Part 7
Land of “Good Hope!” thy future lies Bright ’fore my vision as thy skies! O Africa! long lost in night, Upon the horizon gleams the light Of breaking dawn. Thy star of fame Shall rise and brightly gleam; thy name Shall blaze on hist’ry’s later page; Thy birth-time is the last great age; Thy name has been, slave of the world; But, when thy banner is unfurled, Triumphant Liberty shall wave That standard o’er foul slav’ry’s grave, And earth--decaying earth--shall see Her freest, fairest child in thee!
_William Rodger Thomson._
UTRECHT, 1856.
_GOOD HOPE._
“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If we would but dare and do; If we would but stand with ready hand To grasp ere the blessings go.
“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If we would but stay life-streams, Which will past us flow while we, too slow, Stand rapt on the bank in dreams.
“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If we would but cease to hope That the rain will drop and bring a crop While we idly sit and mope.
“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If we work, e’en while we wait For the sun and rain to ripen grain We have sown, then left to fate.
“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If we use each heav’n-sent gift As means to an end, and do not spend Our best without care and thrift.
“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If we live and struggle still To a better life, through toil and strife, With a stout heart and strong will.
“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If our faith be active trust, And not blind belief, which, at each grief, Still mourns that what must be, must.
“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If we would but trust in God, And the Christ, who came and took our name To bless, not to turn the sod.
_William Rodger Thomson._
[Illustration]
_ODE._
(FROM HORACE.--_Lib._ ii. _Od._ 18.)
No ivory--no golden ceiling Adorns my modest home; No marble pillars, wealth revealing Proudly support the dome. No regal fortune, princely dwelling, Hath fate vouchsafed to me, I am not clad, in state excelling, In robe of sovereignty: A vein of wit, by nature’s blessing, And honest heart are mine. Yet me to honour, nought possessing The wealthiest incline; Why should I then the gods importune To add unto my store, Contented with my humble fortune I could not wish for more. Day hastes to follow day, and truly New moons but come to die, The tomb awaits thy ashes duly Mid all thy pageantry. Yet mindless of the fatal hour On high thou build’st the hall, Insatiate with thy wealth and power Thou fain would’st seize on all; Thy neighbour’s farm, thy neighbour’s dwelling, All would’st thou have for thee, ’Gainst justice and ’gainst law rebelling With base cupidity; While from their home unjustly driven The husband and the wife (The babes exposed to winds of heaven) Must linger out their life: But one sure homestead there remaineth Than all on earth more sure, The dark abode where Orcus reigneth Alike o’er rich and poor, Just earth entombeth ev’n the poorest With sons of royalty, And Charon thou in vain allurest For gold to set it free: Great kings renowned in ancient story He holdeth in his might, Far famed of old for warlike glory Now doomed to endless night: Invoked in pity he hath risen, And uninvoked,--to free The hapless poor from their earth-prison And grant them liberty.
_E. B. Watermeyer._
_AFTER A STORM._
Morning has come upon us,--from the day Has rolled each darkling cloud, the orient view Unveils with gorgeous sun, and deep clear blue. But ocean riots still;--in ponderous play Thousands of heavy surges plunge away, Dazzling with snow-white foam, or swiftly woos Iris to paint all brightly tinted hues. Strangely fair magic, mid their shivered spray, Around us many a little whale-bird skims, Dipping its tiny bosom in the deep, Then instantly uprises blithe and high, Even as the heart unthralled by earthly things Will walk this troubled earth yet ever keep Its dearest home up in the azure sky.
_E. B. Watermeyer._
[Illustration]
_AMMAP AND GRIET._
A LEGEND OF THE ’NOSOP.
On a huge rock of granite stone, A dark-skinned maiden stands alone, Her eyes with vengeance gleam. ’Twas in a wild and savage glen, Far from the busy haunts of men, Where ’Nosop rolls its stream.
And who is she? What does she there? Alone beside by the lion’s lair! Has she no woman’s fear? She had--but all that fear is gone, She stands upon that very stone, Because she knows he’s near.
“Dark-skinned maiden, come away, Tempt not thus the beast of prey, Haste, haste, your life to save.” “No, no,” the dark-skinned maiden cried, “He tore my Ammap from my side, And vengeance I will have!”
A white man stood behind a tree, A double-barrelled gun had he, And steady was his aim; She knew not that his help was nigh, But lightly poised the assegai, When forth the lion came.
He sees her! With a single bound He strove to reach the vantage ground, But ere the rock he gained, The dark-skinned maiden’s aim was true, Downwards the fearful weapon flew, And in his side remained!
He fell, and writhing in his pain, Madly he strove, but strove in vain, To rise upon his feet. “Ah, ah,” the dark-skinned maiden cried, “This day I was to be his bride, He tore my Ammap from my side, Ah, ah, revenge is sweet.”
Beneath that rock of granite stone, On which the white man stands alone, The lion writhes in pain. The dark-skinned maid is at his side She drew a dirk, her Ammap’s pride, He never rose again.
Some months had rolled away, and then, Within that very lion’s den, Were found the bones of Griet; And to this day, who ventures nigh That granite rock, will hear the cry, “Ah, ah, revenge is sweet!”
But visitors are very rare, The native seldom ventures there, He rather turns aside. And why? Because he fears to meet The wandering ghost of faithful Griet With Ammap at her side.
_S. A. M._
[Illustration]
_SONNETS OF THE CAPE._
I.
GOVERNMENT GARDENS, CAPE TOWN.
Oft, when my feet at evening homeward tread The stately cloisters of the oaks along, My fervent soul breaks into grateful song, And I a glad, rapt worshipper am led. God, what a glorious prospect is outspread! Impersoned nature here hath built her shrine: On yon great altar sacrifice divine She offers to her Maker. On the head Of the majestic peak upon the west, Her favoured seat, at eve oft sitteth she, Soothing the busy city into rest, Whilst the sun setting lights the golden sea. Here, in thy fane, bright Presence, I divest My heart of lower thoughts, and bow to heaven and thee.
II.
NIGHT.
Dost thou not love, O angel of the night, Above all others this fair southern land? For thou hast gemmed its skies with lavish hand, With rarest stars and constellations bright. Shines not its vestal moon with purer light? Hath not its galaxy more lustrous hue While star-clouds, set in heavens more deeply blue, Still gladden ours, as erst Magellan’s sight? O would that while the old grey mountains sleep There might be silence in the which to find Grand music! But if joyous creatures keep Perpetual chorus, shall my captious mind Object? Creation’s harmonies lie deep, But to the soul attuned the parts are well combined.
_G. Longmore._
[Illustration]
_THE FADED PHOTOGRAPH._
TO MY FRIEND, DAVID C----, BATH, SOMERSETSHIRE.
Your portrait hangs upon my wall, Among my treasures highly classed, For it is potent to recall Old days that we have passed In close communion, heart and mind, Where Avon’s placid waters wind.
And very often, as I gaze, Bath’s noble hills with you I climb, Or tread the valley’s wooded ways Where we’ve roved many a time: Delightful scenes that I would fain, Before I sleep, behold again.
Our Cape its beauties hath, ’tis true: Old Table Mountain’s always grand, Our sun is bright, our sky is blue; The Maker’s bounteous hand, From which all beauty hath its birth, Made this far corner of His earth.
Yet must a Briton love his home The more for absence, as I ween, And greatly do I long to roam Through daisied meadows green, Perchance made dulcet by the swell Of distant chiming village bell.
O for a field of new mown hay, A beach, or elm, or tasselled birch; A springtide scent of virgin May, Or a glimpse of an ivied church! To tramp the stubbles of the corn Upon a fresh September morn;
To tread once more with gladsome feet The thronging street, the busy mart; To feel again the mighty beat Of England’s wondrous heart! But, though I long, I murmur not, For Heaven appoints each human lot.
You know not how we exiles prize This modern photographic art, Portraying to our grateful eyes, Exact in every part, Kindred and friends forever dear; We gaze, and almost think you here.
Your picture’s somewhat faded now, But to fond memory it shows Your very self; oft mark I how You wear your homely clothes. You know what one professor teaches, And I have faith in what he preaches.[17]
And oft I sit by your fireside, And share your daily household life; Upon my knees the youngsters ride, Or I chat with your blue-eyed wife. Give them my love, and tell them, pray, Not to forget me far away.
Let time and age do all they can, And let it fade, if fade it will, This portrait of a sterling man Shall grace my chamber still; And I its dimmest lines shall trace, Until I meet him face to face.
_G. Longmore._
CAPE TOWN, _February 1862_.
[Illustration]
_EVELEEN._
My own girl at home, Weep no longer for me, The ship steps through the ocean foam That bears me back to thee. Full sail and bending mast, We cleave the waters green; I’m hasting home to thee, at last, My own Eveleen.
I have o’ercome the fate That parted us so long; I have o’erpast the treacherous hate, Forgot the rankling wrong. I am speeding o’er the sea They swore should roll between The one who loves thee well, and thee, My own Eveleen!
Of you, how many a night I’ve dreamed, the long watch through! From noon’s brain-searing shafts of light My thoughts have flown to you. To you in your own home bowers, Where the light falls cool and green, My saint of saints! my flower of flowers! My own Eveleen!
But now no longer pine, No longer wait and weep; Our pennant floats far o’er the brine, We march along the deep. With store of royal gold, With silks of sunny sheen, And bridal raiment meet to fold My own Eveleen.
An hour! and he shall trace The old home seen once more; But to have seen his true love’s face White as the shroud she wore! Oh, fading human love! Oh, light in darkness seen! Oh, voiceless as the stone above Thy grave, Eveleen!
_C. P. M._
MOZAMBIQUE CHANNEL, _November 1861_.
[Illustration]
_FAREWELL TO MADEIRA._
Hark! hear the billow swell; Bright Madeira, fare thee well, Shining mountains, azure skies, Sunniest hearts and friendliest eyes: All my soul has felt so long, Like a joyous flow of song, Sinks at vesper’s distant bell, Loved Madeira, fare thee well.
Summer island, now no more Shall I move along thy shore, Where in all thy waves I caught Oracles of peaceful thought; Mid thy glittering walls and towers, Girt by vines and gay with flowers, Oft in sleep shall fancy dwell: Loved Madeira, fare thee well.
Rock-built isle, whose mountains rude, Are the throne of solitude; Where from giant crag and steep I have gazed on valleys deep, Feeling powers within me pass From each stern aerial mass; Land of lovely peak and dell, Loved Madeira, fare thee well.
Far within the cares of life, Hushed beyond the sound of strife, Where, methinks, thy spirits call From thy soothing waterfall; Oft shalt thy remembrance be Quiet strength and joy to me, Brightening mem’ry’s dusky cell, Loved Madeira, fare thee well.
From the heights of time and toil, Where I stand on heavenly soil, Far around, discerning clear Many a various land and year, Most the vision seems to smile Warmed by the Hesperian isle; Round thee floats a sunny spell, While I murmur, fare thee well.
Often magic lures me far Toward the East’s familiar star; Older powers with earlier sway, Chanting call me hence away; And I hear above thy foam, Trembling round the voice of home, Whispering more than tongue can tell-- Yet, Madeira, fare thee well.
On thee still may summer breathe, Still thy crown with blossoms wreathe; And may still, with peace divine, More of noblest life be thine: Making hearts of kindliest mould Earnest, glad, serene, and bold. So, supreme all ill to quell, God, fair island, keep thee well!
_John Stirling._
[Illustration]
_FAREWELL TO FIFTY-FIVE._
Farewell, farewell, old Fifty-five! to thee, This circling ball no longer homage yields; Thy record’s closed, and frail humanity Stands trembling ’neath the rod that conscience wields. For now, methinks, that record’s page reveals A long dark roll of follies, faults, and crimes Before His eye, whose love in vain appeals To hearts ingrate; whose goodness glads our times, And spreads with genial gifts the wide earth’s varied climes.
Upon thy wingèd hours, old Fifty-five, Alternate hopes and fears have trembling hung, Capricious as the fleecy clouds which drive Athwart the summer sky, a motley throng Of joys and griefs, have swiftly swept along. Now o’er the welkin peal the bridal bells; Anon the mournful funeral dirge is sung; Big with this truth each passing moment swells,-- “Beyond the sky alone unchanging pleasure dwells.”
Farewell, old Fifty-five! the visions fair Which down thy sparkling vista erst appeared, Beguiling Mammon’s votaries with the glare Of sordid wealth in pile on pile upreared, Have flitted past, and left a blank, uncheered By one bright gleam, in many an aching breast. O were the sober truth more wide revered, And gaping folly’s golden dreams repressed, How few would groan beneath the gambler’s dark unrest.
Few were our tears, old Fifty-five, hadst thou Consigned alone the noisome vampire band To disappointment blank, and carking woe: But thou with undiscriminating hand Hast flung on poverty’s inclement strand Full many a one styled “noblest work of God.” His lowing herds have perished from the land, Or haply o’er his fields a blight has trod; Still, _he_ can trusting say, “My Father holds the rod.”
Farewell, old Fifty-five! bright o’er thy days, Celestial truth has flung her radiant bow; Benignant from her throne she stoops to raise Each moiling slave of ignorance and woe. Her silv’ry voice proclaims to high and low This blood-bought truth, “man’s mind and tongue are free.” May every human breast responsive glow, Till superstition, pride, and bigotry, Their lofty heads abase, and like grim spectres flee.
Farewell, old Fifty-five! inhuman war With blood-red hand has o’er thy cycle swept. Horrific still he rolls his thund’ring car ’Mid ghastly wounds, and dying groans unwept. The cannon’s roar which long in silence slept, Unceasing echoes o’er the dismal scene; Deep blushing, Mercy from her throne has stept, While eager Rapine stalks with hideous mien, And gloating scan’s the flaming city’s lurid sheen.
O Liberty! Britannia’s proudest boast; O Liberty! man’s brightest heritage; Why on thy steps attendant should a host Of sanguinary passions fiercely rage? Or why should history’s memorable page Be blotted o’er with sighs and groans and tears? When will grey time mature the golden age, When men shall snap their swords and quiv’ring spears, And Peace triumphant reign o’er all the circling years?
Farewell, old Fifty-five--as ling’ring still Thy last faint echoes on the ear expire, And sadd’ning thoughts the heaving bosom fill, Hope strings anew her animating lyre. Eternal truth--the soul’s immortal fire-- Ere long shall claim the homage of the world, High o’er gaunt Slavery’s blazing funeral pyre Shall Freedom’s crimson banner wave unfurled, And Ignorance and Vice from their dark thrones be hurled.
_William Selwyn._
PORT ELIZABETH, _January 1, 1856_.
“_LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT._”
“A little earthen lamp, 1700 years old, was recently found in the East, which bore this inscription--‘The light of Christ shines for all.’”--_Christian Express_, December 1, 1878.
This tiny lamp of fragile clay Once shed its faint and flick’ring ray, To cheer perchance some sage’s hall; Its light extinct, ’mid wreck it lies, Through seventeen rolling centuries; Till disentombed, behold the truth, Bright with the glow of pristine youth, “The light of Christ shines for us all!”
Hail, glorious truth! Thy music thrills In echoes from time’s distant hills; And still thy tones melodious fall. Still may poor wand’rers lift their heads To Him, whose face benignant sheds Effulgent rays, to warm and cheer, To waken hope, and banish fear; “The light of Christ still shines for all!”
The ice-built screens by bigots planned,-- As children’s barriers in the sand, Dashed by the wild waves, sink and fall-- Melt in the beams from Jesus’ face, Exhale in mist and leave no trace: Free as the breeze on mountain side, Wide as the ocean’s rolling tide, “The light of Christ still shines for all!”
Light, light for Afric’s dusky throng; Light for the pris’ners held so long In superstition’s blinding thrall; Light for the savage and the sage, For smiling youth, and trembling age; Light for all sorrowing, sin-struck eyes That seek the pathway to the skies; “The light of Christ still shines for all!”
_W. Selwyn._
PORT ELIZABETH, _December 11, 1878_.
[Illustration]
“_SHOULD IT BE ACCORDING TO THY MIND._”
(JOB xxxiv 33.)
Shall feeble, vain, presumptuous man Whose loftiest vision’s but a span, Impugn the vast mysterious plan By boundless wisdom laid? Shall His omnipotent behest, That thunders o’er wild ocean’s breast, Or lulls its surging waves to rest, By puny worms be stayed?
Shall man, whose moments hurrying flee, Like sparklets from a phosphor sea, Prescribe to dread Eternity The laws of His domain? Shall He who scans each circling pole, And points the course the planets roll, Seek wisdom from the darkling mole To guide the shining train?
Shall yon vast orb whose kindling ray Pours forth the universal day His glad, majestic progress stay, Lest, haply, his bright beams With light unwelcome should illume The drowsy couch, and chide the gloom Of some voluptuous sluggard’s room, And chase his idle dreams?
Shall thirsty nature pant in vain For showers of life-restoring rain; Shall desolation sweep the plain And beauty droop and die; Lest one bright drop’s exultant spring Should snap the spider’s airy string, Or dim, perchance, the golden wing Of some gay butterfly?
Shall yon glad stream, whose sparkling tide Spreads verdant beauty far and wide, O’erleap its banks and turn aside, Or in the desert sink; Lest, haply, fraught with summer showers, Its waves should ripple o’er the flowers By children planted ’mid the bowers That tangle on its brink?
No! He, whose power with life endued This glorious universe, pursued In His design the highest good And happiness of all; And still, at His benign command, Rich bounties gladden ev’ry land, And still He guides, with all-wise hand Each tenant of this ball.
O! then, low-bending in the dust, Cling to His LOVE, with child-like trust, Believing that Omniscience must Know what for thee is best; Let resignation soothe thy cares; Let faith disperse thy gloomy fears; And God Himself shall dry thy tears In His eternal rest.
_W. Selwyn._
PORT ELIZABETH, _January 21, 1879_.
[Illustration]
_TO GRAAFF REINET._
Hail! “Gem of the Desert,” in slumber reposing, The dark hills thy cradle, soft verdure thy bed; The breeze from the kloof richest perfumes disclosing, Lightly sweeps o’er thy bosom, raising dust very red.
The last gleams of the sun in gay splendour descending Seem fondly to linger around the tall spire, While the clouds, rainbow-tinted, their gorgeous hues lending, Make the Dutchmen’s black chimneys seem as if all afire.
Deep bosomed in shade the dark river meanders, Save where, like a mirror, it gleams from the glade; Or soapy and slimy through mud-holes it wanders, Where stockings are washed by a Hottentot maid.
Sweet abode of content; dearly loved Graaff Reinet! Long, long mayst thou bask in thy slumber profound; Tame spring-bucks be baited for a sixpenny bet, And thy butter be sold at four shillings per pound.
_W. Selwyn._
GRAAFF REINET, 1860.
[Illustration]
_HYMN._
WRITTEN DURING THE ZULU WAR.
“And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me.”
--JOHN xii. 32.
O Saviour throned in peace above Reveal Thy piercèd side, And let the vision of Thy love Stay war’s remorseless tide; Risen Saviour, hear!
For white, for black, alike didst Thou Low bow Thy fainting head; For all of ev’ry clime and hue, Didst Thou thy heart’s blood shed. Suffering Saviour, hear!
Behold fair Afric’s sunny lands With reeking carnage strewed, See God-made man with rigid hands In brother’s blood imbrued; Sorrowing Saviour, hear!
O hear the Briton’s dying groan, The Zulu’s piercing wail; O hear the famished orphan’s moan, The widow’s sobbing tale; Pitying Saviour, hear!
In mercy stay the quiv’ring spear; Avert the death-winged ball; Pour balm for ev’ry scalding tear, And breathe Thy peace o’er all. Mighty Saviour, hear!
Draw weary warriors round Thy feet By love’s constraining cord; There let the scattered nations meet, And hail Thee Sov’reign Lord. Gracious Saviour, hear!
_William Selwyn._
PORT ELIZABETH, _February 9, 1879_.
[Illustration]
THE LAMENT
OF THE GUTTER LATELY FILLED UP BY AN UNPOETICAL MUNICIPALITY.
Old residents of Port Elizabeth will remember the kloof running down between Donkin Street and Constitution Hill, which was spanned by a rude wooden foot-bridge just opposite Dr. Edwards’ residence. The kloof having been filled up now forms the site of the row of houses on the right-hand side of Donkin Street. This municipal improvement forms the subject of the following pitiful “Lament.” Whatever may be thought of the merit of the verses, the author takes some credit for an eye to the “practical,” for the attempt to lead off the surface water through an underground culvert, resulted in the catastrophe predicted in the concluding verses within a very short time after the completion of the work.
Oh list, good folks, a tale of woe, A tale of dark oppression, Let briny tears your cheeks down flow In sorrowful procession.
Till late I trickled down the glen, In sunbeams gaily sparkling; But now, entombed by heartless men, I creep on cold and darkling.
Beneath a huge chaotic mass Of rubbish vile I mutter; Mid frogs and fungi rank, alas! A melancholy gutter.
No more my channel, decked with green, Relieves the eye aweary. Its verdant slopes no more are seen, But all around is dreary.
No more the breeze, with fitful sigh, Along my bed breathes mildly, No more, when Boreas blusters high, My caverns echo wildly.
The rustic bridge, that bound my banks In brotherhood together, Is torn away, and its rude planks Are gone--“the Board” knows whither.
Away! a dire revenge I’ll brew; My rage, meanwhile, I’ll bung tight. That sordid “Board” the day shall rue When next I see the sunlight.
When turbid torrents rushing pass Adown my peeping square holes, Right through this execrable mass, I, madman like, will tear holes.
I’ll heave aloft the lumb’ring load, And crashing down I’ll toss it, Till in the middle of the road[18] I make a “fixed deposit.”
_William Selwyn._
[Illustration]
_MY “SALTED” STEED._