Part 13

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.