Part 3
Lo! where he crouches by the Kloof’s dark side, Eyeing the farmer’s lowing herds, afar; Impatient watching till the evening star Leads forth the twilight dim, that he may glide Like panther to the prey. With freeborn pride He scorns the herdsman, nor regards the scar Of recent wound--but burnishes for war His assegai and targe of buffalo hide. He is a robber? True; it is a strife Between the black skinned bandit and the white. A savage?--Yes; though loth to aim at life, Evil for evil fierce he doth requite. A heathen?--Teach him, then, thy better creed, Christian! if thou deserv’st that name indeed.
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE GHONA WIDOW’S LULLABY._
The storm hath ceased: yet still I hear The distant thunder sounding, And from the mountains, far and near, The headlong torrents bounding. The jackal shrieks upon the rocks, The tiger wolf is howling, The panther round the folded flocks With stifled _gurr_ is prowling. But lay thee down in peace, my child, God watcheth o’er us ’midst the wild.
I fear the Bushman is abroad-- He loves the midnight thunder; The sheeted lightning shows the road That leads his feet to plunder: I’d rather meet the hooded snake Than hear his rattling quiver, When, like an adder, through the brake, He glides along the river. But, darling, hush thy heart to sleep-- The Lord our Shepherd watch doth keep.
The Kosa from Luhéri high Looks down upon our dwelling, And shakes the vengeful assegai,-- Unto his clansmen telling How he, for _us_, by grievous wrong, Hath lost these fertile valleys, And boasts that now his hand is strong To pay the debt of malice. But sleep, my child; a mightier Arm Shall shield thee (helpless one!) from harm.
The moon is up; a fleecy cloud O’er heaven’s blue deep is sailing; The stream, that lately raved so loud, Makes now a gentle wailing. From yonder crags, lit by the moon, I hear a wild voice crying: --’Tis but the harmless bear-baboon, Unto his mates replying. Hush--hush thy dreams, my moaning dove, And slumber in the arms of love!
The wolf, scared by the watch-dog’s bay, Is to the woods returning: By his rock fortress, far away, The Bushman’s fire is burning. And hark! Sicána’s midnight hymn, Along the valley swelling, Calls us to stretch the wearied limb, While kinsmen guard our dwelling: Though vainly watchmen wake from sleep, “Unless the Lord the city keep.”
At dawn we’ll seek, with songs of praise, Our food on the savannah, As Israel sought, in ancient days, The heaven-descending manna; With gladness from the fertile land The veld-kost we will gather, A harvest planted by the hand Of the Almighty Father-- From thraldom who redeems our race, To plant them in their ancient place.
Then let us calmly rest, my child, Jehovah’s arm is round us, The God, the Father reconciled, In heathen gloom who found us; Who to this heart, by sorrow broke, His wondrous WORD revealing, Led me, a lost sheep, to the flock, And to the Fount of Healing. Oh, may the Saviour-Shepherd lead My darling where His lambs do feed!
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE KOSA._
The free-born Kosa still doth hold The fields his fathers held of old; With club and spear in jocund ranks, Still hunts the elk by Chumi’s banks: By Keisis meads his herds are lowing; On Debè’s slopes his gardens glowing, Where laughing maids at sunset roam, To bear the juicy melons home: And striplings from Kalunna’s wood Bring wild grapes and the pigeon’s brood, With fragrant hoards of honey-bee Rifled from the hollow tree: And herdsmen shout from rock to rock: And through the glen the hamlets smoke; And children gambol round the kraal,[11] To greet their sires at evening-fall: And matrons sweep the cabin floor, And spread the mat beside the door, And with dry faggots wake the flame To dress the wearied huntsman’s game.
Bright gleams the fire: its ruddy blaze On many a dusky visage plays. On forkèd twigs the game is drest; The neighbours share the simple feast: The honey-mead, the millet-ale, Flow round--and flow the jest and tale; Wild legends of the ancient day, Of hunting feat, of warlike fray; And now come smiles, and now come sighs, As mirth and grief alternate rise. Or should a sterner strain awake, Like sudden flame in summer-brake, Bursts fiercely forth in battle song The tale of Amakósa’s wrong; Throbs every warrior bosom high, With lightning flashes every eye, And, in wild cadence, rings the sound Of barbèd javelins clashing round.
But, lo! like a broad shield on high, The moon gleams in the midnight sky. ’Tis time to part; the watch-dog’s bay Beside the folds has died away. ’Tis time to rest; the mat is spread, The hardy hunter’s simple bed; His wife her dreaming infant hushes, On the low cabin’s couch of rushes: Softly he draws its door of hide, And, stretched by his Gulúwi’s side, Sleeps soundly till the peep of dawn Wakes on the hill the dappled fawn; Then forth again he gaily bounds, With club and spear and questing hounds.
_Thomas Pringle._
_MAKANNA’S GATHERING._
Wake! Amakósa, wake! And arm yourselves for war, As coming winds the forest shake, I hear a sound from far: It is not thunder in the sky, Nor lion’s roar upon the hill, But the voice of Him who sits on high, And bids me speak His will!
He bids me call you forth, Bold sons of Káhabee, To sweep the white men from the earth, And drive them to the sea: The sea which heaved them up at first, For Amakósa’s curse and bane, Howls for the progeny she nurst, To swallow them again.
Hark! ’tis Uhlanga’s voice From Debé’s mountain caves! He calls you now to make your choice-- To conquer or be slaves: To meet proud Amanglézi’s guns, And fight like warriors nobly born: Or, like Umláo’s feeble sons,[12] Become the freeman’s scorn.
Then come ye chieftains bold, With war plumes waving high; Come, every warrior, young and old, With club and assegai. Remember how the spoiler’s host Did through our land like locusts range! Your herds, your wives, your comrades lost-- Remember--and revenge!
Fling your broad shields away-- Bootless against such foes; But hand to hand we’ll fight to-day And with their bayonets close. Grasp each man short his stabbing spear-- And, when to battle’s edge we come, Rush on their ranks in full career, And to their hearts strike home!
Wake! Amakósa, wake! And muster for the war: The wizard-wolves from Keisi’s brake, The vultures from afar, Are gathering at Uhlanga’s call, And follow fast our westward way-- For well they know, ere evening-fall, They shall have glorious prey!
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE INCANTATION._
Half way up Indoda[13] climbing, Hangs the wizard forest old, From whose shade is heard the chiming Of a streamlet clear and cold: With a mournful sound it gushes From its cavern in the steep; Then at once its wailing hushes In a lakelet dark and deep.
Standing by the dark-blue water, Robed in panther’s speckled hide, Who is she? Jalúhsa’s daughter, Bold Makanna’s widowed bride. Stern she stands, her left hand clasping By the arm her wondering child: He, her shaggy mantle grasping, Gazes up with aspect wild.
Thrice in the soft fount of nursing With sharp steel she pierced a vein,-- Thrice the white oppressor cursing, While the blood gushed forth amain,-- Wide upon the dark-blue water, Sprinkling thrice the crimson tide,-- Spoke Jalúhsa’s high-souled daughter, Bold Makanna’s widowed bride.
“Thus into the Demon’s River Blood instead of milk I fling: Hear, Uhlanga--great Life-Giver! Hear, Togúh--Avenging King! Thus the Mother’s feelings tender In my breast I stifle now: Thus I summon you to render Vengeance for the Widow’s vow!
“Who shall be the Chiefs avenger? Who the Champion of the Land? Boy! the pale Son of the Stranger Is devoted to _thy_ hand. HE who wields the bolt of thunder Witnesses thy Mother’s vow! HE who rends the rocks asunder To the task shall train thee now!
“When thy arm grows strong for battle, Thou shalt sound Makanna’s cry, Till ten thousand shields shall rattle To war-club and assegai: Then, when like hail-storm in harvest On the foe sweeps thy career, Shall Uhlanga whom thou servest, Make them stubble to thy spear!”
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE CAFFER COMMANDO._
Hark! heard ye the signals of triumph afar? ’Tis our Caffer Commando returning from war: The voice of their laughter comes loud on the wind, Nor heed they the curses that follow behind. For who cares for him, the poor Kósa, that wails Where the smoke rises dim from yon desolate vales-- That wails for his little ones killed in the fray, And his herds by the colonist carried away? Or who cares for him that once pastured this spot, Where his tribe is extinct and their story forgot? As many another, ere twenty years pass, Will only be known by their bones in the grass! And the sons of the Keisi, the Kei, the Gareep, With the Gunja and Ghona in silence shall sleep: For England hath spoke in her tyrannous mood, And the edict is written in African blood!
Dark Katta[14] is howling; the eager jackal, As the lengthening shadows more drearily fall, Shrieks forth his hymn to the hornèd moon; And the lord of the desert will follow him soon: And the tiger-wolf laughs in his bone-strewed brake, As he calls on his mate and her cubs to awake; And the panther and leopard come leaping along; All hymning to Hecate a festival song: For the tumult is over, the slaughter hath ceased-- And the vulture hath bidden them all to the feast.
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE ROCK OF RECONCILEMENT._
A rugged mountain, round whose summit proud The eagle sailed, or heaved the thunder-cloud, Poured from its cloven breast a gurgling brook, Which down the grassy glades its journey took; Oft bending round to lave, with rambling tide, The groves of evergreens on either side. Fast by this stream, where yet its course was young, And, stooping from the heights, the forest flung A grateful shadow o’er the narrow dell, Appeared the missionary’s hermit cell. Woven of wattled boughs, and thatched with leaves, The sweet wild jasmine clustering to its eaves, It stood, with its small casement gleaming through Between two ancient cedars. Round it grew Clumps of acacias and young orange bowers, Pomegranate hedges, gay with scarlet flowers, And pale-stemmed fig-trees with their fruit yet green, And apple blossoms waving light between. All musical it seemed with humming bees; And bright-plumed sugar birds among the trees Fluttered like living blossoms. In the shade Of a grey rock, that ’midst the leafy glade Stood like a giant sentinel, we found The habitant of this fair spot of ground-- A plain tall Scottish man, of thoughtful mien; Grave but not gloomy. By his side was seen An ancient chief of Amakósa’s race, With javelin armed for conflict or the chase, And, seated at their feet upon the sod, A youth was reading from the Word of God, Of Him who came for sinful men to die, Of every race and tongue beneath the sky. Unnoticed, towards them we softly stept. Our friend was rapt in prayer; the warrior wept, Leaning upon his hand; the youth read on. And then we hailed the group: the chieftain’s son, Training to be his country’s Christian guide-- And Brownlee and old Ishátshu side by side.
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE FORESTER OF THE NEUTRAL GROUND._
A SOUTH AFRICAN BORDER BALLAD.
We met in the midst of the neutral ground, ’Mong the hills where the buffalo’s haunts are found; And we joined in the chase of the noble game, Nor asked each other of nation or name.
The buffalo bull wheeled suddenly round, When first from my rifle he felt a wound; And, before I could gain the Umtóka’s bank, His horns were tearing my courser’s flank.
That instant a ball whizzed past my ear, Which smote the beast in his fierce career; And the turf was drenched with purple gore, As he fell at my feet with a bellowing roar.
The stranger came galloping up to my side, And greeted me with a bold huntsman’s pride: Full blithely we feasted beneath a tree;-- Then out spoke the Forester, Arend Plessie.
“Stranger, we now are true comrades sworn; Come pledge me thy hand while we quaff the horn. Thou’rt an Englishman good, and thy heart is free, And ’tis therefore I’ll tell my story to thee.
“A Heemraad of Camdebóo was my sire; He had flocks and herds to his heart’s desire, And bondmen and maidens to run at his call, And seven stout sons to be heirs of all.
“When we had grown up to man’s estate, Our father bid each of us choose a mate, Of Fatherland blood, from the _black_ taint free, As became a Dutch burgher’s proud degree.
“My brothers they rode to the Bovenland, And each came with a fair bride back in his hand; But _I_ brought the handsomest bride of them all-- Brown Dinah, the bondmaid who sat in our hall.
“My father’s displeasure was stern and still; My brothers’ flamed forth like a fire on the hill; And they said that my spirit was mean and base, To lower myself to the servile race.
“I bade them rejoice in their herds and flocks, And their pale-faced spouses with flaxen locks; While I claimed for my share, as the youngest son, Brown Dinah alone with my horse and gun.
“My father looked black as a thunder-cloud, My brothers reviled me and railed aloud, And their young wives laughed with disdainful pride, While Dinah in terror clung close to my side.
“Her ebon eyelashes were moistened with tears, As she shrank abashed from their venomous jeers: But I bade her look up like a burgher’s wife-- Next day to be _mine_, if God granted life.
“At dawn brother Roelof came galloping home From the pastures--his courser all covered with foam; ‘’Tis the Bushmen!’ he shouted; ‘haste friends to the spoor! Bold Arend come help with your long-barrelled roer.’
“Far o’er Bruintjes-hoogtè we followed--in vain: At length surly Roelof cried, ‘Slacken your rein; We have quite lost the track’--Hans replied with a smile, --Then my dark-boding spirit suspected their guile.
“I flew to our father’s. Brown Dinah was sold! And they laughed at my rage as they counted the gold. But I leaped on my horse, with my gun in my hand, And sought my lost love in the far Bovenland.
“I found her; I bore her from Gauritz’ fair glen, Through lone Zitzikamma, by forest and fen. To these mountains at last like wild pigeons we flew, Far, far from the cold hearts of proud Camdebóo.
“I’ve reared our rude shieling by Gola’s green wood, Where the chase of the deer yields me pastime and food: With my Dinah and children I dwell here alone, Without other comrades--and wishing for none.
“I fear not the Bushman from Winterberg’s fell, Nor dread I the Caffer from Kat River’s dell; By justice and kindness I’ve conquered them both, And the sons of the desert have pledged me their troth.
“I fear not the leopard that lurks in the wood, The lion I dread not, though raging for blood; My hand it is steady--my aim it is sure-- And the boldest must bend to my long-barrelled roer.
“The elephant’s buff-coat my bullet can pierce, And the giant rhinoceros, headlong and fierce; Gnu, eland, and buffalo furnish my board, When I feast my allies like an African lord.
“And thus from my kindred and colour exiled, I live like old Ismael lord of the wild-- And follow the chase with my hounds and my gun, Nor ever repent the bold course I have run.
“But sometimes there sinks on my spirit a dread Of what may befall when the turf’s on my head; I fear for poor Dinah--for brown Rodomond And dimple-faced Karel, the sons of the _bond_.
“Then tell me, dear Stranger, from England the free, What good tidings bring’st thou for Arend Plessie? Shall the Edict of Mercy be sent forth at last, To break the harsh fetters of Colour and Caste?”
_Thomas Pringle._
_THE EMIGRANT’S CABIN AT THE CAPE._
AN EPISTLE IN RHYME.
Where the young river, from its wild ravine, Winds pleasantly through Eildon’s pastures green,-- With fair acacias waving on its banks, And willows bending o’er in graceful ranks, And the steep mountain rising close behind, To shield us from the Snowberg’s wintry wind,-- Appears my rustic cabin, thatched with reeds, Upon a knoll amid the grassy meads; And, close beside it, looking o’er the lea, Our summer-seat beneath an umbra-tree. This morning, musing in that favourite seat, My hound, old Yarrow, dreaming at my feet, I pictured you, sage Fairbairn, at my side, By some good Genie wafted o’er the tide; And after cordial greetings, thus went on In fancy’s dream our colloquy, dear John.
_P._--Enter, my friend, our beehive-cottage door: No carpet hides the humble earthen floor, But it is hard as brick, clean-swept and cool. You must be wearied? Take that jointed stool; Or on this couch of leopard-skin recline; You’ll find it soft--the workmanship is mine.
_F._--Why, Pringle, yes--your cabin’s snug enough, Though oddly shaped. But as for household stuff, I only see some rough-hewn sticks and spars; A wicker cupboard, filled with flasks and jars; A pile of books, on rustic framework placed; Hides of ferocious beasts that roam the waste; Whose kindred prowl, perchance, around this spot-- The only neighbours, I suspect, you’ve got! Your furniture, rude from the forest cut, However, is in keeping with the hut. This couch feels pleasant: is’t with grass you stuff it? So far I should not care with you to rough it. But--pardon me for seeming somewhat rude-- In this wild place how manage ye for food?
_P._--You’ll find, at least, my friend, we do not starve: There’s always mutton, if nought else, to carve; And even of luxuries we have our share. And here comes dinner (the best bill of fare) Drest by that “nut-brown maiden,” Vytjè Vaal. [_To the Hottentot Girl_]. Meid, roep de Juffrowen naar’t middagmaal. [_To F._] Which means--“The ladies into dinner call.”
(_Enter Mrs. P. and her Sister, who welcome their Guest to Africa. The party take their seats round the table, and conversation proceeds._)
_P._--First, here’s our broad-tailed mutton, small and fine, The dish on which nine days in ten we dine; Next, roasted springbok, spiced and larded well; A haunch of hartébeest from Hyndhope Fell; A paauw, which beats your Norfolk turkey hollow; Korhaan, and Guinea-fowl, and pheasant follow; Kid carbonadjes, à-la-Hottentot, Broiled on a forkèd twig; and, peppered hot With Chili pods, a dish called Caffer-stew; Smoked ham of porcupine, and tongue of gnu. This fine white household bread (of Margaret’s baking) Comes from an oven, too, of my own making, Scooped from an ant-hill. Did I ask before If you would taste this brawn of forest-boar?
Our fruits, I must confess, make no great show: Trees, grafts, and layers must have time to grow. But there’s green roasted maize, and pumpkin pie, And wild asparagus. Or will you try A slice of water-melon?--fine for drouth, Like sugared ices melting in the mouth. Here too are wild grapes from our forest-vine, Not void of flavour, though unfit for wine. And here comes dried fruit I had quite forgot, (From fair Glen-Avon, Margaret, is it not?) Figs, almonds, raisins, peaches. Witbooy Swart Brought this huge sackful from kind Mrs. Hart-- Enough to load a Covent-Garden cart.
But come, let’s crown the banquet with some wine, What will you drink? Champagne? Port? Claret? Stein? Well--not to tease you with a thirsty jest, Lo, there our _only_ vintage stands confest, In that half-aum upon the spigot-rack. And, certes, though it keeps the old _kaap smaak_, The wine is light and racy; so we learn, In laughing mood, to call it Cape Sauterne. --Let’s pledge this cup “to all our friends,” Fairbairn!
_F._--Well, I admit, my friend, your dinner’s good. Springbok and porcupine are dainty food; That lordly paauw was roasted to a turn; And, in your country fruits, and Cape Sauterne, The wildish flavour’s really--not unpleasant; And I may say the same of gnu and pheasant. --But--Mrs. Pringle ... shall I have the pleasure ...? Miss Brown, ... some wine?--(These quaighs are quite a treasure) --What! leave us now? I’ve much to ask of _you_ ... But since you _will_ go--for an hour adieu. [_Exeunt Ladies._
But, Pringle--“à nos moutons revenons”-- _Cui bono’s_ still the burden of my song-- Cut off, with these good ladies, from society, Of savage life you soon must feel satiety: The MIND requires fit exercise and food, Not to be found ’mid Afric’s desert rude. And what avail the spoils of wood and field, The fruits or vines your fertile valleys yield, Without that higher zest to crown the whole-- “The feast of Reason and the flow of Soul?” --Food, shelter, fire, suffice for savage men; But can the comforts of your wattled den, Your sylvan fare and rustic tasks suffice For one who once seemed finer joys to prize? --When, erst, like Virgil’s swains, we used to sing Of streams and groves, and “all that sort of thing,” The spot we meant for our “poetic den” Was always within reach of books and men; By classic Esk, for instance, or Tweed-side, With gifted friends within an easy ride; Besides our college chum, the parish priest; And the said den with six good rooms at least.-- _Here!_ save for her who shares and soothes your lot, You might as well squat in a Caffer’s cot!
Come, now, be candid: tell me, my dear friend, Of your aspiring aims is _this_ the end? Was it for nature’s wants, fire, shelter, food, You sought this dreary, soulless solitude? Broke off your ties with men of cultured mind, Your native land, your early friends resigned? As if, believing with insane Rousseau Refinement the chief cause of human woe, You meant to realise that raver’s plan, And be a philosophic _Bosjesman_!-- Be frank; confess the fact you cannot hide-- You sought this den from disappointed pride.