Part 3

Fling your broad shields away-- Bootless against such foes; But hand to hand we’ll fight to-day And with their bayonets close. Grasp each man short his stabbing spear-- And, when to battle’s edge we come, Rush on their ranks in full career, And to their hearts strike home!

Wake! Amakósa, wake! And muster for the war: The wizard-wolves from Keisi’s brake, The vultures from afar, Are gathering at Uhlanga’s call, And follow fast our westward way-- For well they know, ere evening-fall, They shall have glorious prey!

_Thomas Pringle._

[Illustration]

_THE INCANTATION._

Half way up Indoda[13] climbing, Hangs the wizard forest old, From whose shade is heard the chiming Of a streamlet clear and cold: With a mournful sound it gushes From its cavern in the steep; Then at once its wailing hushes In a lakelet dark and deep.

Standing by the dark-blue water, Robed in panther’s speckled hide, Who is she? Jalúhsa’s daughter, Bold Makanna’s widowed bride. Stern she stands, her left hand clasping By the arm her wondering child: He, her shaggy mantle grasping, Gazes up with aspect wild.

Thrice in the soft fount of nursing With sharp steel she pierced a vein,-- Thrice the white oppressor cursing, While the blood gushed forth amain,-- Wide upon the dark-blue water, Sprinkling thrice the crimson tide,-- Spoke Jalúhsa’s high-souled daughter, Bold Makanna’s widowed bride.

“Thus into the Demon’s River Blood instead of milk I fling: Hear, Uhlanga--great Life-Giver! Hear, Togúh--Avenging King! Thus the Mother’s feelings tender In my breast I stifle now: Thus I summon you to render Vengeance for the Widow’s vow!

“Who shall be the Chiefs avenger? Who the Champion of the Land? Boy! the pale Son of the Stranger Is devoted to _thy_ hand. HE who wields the bolt of thunder Witnesses thy Mother’s vow! HE who rends the rocks asunder To the task shall train thee now!

“When thy arm grows strong for battle, Thou shalt sound Makanna’s cry, Till ten thousand shields shall rattle To war-club and assegai: Then, when like hail-storm in harvest On the foe sweeps thy career, Shall Uhlanga whom thou servest, Make them stubble to thy spear!”

_Thomas Pringle._

[Illustration]

_THE CAFFER COMMANDO._

Hark! heard ye the signals of triumph afar? ’Tis our Caffer Commando returning from war: The voice of their laughter comes loud on the wind, Nor heed they the curses that follow behind. For who cares for him, the poor Kósa, that wails Where the smoke rises dim from yon desolate vales-- That wails for his little ones killed in the fray, And his herds by the colonist carried away? Or who cares for him that once pastured this spot, Where his tribe is extinct and their story forgot? As many another, ere twenty years pass, Will only be known by their bones in the grass! And the sons of the Keisi, the Kei, the Gareep, With the Gunja and Ghona in silence shall sleep: For England hath spoke in her tyrannous mood, And the edict is written in African blood!

Dark Katta[14] is howling; the eager jackal, As the lengthening shadows more drearily fall, Shrieks forth his hymn to the hornèd moon; And the lord of the desert will follow him soon: And the tiger-wolf laughs in his bone-strewed brake, As he calls on his mate and her cubs to awake; And the panther and leopard come leaping along; All hymning to Hecate a festival song: For the tumult is over, the slaughter hath ceased-- And the vulture hath bidden them all to the feast.

_Thomas Pringle._

_THE ROCK OF RECONCILEMENT._

A rugged mountain, round whose summit proud The eagle sailed, or heaved the thunder-cloud, Poured from its cloven breast a gurgling brook, Which down the grassy glades its journey took; Oft bending round to lave, with rambling tide, The groves of evergreens on either side. Fast by this stream, where yet its course was young, And, stooping from the heights, the forest flung A grateful shadow o’er the narrow dell, Appeared the missionary’s hermit cell. Woven of wattled boughs, and thatched with leaves, The sweet wild jasmine clustering to its eaves, It stood, with its small casement gleaming through Between two ancient cedars. Round it grew Clumps of acacias and young orange bowers, Pomegranate hedges, gay with scarlet flowers, And pale-stemmed fig-trees with their fruit yet green, And apple blossoms waving light between. All musical it seemed with humming bees; And bright-plumed sugar birds among the trees Fluttered like living blossoms. In the shade Of a grey rock, that ’midst the leafy glade Stood like a giant sentinel, we found The habitant of this fair spot of ground-- A plain tall Scottish man, of thoughtful mien; Grave but not gloomy. By his side was seen An ancient chief of Amakósa’s race, With javelin armed for conflict or the chase, And, seated at their feet upon the sod, A youth was reading from the Word of God, Of Him who came for sinful men to die, Of every race and tongue beneath the sky. Unnoticed, towards them we softly stept. Our friend was rapt in prayer; the warrior wept, Leaning upon his hand; the youth read on. And then we hailed the group: the chieftain’s son, Training to be his country’s Christian guide-- And Brownlee and old Ishátshu side by side.

_Thomas Pringle._

[Illustration]

_THE FORESTER OF THE NEUTRAL GROUND._

A SOUTH AFRICAN BORDER BALLAD.

We met in the midst of the neutral ground, ’Mong the hills where the buffalo’s haunts are found; And we joined in the chase of the noble game, Nor asked each other of nation or name.

The buffalo bull wheeled suddenly round, When first from my rifle he felt a wound; And, before I could gain the Umtóka’s bank, His horns were tearing my courser’s flank.

That instant a ball whizzed past my ear, Which smote the beast in his fierce career; And the turf was drenched with purple gore, As he fell at my feet with a bellowing roar.

The stranger came galloping up to my side, And greeted me with a bold huntsman’s pride: Full blithely we feasted beneath a tree;-- Then out spoke the Forester, Arend Plessie.

“Stranger, we now are true comrades sworn; Come pledge me thy hand while we quaff the horn. Thou’rt an Englishman good, and thy heart is free, And ’tis therefore I’ll tell my story to thee.

“A Heemraad of Camdebóo was my sire; He had flocks and herds to his heart’s desire, And bondmen and maidens to run at his call, And seven stout sons to be heirs of all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Thomas Pringle._

[Illustration]

_THE EMIGRANT’S CABIN AT THE CAPE._

AN EPISTLE IN RHYME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

_Thomas Pringle._

[Illustration]

_THE VOLUNTEERS OF ENGLAND._

BY A COLONIST.

_Cælum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._

_July 2, 1861._

[Illustration]

“_THE DEAR OLD LAND._”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._

_THE FUNERAL IN THE ABBEY._