Part 2
Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: Away, away, in the wilderness vast, Where the white man’s foot hath never passed, And the quivered Coránna or Bechuán Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan: A region of emptiness, howling and drear, Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear; Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, With the twilight bat from the yawning stone; Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot; And the bitter-melon, for food and drink, Is the pilgrim’s fare by the salt lake’s brink: A region of drought, where no river glides, Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, Appears, to refresh the aching eye: But the barren earth, and the burning sky, And the blank horizon, round and round, Spread--void of living sight and sound, And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, As I sit apart by the desert stone, Like Elijah at Horeb’s cave alone, “A still small voice” comes through the wild (Like a father consoling his fretful child), Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,-- Saying--MAN IS DISTANT, BUT GOD IS NEAR!
_Thomas Pringle._
_EVENING RAMBLES._
The sultry summer-noon is past; And mellow evening comes at last, With a low and languid breeze Fanning the mimosa trees, That cluster o’er the yellow vale, And oft perfume the panting gale With fragrance faint; it seems to tell Of primrose-tufts in Scottish dell, Peeping forth in tender spring When the blithe lark begins to sing.
But soon, amidst our Libyan vale, Such soothing recollections fail; Soon we raise the eye to range O’er prospects wild, grotesque, and strange: Sterile mountains, rough and steep, That bound abrupt the valley deep, Heaving to the clear blue sky Their ribs of granite, bare and dry, And ridges by the torrents worn, Thinly streaked with scraggy thorn, Which fringes nature’s savage dress, Yet scarce relieves her nakedness.
But where the vale winds deep below The landscape hath a warmer glow: There the spekboom spreads its bowers Of light green leaves and lilac flowers; And the aloe rears her crimson crest, Like stately queen for gala drest; And the bright-blossomed bean-tree shakes Its coral tufts above the brakes, Brilliant as the glancing plumes Of sugar birds among its blooms, With the deep green verdure bending In the stream of light descending.
And now along the grassy meads, Where the skipping reebok feeds, Let me through the mazes rove Of the light acacia grove; Now while yet the honey-bee Hums around the blossomed tree; And the turtles softly chide, Wooingly, on every side; And the clucking pheasant calls To his mate at intervals; And the duiker at my tread Sudden lifts his startled head, Then dives affrighted in the brake, Like wild duck in the reedy lake.
My wonted seat receives me now-- This cliff with myrtle-tufted brow, Towering high o’er grove and stream, As if to greet the parting gleam. With shattered rocks besprinkled o’er, Behind ascends the mountain hoar, Whose crest o’erhangs the Bushman’s cave (His fortress once and now his grave), Where the grim satyr-faced baboon Sits gibbering on the rising moon, Or chides with hoarse and angry cry The herdsman as he wanders by.
Spread out below in sun and shade, The shaggy Glen lies full displayed-- Its sheltered nooks, its sylvan bowers, Its meadows flushed with purple flowers; And through it like a dragon spread, I trace the river’s tortuous bed. Lo! there the Chaldee-willow weeps Drooping o’er the headlong steeps, Where the torrent in his wrath Hath rifted him a rugged path, Like fissure cleft by earthquake’s shock, Through mead and jungle, mound and rock. But the swoln water’s wasteful sway, Like tyrant’s rage, hath passed away, And left the ravage of its course Memorial of its frantic force. --Now o’er its shrunk and slimy bed Rank weeds and withered wrack are spread, With the faint rill just oozing through, And vanishing again from view; Save where the guana’s glassy pool Holds to some cliff its mirror cool, Girt by the palmite’s leafy screen, Or graceful rock-ash, tall and green, Whose slender sprays above the flood Suspend the loxia’s callow brood In cradle-nests, with porch below, Secure from winged or creeping foe-- Weasel or hawk or writhing snake; Light swinging, as the breezes wake, Like the ripe fruit we love to see Upon the rich pomegranate tree.
But lo! the sun’s descending car Sinks o’er Mount Dunion’s peaks afar; And now along the dusky vale The homeward herds and flocks I hail, Returning from their pastures dry Amid the stony uplands high. First, the brown Herder with his flock Comes winding round my hermit-rock: His mien and gait and gesture tell, No shepherd he from Scottish fell; For crook the guardian gun he bears, For plaid the sheepskin mantle wears; Sauntering languidly along; Nor flute has he, nor merry song, Nor book, nor tale, nor rustic lay, To cheer him through his listless day. His look is dull, his soul is dark; He feels not hope’s electric spark; But, born the white man’s servile thrall, Knows that he cannot lower fall. Next the stout Neat-herd passes by, With bolder step and blither eye; Humming low his tuneless song, Or whistling to the hornèd throng. From the destroying foeman fled,-- He serves the Colonist for bread: Yet this poor heathen Bechuan Bears on his brow the port of man; A naked homeless exile he-- But not debased by slavery.
Now, wizard-like, slow Twilight sails With soundless wing adown the vales, Waving with his shadowy rod The owl and bat to come abroad, With things that hate the garish sun, To frolic now when day is done. Now along the meadows damp The enamoured firefly lights his lamp. Link-boy he of woodland green To light fair Avon’s Elfin Queen; Here, I ween, more wont to shine To light the thievish porcupine, Plundering my melon-bed,-- Or villain lynx, whose stealthy tread Rouses not the wakeful hound As he creeps the folds around.
But lo! the night-bird’s boding scream Breaks abrupt my twilight dream; And warns me it is time to haste My homeward walk across the waste, Lest my rash step provoke the wrath Of adder coiled upon the path, Or tempt the lion from the wood, That soon will prowl athirst for blood, --Thus, murmuring my thoughtful strain, I seek our wattled cot again.
_Thomas Pringle._
GLEN LYNDEN, 1822.
_THE LION HUNT._
Mount--mount for the hunting with musket and spear! Call our friends to the field--for the lion is near! Call Arend and Ekhard and Groepe to the spoor; Call Muller and Coetzer and Lucas Van Vuur.
Ride up Eildon-Cleugh, and blow loudly the bugle: Call Slinger and Allie and Dikkop and Dugal; And George with the Elephant-gun on his shoulder-- In a perilous pinch none is better or bolder.
In the gorge of the glen lie the bones of my steed, And the hoof of a heifer of fatherland’s breed: But mount, my brave boys, if our rifles prove true, We’ll soon make the spoiler his ravages rue.
Ho! the Hottentot lads have discovered the track-- To his den in the desert we’ll follow him back; But tighten your girths, and look well to your flints, For heavy and fresh are the villain’s foot-prints.
Through the rough rocky kloof into grey Huntly-Glen, Past the wild-olive clump where the wolf has his den, By the black eagle’s rock at the foot of the fell, We have tracked him at last to the buffalo’s well.
Now mark yonder brake where the bloodhounds are howling; And hark that hoarse sound--like the deep thunder growling; ’Tis his lair--’tis his voice!--from your saddles alight; He’s at bay in the brushwood preparing for fight.
Leave the horses behind--and be still every man; Let the Mullers and Rennies advance in the van: Keep fast in your ranks;--by the yell of yon hound, The savage, I guess, will be out--with a bound.
He comes! the tall jungle before him loud crashing, His mane bristled fiercely, his fiery eyes flashing; With a roar of disdain, he leaps forth in his wrath, To challenge the foe that dare ’leaguer his path.
He couches,--ay, now we’ll see mischief, I dread: Quick--level your rifles--and aim at his head: Thrust forward the spears, and unsheath every knife-- St. George! he’s upon us!--now, fire, lads, for life!
He’s wounded--but yet he’ll draw blood ere he falls-- Ha! under his paw see Bezudenhout sprawls-- Now Diederik! Christian! right in the brain Plant each man his bullet--Hurra! he is slain!
Bezudenhout--up, man!--’tis only a scratch-- (You were always a scamp and have met with your match!) What a glorious lion!--what sinews--what claws-- And seven feet ten from the rump to the jaws!
His hide, with the paws and the bones of his skull, With the spoils of the leopard and buffalo bull, We’ll send to Sir Walter--now, boys, let us dine, And talk of our deeds o’er a flask of old wine.
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE LION AND THE GIRAFFE._
Wouldst thou view the lion’s den? Search afar from haunts of men-- Where the reed-encircled rill Oozes from the rocky hill, By its verdure far descried ’Mid the desert brown and wide.
Close beside the sedgy brim Couchant lurks the lion grim; Watching till the close of day Brings the death-devoted prey. Heedless at the ambushed brink The tall giraffe stoops down to drink.
Upon him straight the savage springs With cruel joy. The desert rings With clanging sound of desperate strife-- The prey is strong and he strives for life. Plunging oft with frantic bound, To shake the tyrant to the ground, He shrieks, he rushes through the waste, With glaring eye and headlong haste: In vain!--the spoiler on his prize Rides proudly--tearing as he flies.
For life--the victim’s utmost speed Is mustered in this hour of need: For life--for life--his giant might He strains, and pours his soul in flight: And mad with terror, thirst and pain, Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain.
’Tis vain; the thirsty sands are drinking His streaming blood--his strength is sinking; The victor’s fangs are in his veins-- His flanks are streaked with sanguine stains-- His panting breast in foam and gore Is bathed--he reels--his race is o’er: He falls--and, with convulsive throe, Resigns his throat to the ravening foe! --And lo! ere quivering life has fled, The vultures, wheeling overhead, Swoop down, to watch, in gaunt array, Till the gorged tyrant quits his prey.
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE DESOLATE VALLEY._
Far up among the forest-belted mountains, Where Winterberg, stern giant old and grey, Looks down the subject dells, whose gleaming fountains To wizard Kat their virgin tribute pay, A valley opens to the noontide ray, With green savannahs shelving to the brim Of the swift river, sweeping on its way To where Umtóka[3] tries to meet with him, Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim.
Round this secluded region circling rise Are billowy wastes of mountains, wild and wide; Upon whose grassy slopes the pilgrim spies The gnu and quagga, by the greenwood side, Tossing their shaggy manes in tameless pride; Or troop of elands near some sedgy fount; Or Kùdù fawns, that from the thicket glide. To seek their dam upon the misty mount, With harts, gazelles, and roes, more than the eye can count.
And as we journeyed up the pathless glen, Flanked by romantic hills on either hand, The boschbok oft would bound away--and then Beside the willows, backward gazing, stand. And where old forests darken all the land From rocky Kalberg to the river’s brink, The buffalo would start upon the strand, Where, ’mid palmetto flags, he stooped to drink, And, crashing through the brakes, to the deep jungle shrink.
Then, couched at night in hunter’s wattled sheiling, How wildly beautiful it was to hear The elephant his shrill _réveillé_ pealing, Like some far signal-trumpet on the ear! While the broad midnight moon was shining clear, How fearful to look forth upon the woods, And see those stately forest-kings appear, Emerging from their shadowy solitudes-- As if that trump had woke Earth’s old gigantic broods!
Such the majestic, melancholy scene Which ’midst that mountain-wilderness we found; With scarce a trace to tell where man had been, Save the old Caffer cabins crumbling round. Yet this lone glen (Sicāna’s ancient ground) To nature’s savage tribes abandoned long, Had heard, erewhile, the Gospel’s joyful sound, And low of herds mixed with the Sabbath song. But all is silent now. The oppressor’s hand was strong.
Now the blithe loxia hangs her pensile nest From the wild-olive, bending o’er the rock, Beneath whose shadow, in grave mantle drest, The Christian pastor taught his swarthy flock. A roofless ruin, scathed by flame and smoke, Tells where a decent mission-chapel stood; While the baboon with jabbering cry doth mock The pilgrim, pausing in his pensive mood To ask--“Why is it thus? Shall EVIL baffle GOOD?”
Yes--for a season Satan may prevail, And hold, as if secure, his dark domain; The prayers of righteous men may seem to fail, And Heaven’s glad tidings be proclaimed in vain. But wait in faith: ere long shall spring again The seed that seemed to perish in the ground; And fertilised by Zion’s latter rain, The long-parched land shall laugh, with harvests crowned, And through those silent wastes Jehovah’s praise resound.
Look round that vale: behold the unburied bones Of Ghona’s children withering in the blast: The sobbing wind, that through the forest moans, Whispers--“The spirit hath for ever passed!” Thus, in the vale of desolation vast, In moral death dark Afric’s myriads lie; But the appointed day shall dawn at last, When breathed on by a spirit from on high, The dry bones shall awake, and shout--“Our God is nigh!”
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE CORANNA._
Fast by his wild resounding river The listless Córan lingers ever; Still drives his heifers forth to feed, Soothed by the gorrah’s humming reed;[4] A rover still unchecked will range, As humour calls, or seasons change; His tent of mats and leathern gear All packed upon the patient steer. ’Mid all his wanderings hating toil, He never tills the stubborn soil; But on the milky dams relies, And what spontaneous earth supplies. Should some long parching droughts prevail, And milk and bulbs and locusts fail, He lays him down to sleep away In languid trance the weary day; Oft as he feels gaunt hunger’s stound,[5] Still tightening famine’s girdle round; Lulled by the sound of the Gareep, Beneath the willows murmuring deep: Till thunder-clouds surcharged with rain, Pour verdure o’er the panting plain; And call the famished dreamer from his trance, To feast on milk and game, and wake the moonlight dance.
_Thomas Pringle._
_SONG OF THE WILD BUSHMAN._
Let the proud white man boast his flocks, And fields of foodful grain; My home is ’mid the mountain rocks, The desert my domain. I plant no herbs nor pleasant fruits, I toil not for my cheer; The desert yields me juicy roots, And herds of bounding deer.
The countless springboks are my flock, Spread o’er the unbounded plain; The buffalo bendeth to my yoke, The wild horse to my rein;[6] My yoke is the quivering assegai, My rein the tough bow-string; My bridle curb a slender barb-- Yet it quells the forest king. The crested adder honoureth me, And yields at my command His poison bag, like the honey-bee, When I seize him on the sand. Yea, even the wasting locust-swarm, Which mighty nations dread, To me nor terror brings, nor harm-- For I make of them my bread.[7]
Thus I am lord of the Desert Land, And I will not leave my bounds, To crouch beneath the Christian’s hand, And kennel with his hounds: To be a hound, and watch the flocks, For the cruel white man’s gain-- No! the brown Serpent of the Rocks His den doth yet retain; And none who there his stings provokes Shall find his poison vain!
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE CAPTIVE OF CAMALÚ._
O Camalú--green Camalú! ’Twas there I fed my father’s flock, Beside the mount where cedars threw At dawn their shadows from the rock; There tended I my father’s flock Along the grassy margined rills, Or chased the bounding bontébok With hound and spear among the hills.
Green Camalú! methinks I view The lilies in thy meadows growing; I see thy waters bright and blue Beneath the pale-leaved willows flowing; I hear along the valleys lowing, The heifers wending to the fold, And jocund herd-boys loudly blowing The horn--to mimic hunters bold.
Methinks I see the umkóba tree[8] That shades the village-chieftain’s cot; The evening smoke curls lovingly Above that calm and pleasant spot. My father?--Ha!--I had forgot-- The old man rests in slumber deep: My mother?--Ay! she answers not-- Her heart is hushed in dreamless sleep.
My brothers too--green Camalú, Repose they by thy quiet tide? Ay! there they sleep--where white men slew And left them--lying side by side. No pity had those men of pride, They fired the huts above the dying!-- While bones bestrew that valley wide-- I wish that mine were with them lying!
I envy you by Camalú, Ye wild harts on the woody hills; Though tigers there their prey pursue, And vultures slake in blood their bills. The heart may strive in Nature’s ills, To Nature’s common doom resigned: Death the frail body only kills-- But thraldom brutifies the mind.
Oh, wretched fate!--heart desolate, A captive in the spoiler’s hand, To serve the tyrant, whom I hate-- To crouch beneath his proud command-- Upon my flesh to bear his brand-- His blows, his bitter scorn to bide!-- Would God I in my native land Had with my slaughtered brothers died!
Ye mountains blue of Camalú, Where once I fed my father’s flock, Though desolation dwells with you, And Amakósa’s heart is broke, Yet, spite of chains these limbs that mock, My homeless heart to you doth fly,-- As flies the wild dove to the rock, To hide its wounded breast--and die!
Yet, ere my spirit wings its flight Unto Death’s silent shadowy clime, Utíko! Lord of life and light, Who, high above the clouds of Time, Calm sittest, where yon hosts sublime Of stars wheel round thy bright abode, Oh, let my cry unto thee climb, Of every race the Father-God!
I ask not judgments from thy hand-- Destroying hail or parching drought, Or locust swarms to waste the land, Or pestilence, by Famine brought; I say the prayer Jankanna[9] taught, Who wept for Amakósa’s wrongs-- “Thy kingdom come--Thy will be wrought-- For unto Thee all power belongs.”
Thy kingdom come! Let Light and Grace Throughout all lands in triumph go; Till pride and strife to love give place, And blood and tears forget to flow; Till Europe mourn for Afric’s woe, And o’er the deep her arms extend To lift her where she lieth low, And prove indeed her Christian Friend!
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE BROWN HUNTER’S SONG._
Under the Didima[10] lies a green dell, Where fresh from the forest the blue waters swell; And fast by that brook stands a yellow-wood tree Which shelters the spot which is dearest to me.
Down by the streamlet my heifers are grazing; In the pool of the guanas the herd-boy is gazing; Under the shade my amana is singing-- The shade of the tree where her cradle is swinging.
When I come from the upland as daylight is fading, Though spent with the chase, and the game for my lading, My nerves are new-strung and my fond heart is swelling As I gaze from the cliff on our wood-circled dwelling.
Down the steep mountain and through the brown forest, I haste like a hart when his thirst is the sorest; I bound o’er the swift brook that skirts the savannah, And clasp my first-born in the arms of Amana.
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE BUSHMAN._
The Bushman sleeps within his black-browed den, In the lone wilderness. Around him lie His wife and little ones unfearingly-- For they are far away from “Christian men.” No herds, loud lowing, call him down the glen: He fears no foe but famine; and may try To wear away the hot noon slumberingly; Then rise to search for roots--and dance again. But he shall dance no more! His secret lair, Surrounded, echoes to the thundering gun, And the wild shriek of anguish and despair! He dies--yet, ere life’s ebbing sands are run, Leaves to his sons a curse, should they be friends With the proud “Christian men,”--for they are fiends!
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE CAPE OF STORMS._
O Cape of Storms! although thy front be dark, And bleak thy naked cliffs and cheerless vales, And perilous thy fierce and faithless gales To staunchest mariner and stoutest bark; And though along thy coasts with grief I mark The servile and the slave, and him who wails An exile’s lot--and blush to hear thy tales Of sin and sorrow and oppression stark:-- Yet, spite of physical and moral ill, And after all I’ve seen and suffered here, There are strong links that bind me to thee still, And render even thy rocks and deserts dear; Here dwell kind hearts which time nor place can chill-- Loved kindred and congenial friends sincere.
_Thomas Pringle, 1825._
_THE HOTTENTOT._
Mild, melancholy, and sedate, he stands, Tending another’s flock upon the fields, His fathers’ once, where now the white man builds His home, and issues forth his proud commands. His dark eye flashes not; his listless hands Lean on the shepherd’s staff; no more he wields The Libyan bow--but to th’ oppressor yields Submissively his freedom and his lands. Has he no courage? Once he had--but, lo! Harsh servitude hath worn him to the bone. No enterprise? Alas! the brand, the blow, Hath humbled him to dust--even _hope_ is gone! “He’s a base-hearted hound--not worth his food”-- His master cries; “he has no _gratitude_!”
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE CAFFER._