Part 14

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.