sixes; And all this to show that the rotten old shank bone abounded in maggots. Dobson returned unsuspecting, to visit the scene of past glory,-- Oh! how the poor neddies brayed when they fancied the trick had succeeded, Oh! what an asinine chorus greeted the hero’s returning! What wonder that Dobson retreated disgusted, nauseated, and bilious? The stomach, accustomed to good Christian beef and orthodox cabbage, Will turn against infidel snork, and rice is its abomination. Disgust they mistook for defeat, contempt they imagined was chagrin,-- What bad living did for our hero, they fancied their wit had accomplished. Contempt and disgust are too dignified weapons for poor abject Bunkum, Still they bray o’er their own self-deception--while Dobson sits calm in his garden Smoking his dudeen, the calumet of a sound head and clear conscience,-- He knows, though his figures were stolen and mischievously mutilated, Like the sheep of Bo-peep they’ll come home and bring all their pendants behind.

_H. W. Bidwell._

_July 28, 1865._

_PLATTEKLIP CASCADE._

Where th’ Olympian cloth is spread,
There thou’rt cradled, nursed, and bred;
Bursting into life anew,
Thirsting for celestial dew;
Drinking from th’ ambrosial fountain,
Sinking through the veinèd mountain;
Moving;
Roving;
Gravitating;
Sliding;
Gliding;
Percolating;
Coursing on through channels hidden,
Forcing passages unbidden;
Winding into cave and cell,
Finding out where Naiads dwell;
Spirting out through crack and chink,
Flirting on each flower-clad brink;
Creeping over banks and bosses,
Weeping with the moist-eyed mosses;
Straying on midst foliage fair,
Playing with sweet maiden hair;
Rippling through enchanted grots;
Tippling with forget-me-nots,
Swelling into pools translucent,
Welling over, wild, recusant!
Dashing;
Flushing;
Splashing;
Gushing;
Whirling;
Eddying;
Swirling;
Rushing;
Spreading out upon the plain,
Threading on thy course again;
Flowing brook-like through the wood,
Growing to a larger flood;
Fertilising, fructifying,
Man’s and Nature’s needs supplying;
Gliding down time’s silent river;
To the ocean of For Ever.

_B._

_THE PORT ELIZABETH PYRAMID._

The Pyramid which forms the subject of the following lines is the
most prominent historical monument of Port Elizabeth. It stands on
the brow of the hill overlooking Algoa Bay, in an open space known
as the “Donkin Reserve.” It is built of rough stone and is about 35
feet in height, each side of the base being about 25 feet. On its
western side a slate tablet is inserted exhibiting the following
inscription:--

“Elizabeth Frances, Lady Donkin, eldest daughter of Dr. George
Markham, Dean of York, died at Merat, in Upper Hindostan, of a
fever, after seven days’ illness, on the 21st August 1818, aged not
quite 28 years. She left an infant in his seventh month, too young
to know the unequalled loss he had sustained, and a husband whose
heart is still wrung by undiminished grief, he erected this
Pyramid, August 1820.”

On its eastern side a similar tablet appears exhibiting the
following:--

“To the memory of one of the most perfect of human beings, who has
given her name to the town below.”

* * * * *

“Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”--SHAKESPEARE.