Part 2
But lo! the sun’s descending car Sinks o’er Mount Dunion’s peaks afar; And now along the dusky vale The homeward herds and flocks I hail, Returning from their pastures dry Amid the stony uplands high. First, the brown Herder with his flock Comes winding round my hermit-rock: His mien and gait and gesture tell, No shepherd he from Scottish fell; For crook the guardian gun he bears, For plaid the sheepskin mantle wears; Sauntering languidly along; Nor flute has he, nor merry song, Nor book, nor tale, nor rustic lay, To cheer him through his listless day. His look is dull, his soul is dark; He feels not hope’s electric spark; But, born the white man’s servile thrall, Knows that he cannot lower fall. Next the stout Neat-herd passes by, With bolder step and blither eye; Humming low his tuneless song, Or whistling to the hornèd throng. From the destroying foeman fled,-- He serves the Colonist for bread: Yet this poor heathen Bechuan Bears on his brow the port of man; A naked homeless exile he-- But not debased by slavery.
Now, wizard-like, slow Twilight sails With soundless wing adown the vales, Waving with his shadowy rod The owl and bat to come abroad, With things that hate the garish sun, To frolic now when day is done. Now along the meadows damp The enamoured firefly lights his lamp. Link-boy he of woodland green To light fair Avon’s Elfin Queen; Here, I ween, more wont to shine To light the thievish porcupine, Plundering my melon-bed,-- Or villain lynx, whose stealthy tread Rouses not the wakeful hound As he creeps the folds around.
But lo! the night-bird’s boding scream Breaks abrupt my twilight dream; And warns me it is time to haste My homeward walk across the waste, Lest my rash step provoke the wrath Of adder coiled upon the path, Or tempt the lion from the wood, That soon will prowl athirst for blood, --Thus, murmuring my thoughtful strain, I seek our wattled cot again.
_Thomas Pringle._
GLEN LYNDEN, 1822.
[Illustration]
_THE LION HUNT._
Mount--mount for the hunting with musket and spear! Call our friends to the field--for the lion is near! Call Arend and Ekhard and Groepe to the spoor; Call Muller and Coetzer and Lucas Van Vuur.
Ride up Eildon-Cleugh, and blow loudly the bugle: Call Slinger and Allie and Dikkop and Dugal; And George with the Elephant-gun on his shoulder-- In a perilous pinch none is better or bolder.
In the gorge of the glen lie the bones of my steed, And the hoof of a heifer of fatherland’s breed: But mount, my brave boys, if our rifles prove true, We’ll soon make the spoiler his ravages rue.
Ho! the Hottentot lads have discovered the track-- To his den in the desert we’ll follow him back; But tighten your girths, and look well to your flints, For heavy and fresh are the villain’s foot-prints.
Through the rough rocky kloof into grey Huntly-Glen, Past the wild-olive clump where the wolf has his den, By the black eagle’s rock at the foot of the fell, We have tracked him at last to the buffalo’s well.
Now mark yonder brake where the bloodhounds are howling; And hark that hoarse sound--like the deep thunder growling; ’Tis his lair--’tis his voice!--from your saddles alight; He’s at bay in the brushwood preparing for fight.
Leave the horses behind--and be still every man; Let the Mullers and Rennies advance in the van: Keep fast in your ranks;--by the yell of yon hound, The savage, I guess, will be out--with a bound.
He comes! the tall jungle before him loud crashing, His mane bristled fiercely, his fiery eyes flashing; With a roar of disdain, he leaps forth in his wrath, To challenge the foe that dare ’leaguer his path.
He couches,--ay, now we’ll see mischief, I dread: Quick--level your rifles--and aim at his head: Thrust forward the spears, and unsheath every knife-- St. George! he’s upon us!--now, fire, lads, for life!
He’s wounded--but yet he’ll draw blood ere he falls-- Ha! under his paw see Bezudenhout sprawls-- Now Diederik! Christian! right in the brain Plant each man his bullet--Hurra! he is slain!
Bezudenhout--up, man!--’tis only a scratch-- (You were always a scamp and have met with your match!) What a glorious lion!--what sinews--what claws-- And seven feet ten from the rump to the jaws!
His hide, with the paws and the bones of his skull, With the spoils of the leopard and buffalo bull, We’ll send to Sir Walter--now, boys, let us dine, And talk of our deeds o’er a flask of old wine.
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE LION AND THE GIRAFFE._
Wouldst thou view the lion’s den? Search afar from haunts of men-- Where the reed-encircled rill Oozes from the rocky hill, By its verdure far descried ’Mid the desert brown and wide.
Close beside the sedgy brim Couchant lurks the lion grim; Watching till the close of day Brings the death-devoted prey. Heedless at the ambushed brink The tall giraffe stoops down to drink.
Upon him straight the savage springs With cruel joy. The desert rings With clanging sound of desperate strife-- The prey is strong and he strives for life. Plunging oft with frantic bound, To shake the tyrant to the ground, He shrieks, he rushes through the waste, With glaring eye and headlong haste: In vain!--the spoiler on his prize Rides proudly--tearing as he flies.
For life--the victim’s utmost speed Is mustered in this hour of need: For life--for life--his giant might He strains, and pours his soul in flight: And mad with terror, thirst and pain, Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain.
’Tis vain; the thirsty sands are drinking His streaming blood--his strength is sinking; The victor’s fangs are in his veins-- His flanks are streaked with sanguine stains-- His panting breast in foam and gore Is bathed--he reels--his race is o’er: He falls--and, with convulsive throe, Resigns his throat to the ravening foe! --And lo! ere quivering life has fled, The vultures, wheeling overhead, Swoop down, to watch, in gaunt array, Till the gorged tyrant quits his prey.
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE DESOLATE VALLEY._
Far up among the forest-belted mountains, Where Winterberg, stern giant old and grey, Looks down the subject dells, whose gleaming fountains To wizard Kat their virgin tribute pay, A valley opens to the noontide ray, With green savannahs shelving to the brim Of the swift river, sweeping on its way To where Umtóka[3] tries to meet with him, Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim.
Round this secluded region circling rise Are billowy wastes of mountains, wild and wide; Upon whose grassy slopes the pilgrim spies The gnu and quagga, by the greenwood side, Tossing their shaggy manes in tameless pride; Or troop of elands near some sedgy fount; Or Kùdù fawns, that from the thicket glide. To seek their dam upon the misty mount, With harts, gazelles, and roes, more than the eye can count.
And as we journeyed up the pathless glen, Flanked by romantic hills on either hand, The boschbok oft would bound away--and then Beside the willows, backward gazing, stand. And where old forests darken all the land From rocky Kalberg to the river’s brink, The buffalo would start upon the strand, Where, ’mid palmetto flags, he stooped to drink, And, crashing through the brakes, to the deep jungle shrink.
Then, couched at night in hunter’s wattled sheiling, How wildly beautiful it was to hear The elephant his shrill _réveillé_ pealing, Like some far signal-trumpet on the ear! While the broad midnight moon was shining clear, How fearful to look forth upon the woods, And see those stately forest-kings appear, Emerging from their shadowy solitudes-- As if that trump had woke Earth’s old gigantic broods!
Such the majestic, melancholy scene Which ’midst that mountain-wilderness we found; With scarce a trace to tell where man had been, Save the old Caffer cabins crumbling round. Yet this lone glen (Sicāna’s ancient ground) To nature’s savage tribes abandoned long, Had heard, erewhile, the Gospel’s joyful sound, And low of herds mixed with the Sabbath song. But all is silent now. The oppressor’s hand was strong.
Now the blithe loxia hangs her pensile nest From the wild-olive, bending o’er the rock, Beneath whose shadow, in grave mantle drest, The Christian pastor taught his swarthy flock. A roofless ruin, scathed by flame and smoke, Tells where a decent mission-chapel stood; While the baboon with jabbering cry doth mock The pilgrim, pausing in his pensive mood To ask--“Why is it thus? Shall EVIL baffle GOOD?”
Yes--for a season Satan may prevail, And hold, as if secure, his dark domain; The prayers of righteous men may seem to fail, And Heaven’s glad tidings be proclaimed in vain. But wait in faith: ere long shall spring again The seed that seemed to perish in the ground; And fertilised by Zion’s latter rain, The long-parched land shall laugh, with harvests crowned, And through those silent wastes Jehovah’s praise resound.
Look round that vale: behold the unburied bones Of Ghona’s children withering in the blast: The sobbing wind, that through the forest moans, Whispers--“The spirit hath for ever passed!” Thus, in the vale of desolation vast, In moral death dark Afric’s myriads lie; But the appointed day shall dawn at last, When breathed on by a spirit from on high, The dry bones shall awake, and shout--“Our God is nigh!”
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE CORANNA._
Fast by his wild resounding river The listless Córan lingers ever; Still drives his heifers forth to feed, Soothed by the gorrah’s humming reed;[4] A rover still unchecked will range, As humour calls, or seasons change; His tent of mats and leathern gear All packed upon the patient steer. ’Mid all his wanderings hating toil, He never tills the stubborn soil; But on the milky dams relies, And what spontaneous earth supplies. Should some long parching droughts prevail, And milk and bulbs and locusts fail, He lays him down to sleep away In languid trance the weary day; Oft as he feels gaunt hunger’s stound,[5] Still tightening famine’s girdle round; Lulled by the sound of the Gareep, Beneath the willows murmuring deep: Till thunder-clouds surcharged with rain, Pour verdure o’er the panting plain; And call the famished dreamer from his trance, To feast on milk and game, and wake the moonlight dance.
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_SONG OF THE WILD BUSHMAN._
Let the proud white man boast his flocks, And fields of foodful grain; My home is ’mid the mountain rocks, The desert my domain. I plant no herbs nor pleasant fruits, I toil not for my cheer; The desert yields me juicy roots, And herds of bounding deer.
The countless springboks are my flock, Spread o’er the unbounded plain; The buffalo bendeth to my yoke, The wild horse to my rein;[6] My yoke is the quivering assegai, My rein the tough bow-string; My bridle curb a slender barb-- Yet it quells the forest king. The crested adder honoureth me, And yields at my command His poison bag, like the honey-bee, When I seize him on the sand. Yea, even the wasting locust-swarm, Which mighty nations dread, To me nor terror brings, nor harm-- For I make of them my bread.[7]
Thus I am lord of the Desert Land, And I will not leave my bounds, To crouch beneath the Christian’s hand, And kennel with his hounds: To be a hound, and watch the flocks, For the cruel white man’s gain-- No! the brown Serpent of the Rocks His den doth yet retain; And none who there his stings provokes Shall find his poison vain!
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE CAPTIVE OF CAMALÚ._
O Camalú--green Camalú! ’Twas there I fed my father’s flock, Beside the mount where cedars threw At dawn their shadows from the rock; There tended I my father’s flock Along the grassy margined rills, Or chased the bounding bontébok With hound and spear among the hills.
Green Camalú! methinks I view The lilies in thy meadows growing; I see thy waters bright and blue Beneath the pale-leaved willows flowing; I hear along the valleys lowing, The heifers wending to the fold, And jocund herd-boys loudly blowing The horn--to mimic hunters bold.
Methinks I see the umkóba tree[8] That shades the village-chieftain’s cot; The evening smoke curls lovingly Above that calm and pleasant spot. My father?--Ha!--I had forgot-- The old man rests in slumber deep: My mother?--Ay! she answers not-- Her heart is hushed in dreamless sleep.
My brothers too--green Camalú, Repose they by thy quiet tide? Ay! there they sleep--where white men slew And left them--lying side by side. No pity had those men of pride, They fired the huts above the dying!-- While bones bestrew that valley wide-- I wish that mine were with them lying!
I envy you by Camalú, Ye wild harts on the woody hills; Though tigers there their prey pursue, And vultures slake in blood their bills. The heart may strive in Nature’s ills, To Nature’s common doom resigned: Death the frail body only kills-- But thraldom brutifies the mind.
Oh, wretched fate!--heart desolate, A captive in the spoiler’s hand, To serve the tyrant, whom I hate-- To crouch beneath his proud command-- Upon my flesh to bear his brand-- His blows, his bitter scorn to bide!-- Would God I in my native land Had with my slaughtered brothers died!
Ye mountains blue of Camalú, Where once I fed my father’s flock, Though desolation dwells with you, And Amakósa’s heart is broke, Yet, spite of chains these limbs that mock, My homeless heart to you doth fly,-- As flies the wild dove to the rock, To hide its wounded breast--and die!
Yet, ere my spirit wings its flight Unto Death’s silent shadowy clime, Utíko! Lord of life and light, Who, high above the clouds of Time, Calm sittest, where yon hosts sublime Of stars wheel round thy bright abode, Oh, let my cry unto thee climb, Of every race the Father-God!
I ask not judgments from thy hand-- Destroying hail or parching drought, Or locust swarms to waste the land, Or pestilence, by Famine brought; I say the prayer Jankanna[9] taught, Who wept for Amakósa’s wrongs-- “Thy kingdom come--Thy will be wrought-- For unto Thee all power belongs.”
Thy kingdom come! Let Light and Grace Throughout all lands in triumph go; Till pride and strife to love give place, And blood and tears forget to flow; Till Europe mourn for Afric’s woe, And o’er the deep her arms extend To lift her where she lieth low, And prove indeed her Christian Friend!
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE BROWN HUNTER’S SONG._
Under the Didima[10] lies a green dell, Where fresh from the forest the blue waters swell; And fast by that brook stands a yellow-wood tree Which shelters the spot which is dearest to me.
Down by the streamlet my heifers are grazing; In the pool of the guanas the herd-boy is gazing; Under the shade my amana is singing-- The shade of the tree where her cradle is swinging.
When I come from the upland as daylight is fading, Though spent with the chase, and the game for my lading, My nerves are new-strung and my fond heart is swelling As I gaze from the cliff on our wood-circled dwelling.
Down the steep mountain and through the brown forest, I haste like a hart when his thirst is the sorest; I bound o’er the swift brook that skirts the savannah, And clasp my first-born in the arms of Amana.
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE BUSHMAN._
The Bushman sleeps within his black-browed den, In the lone wilderness. Around him lie His wife and little ones unfearingly-- For they are far away from “Christian men.” No herds, loud lowing, call him down the glen: He fears no foe but famine; and may try To wear away the hot noon slumberingly; Then rise to search for roots--and dance again. But he shall dance no more! His secret lair, Surrounded, echoes to the thundering gun, And the wild shriek of anguish and despair! He dies--yet, ere life’s ebbing sands are run, Leaves to his sons a curse, should they be friends With the proud “Christian men,”--for they are fiends!
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE CAPE OF STORMS._
O Cape of Storms! although thy front be dark, And bleak thy naked cliffs and cheerless vales, And perilous thy fierce and faithless gales To staunchest mariner and stoutest bark; And though along thy coasts with grief I mark The servile and the slave, and him who wails An exile’s lot--and blush to hear thy tales Of sin and sorrow and oppression stark:-- Yet, spite of physical and moral ill, And after all I’ve seen and suffered here, There are strong links that bind me to thee still, And render even thy rocks and deserts dear; Here dwell kind hearts which time nor place can chill-- Loved kindred and congenial friends sincere.
_Thomas Pringle, 1825._
[Illustration]
_THE HOTTENTOT._
Mild, melancholy, and sedate, he stands, Tending another’s flock upon the fields, His fathers’ once, where now the white man builds His home, and issues forth his proud commands. His dark eye flashes not; his listless hands Lean on the shepherd’s staff; no more he wields The Libyan bow--but to th’ oppressor yields Submissively his freedom and his lands. Has he no courage? Once he had--but, lo! Harsh servitude hath worn him to the bone. No enterprise? Alas! the brand, the blow, Hath humbled him to dust--even _hope_ is gone! “He’s a base-hearted hound--not worth his food”-- His master cries; “he has no _gratitude_!”
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE CAFFER._
Lo! where he crouches by the Kloof’s dark side, Eyeing the farmer’s lowing herds, afar; Impatient watching till the evening star Leads forth the twilight dim, that he may glide Like panther to the prey. With freeborn pride He scorns the herdsman, nor regards the scar Of recent wound--but burnishes for war His assegai and targe of buffalo hide. He is a robber? True; it is a strife Between the black skinned bandit and the white. A savage?--Yes; though loth to aim at life, Evil for evil fierce he doth requite. A heathen?--Teach him, then, thy better creed, Christian! if thou deserv’st that name indeed.
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE GHONA WIDOW’S LULLABY._
The storm hath ceased: yet still I hear The distant thunder sounding, And from the mountains, far and near, The headlong torrents bounding. The jackal shrieks upon the rocks, The tiger wolf is howling, The panther round the folded flocks With stifled _gurr_ is prowling. But lay thee down in peace, my child, God watcheth o’er us ’midst the wild.
I fear the Bushman is abroad-- He loves the midnight thunder; The sheeted lightning shows the road That leads his feet to plunder: I’d rather meet the hooded snake Than hear his rattling quiver, When, like an adder, through the brake, He glides along the river. But, darling, hush thy heart to sleep-- The Lord our Shepherd watch doth keep.
The Kosa from Luhéri high Looks down upon our dwelling, And shakes the vengeful assegai,-- Unto his clansmen telling How he, for _us_, by grievous wrong, Hath lost these fertile valleys, And boasts that now his hand is strong To pay the debt of malice. But sleep, my child; a mightier Arm Shall shield thee (helpless one!) from harm.
The moon is up; a fleecy cloud O’er heaven’s blue deep is sailing; The stream, that lately raved so loud, Makes now a gentle wailing. From yonder crags, lit by the moon, I hear a wild voice crying: --’Tis but the harmless bear-baboon, Unto his mates replying. Hush--hush thy dreams, my moaning dove, And slumber in the arms of love!
The wolf, scared by the watch-dog’s bay, Is to the woods returning: By his rock fortress, far away, The Bushman’s fire is burning. And hark! Sicána’s midnight hymn, Along the valley swelling, Calls us to stretch the wearied limb, While kinsmen guard our dwelling: Though vainly watchmen wake from sleep, “Unless the Lord the city keep.”
At dawn we’ll seek, with songs of praise, Our food on the savannah, As Israel sought, in ancient days, The heaven-descending manna; With gladness from the fertile land The veld-kost we will gather, A harvest planted by the hand Of the Almighty Father-- From thraldom who redeems our race, To plant them in their ancient place.
Then let us calmly rest, my child, Jehovah’s arm is round us, The God, the Father reconciled, In heathen gloom who found us; Who to this heart, by sorrow broke, His wondrous WORD revealing, Led me, a lost sheep, to the flock, And to the Fount of Healing. Oh, may the Saviour-Shepherd lead My darling where His lambs do feed!
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_THE KOSA._
The free-born Kosa still doth hold The fields his fathers held of old; With club and spear in jocund ranks, Still hunts the elk by Chumi’s banks: By Keisis meads his herds are lowing; On Debè’s slopes his gardens glowing, Where laughing maids at sunset roam, To bear the juicy melons home: And striplings from Kalunna’s wood Bring wild grapes and the pigeon’s brood, With fragrant hoards of honey-bee Rifled from the hollow tree: And herdsmen shout from rock to rock: And through the glen the hamlets smoke; And children gambol round the kraal,[11] To greet their sires at evening-fall: And matrons sweep the cabin floor, And spread the mat beside the door, And with dry faggots wake the flame To dress the wearied huntsman’s game.
Bright gleams the fire: its ruddy blaze On many a dusky visage plays. On forkèd twigs the game is drest; The neighbours share the simple feast: The honey-mead, the millet-ale, Flow round--and flow the jest and tale; Wild legends of the ancient day, Of hunting feat, of warlike fray; And now come smiles, and now come sighs, As mirth and grief alternate rise. Or should a sterner strain awake, Like sudden flame in summer-brake, Bursts fiercely forth in battle song The tale of Amakósa’s wrong; Throbs every warrior bosom high, With lightning flashes every eye, And, in wild cadence, rings the sound Of barbèd javelins clashing round.
But, lo! like a broad shield on high, The moon gleams in the midnight sky. ’Tis time to part; the watch-dog’s bay Beside the folds has died away. ’Tis time to rest; the mat is spread, The hardy hunter’s simple bed; His wife her dreaming infant hushes, On the low cabin’s couch of rushes: Softly he draws its door of hide, And, stretched by his Gulúwi’s side, Sleeps soundly till the peep of dawn Wakes on the hill the dappled fawn; Then forth again he gaily bounds, With club and spear and questing hounds.
_Thomas Pringle._
[Illustration]
_MAKANNA’S GATHERING._
Wake! Amakósa, wake! And arm yourselves for war, As coming winds the forest shake, I hear a sound from far: It is not thunder in the sky, Nor lion’s roar upon the hill, But the voice of Him who sits on high, And bids me speak His will!
He bids me call you forth, Bold sons of Káhabee, To sweep the white men from the earth, And drive them to the sea: The sea which heaved them up at first, For Amakósa’s curse and bane, Howls for the progeny she nurst, To swallow them again.
Hark! ’tis Uhlanga’s voice From Debé’s mountain caves! He calls you now to make your choice-- To conquer or be slaves: To meet proud Amanglézi’s guns, And fight like warriors nobly born: Or, like Umláo’s feeble sons,[12] Become the freeman’s scorn.
Then come ye chieftains bold, With war plumes waving high; Come, every warrior, young and old, With club and assegai. Remember how the spoiler’s host Did through our land like locusts range! Your herds, your wives, your comrades lost-- Remember--and revenge!