Part 4
_P._--You’ve missed the mark, Fairbairn: my breast is clear. Nor wild romance nor pride allured me here: Duty and destiny with equal voice Constrained my steps: I had no other choice. The hermit “lodge in some vast wilderness,” Which sometimes poets sigh for, I confess, Were but a sorry lot. In real life One needs a friend--the best of friends, a wife: But with a home thus cheered, however rude, There’s nought so very dull in solitude,-- Even though that home should happen to be found, Like mine, in Africa’s remotest bound. --I have my farm and garden, tools and pen; My schemes for civilising savage men; Our Sunday service, till the Sabbath-bell Shall wake its welcome chime in Lynden dell: Some duty or amusement, grave or light, To fill the active day from morn till night: And thus two years so lightsomely have flown That still we wonder when the week is gone. --We have at times our troubles, it is true, Passing vexations and privations too; But were it not for woman’s tender frame, These are annoyances I scarce would name; For though perchance they plague us while they last, They only serve for jests when they are past.
And then your notion that we’re _quite_ exiled From social life amid these mountains wild, Accords not with the fact--as you will see On glancing o’er this district map with me.
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_Thomas Pringle._
_THE VOLUNTEERS OF ENGLAND._
BY A COLONIST.
_Cælum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt._
A trumpet blast is pealing ’Mongst Albion’s echoing hills, Arousing every feeling That patriot’s bosom thrills: O’er hill and dale resounding, It sends its loud alarm; The Freeman’s war-cry sounding,-- “For Hearths and Altars, arm!”
A Despot’s monster legions Are on their haughty way; A Despot’s warlike regions Send forth their proud array, To raze the broad foundations Of Freedom’s Temple shrine, And from among the nations To blot her name divine.
From peasant’s lowly dwelling; From baron’s ancient hall, With bosoms proudly swelling, Rise! sons of England, ALL! From Cambria’s vales of beauty, “Britons” of Britain, come, Prompt at the call of duty, With strong right arm “strike home!”
From every mist-clad mountain, Sons of the hardy North, From lake, and glen, and fountain, Come in your manhood forth. From Eastern fen and plainland, From Western tarn and fell, From islet, rock, and mainland The nation’s gathering swell.
“WE COME!” in tones of thunder, Rings echoing round the land; “We come!” and scenes of wonder Burst forth on every hand. Workmen have sprung to warriors, Herdsmen to heroes grown, And rise, in living barriers, Around VICTORIA’S throne.
Peasant and peer are joining, Yeoman with baron stands; Strength, wealth, and rank combining, And nerving hearts and hands. _Loyal_, if “horny-handed,” Industry’s thousands come; In brother’s compact banded For Altar, Throne, and Home.
Hear it! to Heaven ascending, A nation’s solemn vow; While, at His altar bending, To God _alone_ they bow. “No foreign Home invading, We strike no foreign throne; But,--God from Heaven aiding, To _death_ we guard OUR OWN.”
_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._
_July 2, 1861._
“_THE DEAR OLD LAND._”
A glorious land is the “Dear Old Land,” Our fathers’ island home; Tho’ its moorlands are cold when the snow lies deep, And the mists round the sides of its mountains creep, And the waves are white when the March winds sweep, As they dash on its cliffs in foam.
’Tis changed since the days when the Druid old Was seen in the forest glades; When the wolf was tracked to his mountain den, And the wild boar roused in the gloomy glen, And the chase was a sport to test the _men_ That ranged through the leafy shades.
Where the victim bled on the altar stone, Or died in a fiery grave;-- Where wild woods sheltered the outlaw’s band,-- Where the salt marsh mingled sea and land, Proud mansions rise, or cities stand, Or golden harvests wave.
A story of fame has the “Dear Old Land,” And it dates from the days gone by; When Right with Might the strife began, And Freedom’s voice with the Fire-cross ran, And the wakened Serf rose up,--a MAN, To conquer his rights, or DIE!
There were hardy souls in the “Dear Old Land,” In the stern dark days of yore, When the arm could _do_ what the heart could _dare_, And the threats of a tyrant were “empty air,” And they made him tremble in his lair, As they roused themselves in power.
A story of fame has the “Dear Old Land,” And it is not ended yet. Wherever the sea’s wild waves have curled Her fleets proudly sail with flag unfurled, And many a lesson they’ve taught the world, Which the world will not forget.
And tell me the land, o’er the earth’s broad face, Where her “braves” have not been found, From East to West, with the glorious sun, The sound of their drums when the day is done, From realm to realm goes rolling on Unceasing the wide world round!
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But the warrior’s fame has stains of blood, And it raises the widow’s wail; Look we then on the glories whose milder rays Will bring no tears to the eyes that gaze; Whose trophies of triumph, whose songs of praise The tenderest heart may hail.
There are spirits of _might_ in the “Dear Old Land,” That have seized on a giant grim, And the burdens which man and beast had borne With sweat of brow, and frame hard worn From morn till night, and from night till morn, They have boldly laid on _him_.
He raises the load from the deep dark mine, He speeds the loom amain; He wields the ponderous hammer’s force, Gives the ship ’gainst wind and tide free course, And snorts in the breath of the iron horse That nor weariness feels, nor pain.
’Tis glorious to ride at his headlong pace ’Mongst the crags of the forest glen, To skim o’er the moorlands bleak and wide, To pierce through the rock-ribbed mountain side, As he _plays_ with the work--in giant pride-- Of twice ten thousand men.
There are spirits of _power_ in the “Dear Old Land,” Who can bid the lightning speed From North to South, from East to West,-- A courier swift that asks no rest, But instant writes command or quest Where the “ends of the world” may read.
There are spirits of _light_ in the “Dear Old Land,” Who rejoice when “the Truth makes free;” Who shout when a nation wakes in might, And seizes its long denied birth-_right_, And prisoned _souls_ burst forth to light;-- O, glorious sight to see!
There are spirits of _love_ in the “Dear Old Land,” Who weep for their kindred’s wrongs; And who _work_ as they weep, in patient power, Through the livelong day,--through the midnight hour While rescued victims blessings shower From wondering, grateful tongues.
Then hail! all hail! thou “Dear Old Land,” Where our fathers’ ashes lie; There are sunbeams bright on this far off shore, There are starlit skies when the day is o’er,-- And we never shall tread thy greensward more, But we’ll love thee,--TILL WE DIE!
_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._
_THE FUNERAL IN THE ABBEY._
List! there is music sounding! Not airy strains, that lead the mazy dance; Not trumpet tones, that stir the warrior’s soul; But soft, and slow, and solemn, as it swells And rolls afar and dies, midst its own echoes From vaulted roof, and lofty aisle dim-lighted, Where clustering columns rise, and rainbow rays Gleam in their varied glory o’er the scene. ’Tis in the sacred fane where sleeps the dust Of those whom Britain loves to honour, who Shed living honour by their deeds on _her_, Challenging place upon the rolls of Fame. Sages, and saints, and sons of song lie there; Wresters of Nature’s secrets;--senators, Whose thund’rous eloquence could awe the world; Patriots whose lifeblood for their country flowed; War chiefs who led her armies on to glory; Statesmen with eye far-reaching, who could thread Diplomacy’s dark mazes, and, the helm With firm hand grasping, steer the nation’s bark Through storms of strife to honour and to peace. And royalty’s proud dust lies mouldering there, ’Neath sculptured marbles, or midst gilded shrines: While high o’erhead the ancient banners droop.-- Monarchs of other days,--of other _ages_, Successive generations of the great, Who ruled the realm of England as _she_ grew From isolate obscurity to greatness That with a fame undying fills the world.
Lo! _there_,--an open grave! and heads are bare, And bent;--and bosoms heave, and tears are falling From youthful womanhood,--from hoary age. _Men_ weep, as slowly through the reverent throng Is borne what hides from view a shrivelled form, Wasted and featureless: yet round that bier Stand silently the great of many lands. Britain’s high-born stand there; and kings of men Of other realms stand there by envoy. There The sons of science gather, and the friends Of light and liberty. The Churches’ messengers Look on in sadness there; and a vast throng, Crowding around, sigh forth a _nation’s_ sympathy. Tokens of reverent love,--azalea wreaths, Laurel and myrtle, with fair flowers entwined, Bright immortelles, branches of Afric’s palm,-- (Symbol of triumph e’en in death) are there. And,--honour to the honour’d!--Britain’s Queen Sign of “respect and admiration” sends,-- Her own, and royal daughter’s funeral gifts To deck the bier. And _who_ is it that thus Draws to himself, in _death_, the eyes of nations? Is it some warrior leader, who has died In the proud hour of victory; and, wept By a whole people’s tears, lies down to rest? --Or is it one who, in a nation’s peril, Has earned a nation’s gratitude by wise And warning counsels in her council halls? --Is it a _Prince_ has died? That royalty Should sigh her grief, and nobles weep around?
’Tis LIVINGSTONE!--That name a thousand tongues Through years of hope and fear alternate, uttered; While he who bore it, deep in Afric’s wilds, Solving her mystery of ages, trod Her deserts, traced her streams,--a pioneer Of science, commerce, liberty, and mercy. --A “weaver boy” thus honoured!--Wherefore _not_? He wore, indeed, no ducal coronet; Nor dwelt in lordly hall. But “stamp” of “rank”[15] He needed not, while Nature’s “gold” of manhood, Solid, and pure, and bright, shone through his soul.
The “weaver boy,” in youthful prime, had yearned O’er Afric’s sons enslaved; for his _own_ soul, By “grace of God” emancipated, longed To free from bondage “body, soul, and spirit” Of those who were immortal as himself, And co-redeemed, though dark in mind as hue. He bore the Cross’s standard o’er the plains Where wandering tribes by MOFFAT gathered dwelt; And preached the Cross’s story in the tongues Strange to his earlier years.--But as he stood, And looked to “regions” yet “beyond,” where white man’s foot Had never trod, _fresh_ longings filled his soul. --“Millions dwell yonder:--all unknown to us, They live and die in darkness: and they groan In bitter bondage, where no ray of hope Shines through the gloom.--I go to find the way:-- Let others follow.” And he went,--alone; And braved the desert blast, the serpent’s folds, The jungle’s ambush, and the lion’s fang: He braved the fevered swamp, the tropic sun, The mountain torrent, and the savage spear. Barbarian wonder followed in his steps; And treachery shrank before the magic power Of Christian kindness, single and unarmed. He vanished from our sight,--and time rolled on While he was lost from view. At length was heard Rumour of strange discoveries: lakes unknown Had spread their silver waters to his gaze; And mighty streams, through vales all green and glorious Poured their vast floods o’er thundering cataracts, Where men had deemed were nought but deserts drear. “From ocean through to ocean” tropic realms Were traversed with unfaltering footsteps, till Regions before unknown, with all their wonders Rose into view, and hidden tribes disclosed Their being and their need. He rested then Awhile, and told his countrymen the story Of his lone wanderings over Afric’s wilds. Men wondered while they listened, as they heard Of grassy slopes, and waving woods, and sparkling waters; Of birds of beauty, flowers of gorgeous hues; And these where they had pictured a Sahara, With ’whelming sandstorms, and the death-blast dire Of red simoom. He rested not for long:-- The spell was on him, and his work not done. And now he led a band, who bore the light Of truth divine, to chase away the darkness That brooded over regions bright and fair, Where “man alone is vile.”--’Twas there he laid The partner of his bosom, who had shared The joys and sorrows of his younger years. A grave by Shire’s Waters, far away From home and kindred, holds the precious dust.
And now his ties to earth are loosened:--now, The beckoning Hand that calls him onwards still, Is seen more plainly,--and he follows. He Would lift the cloud from regions still unknown; Heard of but through the victims of a vile Traffic in human blood. His soul was fired With ardent resolution to destroy, (Or perish in the contest) the dire curse That blighted nations when they might be blest.
A vision rose before him:--These fair realms Yielding earth’s teeming increase in exchange For varied handiwork of other lands;-- An open-handed commerce giving boons To honest industry, while _crushing down_ The cursed manstealer’s trade:--The light of truth, Of _Christian_ truth, for mind, and heart, and life, For family and nation, blending with Prismatic rays by science shed around: The darkness melting, heathen orgies vile Yielding the place to worship bright and pure; Songs of salvation where the savage yells;-- Slavery of mind and body killed together, And Freedom smiling glad o’er all the land! --This was his vision;--and it might be _true_;-- And he would _labour_ that it might,--to _death_!
Again, yet once again, the word, “Farewell!” A _last_ farewell: we heard his voice no more. The years rolled on,--and on: he came not back. Tidings, indeed, there were; but “far between, Like angel visits,” were those tidings brief, That still he lived, and toiled,--the white man lone, Who with such wondrous spell o’er savage minds, And with charmed life, held pain and death at bay. --And then came silence.----“Has he sunk _at last_?” And then came _other_ tidings;--“He is _dead_! And dead by murderous hands!”--And hearts were chilled With horror, and stood still.--But some said, “No! Not _thus_ will that brave spirit pass away. Africa _knows_ his errand:--’tis _not_ so.” Nor was it so. A kindred spirit sought, And _found_ him!--and with all the old fire burning; But with the _censer_ now well nigh consumed. --“Come home with me, and _rest_: well hast thou earned The right upon thy laurels to repose:-- The _world_ is yearning o’er thee:--Come and _rest_!”
“Not yet! not yet! There is _still_ work to do. Let me but show the way to Afric’s _heart_:-- Leave me to trace the water-path by which Old England’s white-wing’d sea-birds shall ascend,-- Bearing her light, and liberty, and peace,-- To roll away the dark reproach of ages; And _then_,--MY WORK IS DONE.” And STANLEY left him.
And then, th’ enfeebled frame, once more essaying To climb the mountain, pierce the forest’s gloom, Stem the swift torrent, cross the lake’s broad breast, And wade the sedgy marsh,--_gave way at last_! But still the spirit, o’er the flesh triumphant, Registered till the “hand had lost its cunning,” The record precious of that life’s last task, Which only death could end.... He died alone: none saw the spirit part. Thus had he willed to die;--_alone with_ GOD. The morning greeting of his faithful band No longer met the welcome, kind response. The spirit had gone _home_; and gone in silence;-- And there knelt lifeless clay! And none were nigh, Save Afric’s swarthy sons. But these had learned To love and reverence him whose _life_ was given A sacrifice for injured Afric’s weal; And they would guard his relics, e’en in death. They left his _heart_ where _fitly_ it should rest; And bore, in reverent hands, the faded form, Rudely, but lovingly embalmed; and after days, And weeks, and _months_, of weary toil, Gave to its kindred their last sacred trust;-- And _there_ it lies!--and thousands stand around, To do the martyr honour as he rests.
And now “his body” sinks from mortal sight, Midst showers of amaranths, and fragrant flowers, That, white and pure, fall fast from loving hands. “Buried in peace,” it lies, ’mongst kindred heroes: While white-robed choristers, and organ pealing, Blend in the final, loud, triumphant strain, And the high arches echo as they sing,-- “But his soul _liveth_! LIVETH EVERMORE!”
_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._
STORMBERG, _May 1874_.
_A FAREWELL TO ENGLISH FRIENDS._
“Far, far away!” Simple, but sadly tender, These words unlock the heart’s deep springs And bid its fountains play. What thoughts upon the spirit rush! What feelings from the warm heart gush, While we pause to think on those we love, Now far, far away!
Far, far away! We shall think on “happy England,” And many a “sunny memory” will shed its golden ray, And many a welcome and farewell From unforgotten lips will dwell Like music’s echoes in our minds When far, far away.
Far, far away! While our sails are proudly swelling, While the breezes bear us onward, and the wild waves round us play, While _our_ prayers rise to heaven above, And ask its care for those we love, Think on _us_,--pray for _us_, The “Far, far away!”
Far, far away! For “Afric’s sunny fountains” Our seabird spreads her snowy wings Midst ocean’s sparkling spray; Old England’s shores are fading fast; One look! the fondest, and the _last_; For we go to DIE in distant realms Far, far away!
_A MISSIONARY’S LAST FAREWELL TO ENGLAND._
Land of my birth, farewell! Thy shores are fading In the dark distance, and the ocean’s waves Are hiding thee from view; while, sadly aiding To dim my vision of thy snowy cliffs, My tears unbidden start. O happy land! I did not know how much I loved thee, till The breezes bore me from thee, and I gazed A long last look. I left thee when a child; And Afric’s summer suns full forty years Have burned upon my head, since in thy groves My boyish footsteps wandered. But my heart Was yet unwithered, and could quiver still When sounded on my ear thy name of glory.
While oceans rolled between us, in my dreams My thoughts were of thee: but in waking hours I scarcely dared to hope to see thee more. I lingered o’er the story of thy fame, And joyed to claim thee as my native isle; A day-star to the nations, that would fain Follow, though from afar, thy track of light, And in its beams find their own way to freedom. In the far solitudes of regions dark With heathen gloom, my pensive soul has mused, And I have sighed to sun me in the light Which long has been thy halo; light from heaven, Amidst the brightness of whose gladdening rays Thy temples, halls, and palaces have stood Irradiate. But it might not, could not be.
At length I saw thee once again! and then How thrilled my very heart-core as thy coasts Loomed through the mists of morning on my view, And thy proud vision of historic glory Marched in its dioramic grandeur past! I leaped upon thy freeborn soil once more: Thy fields were laughing, glad with spring-tide flowers, Thy greenwoods waving in the fresh wind’s breath; Thy streams, bounding from winter’s cold embrace, Threaded the vales with silver; while I stood And gazed with rapture, fresh and pure as boyhood’s, In ’wildering ecstasy. And then I swept On steam-wings o’er thy plains, and round thy hills, And down thy vales, ’mongst beauty ever changing: Now looking on the cornfield’s waving gladness; Now drinking fragrance from the hayfield’s breath; Now wondering like a child, as ivied towers, And slender church-spires, from their sheltering groves Pointing to heaven, and old baronial halls, Standing apart amidst their dark woods’ pride, And crumbling castle-keeps, that tell of times When warders blew their horns, and mailèd knights Broke spears and shattered helms in tournament, As these, and thousand more, went sailing by: Till plunged at last amidst the ’whelming tide Of thy great city’s life, I sank, a drop, Into its vast and restless ocean-whirl.
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