Part 15

I seek not with a weak and untuned lyre To sound the praise of Cheop’s mighty pile, Where toiling myriads, higher and still higher, In the dim past, beside the swirling Nile, Heaped up those giant masses to the sky, Upon whose hoary sides old Time’s grim teeth Have spent their force in vain. From task so high My muse with trembling shrinks. If e’er a wreath Should decorate her brow, ’twill twine ’mong themes Of lowly sort. Be hers the touch that thrills Heart’s deepest chords. Be hers the light that beams From Nature’s restful face,--the love that fills The Home with flowers of Eden’s chastened bloom. And surely this love-reared memorial pile To sacred dust enshrined in Indian Tomb A theme congenial yields. The worldling’s smile, Incredulous, mayhap reveals the thought That from rough stone no poet flowers can rise In gladd’ning bloom, no wisdom’s lore be taught. Erected here perchance to tranquillise That “undiminished grief” whose darksome tide For two long years had whelmed Sir Rufane’s heart, This Pyramid on Donkin’s Hill beside The tow’ring light-house stands; and with rude art Its sculptured tablets tell that she whose loss The stricken husband mourned, a babe had left Too young to feel the orphan’s bitter cross; And earth in her recall had been bereft Of one pure gem whose ray reflected Heaven; In touching tones the simple record speaks The fondness of a heart by anguish riven. Methinks hot tears bestream his haggard cheeks As memory mirrors her loved form to view, And all her tender ministrations pour In recollections soft as evening dew. The well-known voice, now hushed for evermore, Has left its echoes sighing through his heart; And as her faith and tranquil virtues rose To vision clear, he sought but to impart A brief epitome, that should disclose All that she was to him, when on her scroll This record he inscribed, that all might know That she was one “most perfect human soul” Whose name in fragrance marks the “town below.” When gloomy night her sable mantle spreads, And storm-winds fill the seaman’s heart with fear, The light-house pours its placid ray and sheds A soft effulgence on this tribute dear. The keeper’s cottage, nestling low between The light-house and the sombre monument, Shares the mild radiance that o’erspreads a scene Whose light appears with mystic shadows blent. What sober thought may Faith’s clear eye perceive With Fancy’s pictures fair to interweave? Light from above reveals the rocks and shoals Whose earth-born flashes shipwreck storm-tost souls; Light from above illumes the smiling home; Light from above irradiates the tomb; Light from above with sympathetic glow O’ergilds the memories of our deepest woe.

_William Selwyn._

PORT ELIZABETH, _30th November 1885_.

“_IN MEMORIAM._”

THE REV. R. TEMPLETON, WHO DIED IN THE ZUURBERG FOREST, JANUARY 1886.

By winding paths, amid the tangled woods That skirt the silent deep-kloofed Zuurberg hill, A lately wedded pair meandering, fill Their cup of tender joy. The peace that broods O’er Nature’s tranquil face reflected shines From loving eyes, as they in converse sweet Plot out a rose-fringed path with prudence meet, And mark with glowing hearts its “pleasant lines.” Mysterious are Thy ways, great King of saints In sudden fear they vainly strive to thread Their homeward track, when lo! the husband faints. Deaf to her voice, with agonizing dread She dares the maze, in search of human aid. In vain! The Teacher “sleepeth” in the shade.

_William Selwyn._

PORT ELIZABETH, _25th Jan. 1886_.

“_LORD! WHAT IS MAN THAT THOU ART MINDFUL OF HIM!_”

Panting climbers to some barren height; Eager chasers of some phantom light; Emmets piling wayside domes of clay, That, crushed to dust, the whirlwind sweeps away; Toilers vain, O Lord, are we.

Fluttering night-birds dazzled by the day; Wayworn travellers who have lost their way; Miners groping slowly in the gloom; Children sobbing round a mother’s tomb; Blind and helpless, Lord, are we.

Flow’rets drooping in the noon-tide sun; Autumn leaves descending one by one; Bubbles dancing on life’s foaming wave; Shadowy spirits hurrying to the grave; Frail and fleeting, Lord, are we.

Trembling sparklets of immortal fire; Infant songsters ’mid an angel choir; Tiny parts of one complex machine Guided by an architect unseen. None unnoticed, Lord, by Thee.

Dewdrops glistening in a radiant love; Diamond sand-grains registered above; Separate nurslings of a Father’s care, That gently numbers every silken hair, Weak and faithless though we be.

_William Selwyn._

_January 1886._

_THE RHYME OF THE OX-WAGON._

(A MODEST PENDANT TO PRINGLE’S “AFAR IN THE DESERT.”)

Away with the cynic, who ceaselessly sighs For some new-fangled bauble--some novel surprise Give me the heart that with generous glow Lights up the friendships of long long ago. Green be the mem’ries of pleasure gone by, When youth filled the cup, and no care breathed a sigh. Fain would I weave into light-tripping rhyme The frolicsome joys of the good olden time, Ere our evergreen forests and still wilds were scared By the ear-piercing screech of the Railway Dragon And a thousand long miles were triumphantly dared ’Neath the cosy white tent of a good Ox-wagon How jocund the shout of the old driver, Jan, With his grimy felt hat, and his jacket of tan. The crack of his whip waking echoes around, While the startled bush-buck clears the path with a bound. As the tall forest trees bend their heads ’neath the breeze, So our team breasts the steep with a labouring wheeze; Then down the long slope in a sinuous race, They scamper along at a bullock’s best pace; Wo-haa! shouts the driver. Wo-haa! for the sake Of the small Tottie leader with scarcely a rag on, Who capers and hoots, gamely striving to break The headlong descent of the good Ox-wagon.

How grateful the halt near the bush-margined stream, Where “uitspanned,” our hungry and sweltering team Lave their hot dusty hoofs, and with heads bending low, Drink the nectar that Adam imbibed long ago. Old Jan and the Tot gather sticks for a fire, To prepare the hot coffee (what liquor ranks higher?), And the lush “carbonatje,” whose tender delight To the palate still clings, though you’ve dainties in sight; With biscuits and “biltong” we finish our feast-- (Perhaps we may take a small sip from the flagon)-- Then join in the chase of a runaway beast Who freedom prefers to the good Ox-wagon.

The “inspanning” finished, Jack shoulders his rifle; His longing for venison all gentle thoughts stifle. Peeping Bob is intent upon catching things horrid; While Bill, who confesses to sympathies florid, Gathers trophies galore of old Cape’s blossomed splendour, While a grateful thought leaps to the bountiful Sender. Such our innocent joys while our caravan rumbles At three miles an hour, to the trysting at “Bumble’s.” Fain would I tell of our jollity there, But time gently warns me to tackle the drag on, So I leave you to picture our sumptuous fare While we drank, “Happy days with a good Ox-wagon.”

Well! what have we gained by our _steaming_ hot hurry, But time-tables, tariffs, debts, drivings, and worry? We’ve dropped half an hour by a trick that looks dirty: Old five o’clock reads as the modern “four-thirty.” On a “sliding scale” lately we’ve slid fast enough, Though the “ways” of that slide have been terribly rough. Dame Fortune has stripped many a home of its charms, Devoured our profits, and mortgaged our farms. Our wool, wine, and wisdom are not in “high feather;” But up with the whip-stick! Bend Hope’s sunny flag on; “Give a long pull, a strong pull, a pull altogether,” And cheers shall yet ring from the old Cape wagon.

_William Selwyn._

PORT ELIZABETH, _20th March 1886_.

_THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE._

A PATRIOTIC SONG.

Land of serene and sunny skies,-- Land of the lion and fleet gazelle; Land where the summer never dies, Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.

Land where the birds, in gorgeous plume, Flit through the bush or their love song tell; Land where the flowers show Eden’s bloom, Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.

Land where the hunter scours the plains, Free as a bird o’er the ocean’s swell; Land of kind nature’s soothing strains, Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.

Land where the grape and the orange grow Deep in yon cool sequestered dell; Land of the melon’s luscious flow, Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.

Land where the fields of golden grain, Rich in their bounteous fruitage swell; Land of sleek herds in lengthened train, Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.

Land of a stalwart yeoman race,-- Stern, but with hearts as true as a bell; Homely, but full of a kindly grace, Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.

Land of the dark Amakosa tall, Seeking release from the savage spell; Land where there’s room and to spare for all, Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.

Land of Good Hope! our prayer we raise,-- May peace and plenty with thee dwell; Filling our hearts with grateful praise, For this bright land we love so well.

_W. Selwyn._

_THE ERYTHRINA TREE._

A CAROL OF THE WOODS.

Bright, glorious Erythrina tree, Queen of the forests near the sea, Herald of springtide wild and free, Thy scarlet blossoms reared on high Above the woods in beauty lie, Tinted in russet-purple dye. While morning beams in laughing glances Are quivering amongst thy branches And glowing flow’rs as day advances.

Bright, glorious Erythrina tree, Queen of the woods beside the sea, Haunt of the sun-bird and the bee. ’Neath sunny skies they feast for hours, Quaffing sweet nectar from thy flow’rs, Whose scarlet petals fall in showers. On dark and amethystine wing Flitting from flower to flower they sing Their joyous songs to thee in spring. A shower of ringing notes on high Apparently from out the sky, Descend to earth all merrily. While the Cicada’s ceaseless strain From day to day--again, again, Is heard through forest, dell, and lane, Thrilling the woods, a wild refrain.

Bright, glorious Erythrina, how Thy scarlet blossoms clothe each bough, The “Red man”[30] of the woods art thou, With thy broad banner floating free, Proclaiming “seed time” silently, To each dark aborigine. No written calendars have they, Thy early flow’rs brook no delay, The season due, for toil all day. When Kafir maids with hoe in hand, Off to the fields a cheerful band-- They go to plant umboua[31] land, Singing a wild, wild roundelay, While o’er each pick[32] the sunbeams play, Working in time--the livelong day.

Bright, glorious Erythrina tree! As time flies imperceptibly, The spring’s precursor thou shalt be. High o’er the forest dark and green, Thy crown of beauty will be seen, While sweeping seasons intervene, And many a field of golden corn Spread over sloping hill and lawn Shall ripen on each jocund morn, And many a brilliant sun-bird’s song Shall echo the lone woods among, While red-winged Lories pass along, And from the shadowy depths below, Their deep-toned notes in cadence flow, As sounding through the woods they go, Far from the busy world away, Where, singing, toils the bee all day ’Mid the deep woods where sunbeams play.

Bright, glorious Erythrina tree! Remote from cities--near the sea My winged thoughts have flown to thee. Queen of the woods! I love thee well, Oh! for a home with thee to dwell For ever in the forest dell. From life’s stern battle would I hide By some bright sparkling fountain’s side, Regardless of all time or tide, Forgotten be the world’s wild roar, The turmoils of her care-worn shore-- Oblivion shield me evermore, My canopy the sheltering trees, My dream--the song of birds and bees: Good-bye to all things--saving these.

_M. E. Barber._

GRAHAMSTOWN, _March 9, 1884_.

PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.

EDINBURGH AND LONDON.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Johannesberg.

[2] Utíko,--Hottentot name for God.

[3] A branch of the Kat River.

[4] A musical instrument peculiar to the Hottentot tribes.

[5] Stound--a sharp pang, a shooting pain.

[6] The zebra is commonly termed _Wilde-Paard_, or wild horse, by the Dutch African colonists.

[7] The Bushmen consider the locusts a great luxury, consuming great quantities fresh, and drying abundance for future emergencies.

[8] Caffer name for the yellow-wood tree.

[9] Name given to the missionary, Van der Kemp, by the Caffers.

[10] Mountain between the sources of the Kat and Koonap rivers.

[11] Kraal or cattle-fold; also a native village or encampment.

[12] “Sons of Umláo” is the Caffer name for the Colonial Hottentots.

[13] Indódo or Indôda Intába, _i.e._, the Man Mountain, is a conical peaked hill, so called from some resemblance it is supposed to bear to the human figure. It is also known as “Slambie’s Kop.” It is in the King William’s Town District.

[14] Katberg Mountain.

[15] Burns.

[16] Many brave colonists fought among the Burghers, and such names as those of White and Bailie (1835-6) will ever be remembered. Few survive of the early settlers who had to battle against the first difficulties and dangers. Such names as those of Godionton, Chase, Wood, Cock, and Cawood occur to every one.

[17] See “Sartor Resartus” _passim_.

[18] Query, on the “Banks”?--_P. D._

[19]

’Tain’t nutmegs at all. Oh what ignorant coves These authors is! Bishop’s port: lemon and cloves. _Printer’s Devil._

[20] Horn’s Neck, Magaliesberg.

[21] “My uncle, here are small oranges” (or “Mandarin” oranges).

[22] Born in Africa of European parentage (originally).

[23] “Ah! yes, I thank you much.”

[24] A “transport driver” or carrier.

[25] A home-made sofa.

[26] Estate.

[27] “Nephew, you can take her.”

[28] Speaker Brand.

[29] I publish this piece at the request of several friends, but cannot suffer it to go forth with all its imperfections, without putting forward as an apology for them the fact that it was written when the author was very young, and ignorant of the rules of composition.

[30] Amakosa Kafirs are called “Red men,” as they are coloured with red clay.

[31] Indian corn.

[32] Hoe.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Poetry of South Africa, by Alexander Wilmot