Part 6

Delicate, fragile, tiny shell, Thou hast a wondrous tale to tell. I find thee here on the ocean strand;-- The billows have borne thee safe to land: Yet those billows have proved the proud ship’s grave, And have mocked the power of man to save, As its shattered fragments far and wide Were strewn on the shore by the surging tide. But thou art here, and all unharmed! Say, how hast _thou_ its fury charmed, That its mighty waves on their foaming breast Should bear _thee safe_ to a place of rest?

The rock rears high his haughty form, And challenges proud the ocean storm; And he tosses the wild waves raging back, As his challenge provokes their fierce attack. But again, and _again_, and _again_ they come; And vainly the rock resists its doom: The waves are mighty, and _know_ their might:-- “_Never_ have we been vanquished in _fight_! We _kiss_ the sands of the yielding shore, We _rend_ the rock in his pride of power: Be it soon, be it late, thy fate is sealed; Be it soon, be it late, _thou shalt surely yield_.” --And it yields at last: with a headlong leap It buries its shame in the foaming deep, And the waves toss high their plumy spray, As they dance triumphant around their prey.

And yet, little shell, I find thee here, And nothing hath wrought thee harm or fear; Though shattered rocks, and a wreck-strewn shore, Give tokens dire of the ocean’s power. Tell me, tiny, beautiful thing! Filmy and frail as the butterfly’s wing;-- An _infant’s_ finger could crush thee to dust;-- _What_ hast thou then wherein to trust? And whence thy courage and power to brave The surging might of the wild sea wave? “I have not braved the ocean’s might; I reared no front with the waves to fight. I yielded me meek to the billow’s force, As it swept me along in its onward course. My _weakness_ was strength in the tempest’s hour, And my _safety_ I found in the ocean’s power.”

* * * * *

And here, if he would, might _man_ discern A truth he is “slow of heart” to learn. He rears his will ’gainst the will of heaven,-- And his proudest plans are to fragments riven. Let him meekly yield to the sovereign sway That even the sea’s “proud waves” obey; And though over life’s ocean tempests roar, And wrecks are strewn over “life’s last shore,” Borne like the shell on the billow’s breast, He shall land in a haven of endless rest.

1858.

_A TRIBUTE OF SYMPATHY TO THE DEFENDERS OF GLEN LYNDEN._

Away! Away! Away! There are patriot voices calling! Glen Lynden’s band Holds the foe in hand, Though its watch-worn sons are falling.

Away to the mountain glen! Where the warwhoop wild is yelling, And the savage howls As he darkly scowls On the white man’s flame-wrapped dwelling.

There is life-blood reeking there! Where our slaughtered friends are lying; Not boldly slain On the battle-plain, But each by his hearth-stone dying.

Away Away! Away! To horse, to rifle springing, While the widow’s sigh And the orphan’s cry In our ears,--in our _hearts_ are ringing!

They were dwelling in peaceful vales, Nor fear nor danger knowing; ’Midst their flocks spread wide O’er the mountain side, And milk and honey flowing.

The vine and the fig-tree’s cheer;-- The cornfields waving gladness, The shearer’s throng, And the reaper’s song Left cause nor room for sadness.

There was childhood’s guileless glee,-- There was maiden beauty blooming; There was ripe old age, With its wisdom sage, And its honour,--life perfuming.

And there were thankful hearts For peace and plenty given; The voice of prayer Ascended there And the song of praise to heaven.

And where are they _now_?--Ah! where? There are homeless orphans weeping; The widow’s wail Is on the gale, The sire in his gore lies sleeping.

* * * * *

And are there dastard souls, Whose homes these homes were shielding, Who can coldly read While their brothers bleed, Nor aid nor pity yielding?

Brand “COWARD” on his brow! Write “TRAITOR” on his bearing, Who views from afar Our “homestead” war, And basely shrinks from sharing!

To your arms! To your arms! Away! What! _cease_ from the strife?--No, never! Till the neck of the foe, To earth bent low, We have _conquered_ a peace FOR EVER!

_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._

1851.

_THE COLOURS OF THE FIRST 24^{TH}._

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE SURVIVING OFFICERS AND MEN OF THE REGIMENT.

“Preserve the _colours_, MELVILLE! _We_ stand _here_; And--to the _end_.” ’Twas thus that PULLEINE spoke, On ISANDLANA’S dark and fatal day; Firm and resolved his mien, and calm his words, Though death was nigh him, and he saw it:-- The camp stormed By overwhelming myriads, and the yells Of savage victors ringing in his ears Demon-like, while they drowned the dying groans Of hundreds, sinking low beneath the stroke Of the blood-reeking Zulu assegai; O’erwhelmed, but _not_ dishonoured. They had fought As British soldiers fight,--tens against thousands,-- Till the last charge was spent; and then,--“cold steel” Grew hot in Zulu life-blood, and in heaps Their dying foes lay round them.--’Twas in vain! Hundreds had strewn the ground before their fire; Yet, heedless of their fall, had _thousands_ more Recklessly trampled them in onward rush, And wild contempt of death. As the surf breaks And strews with spray the shore, wave urging wave, Blind to its leader’s fate,--the Zulu host Rolls its dark waves,--_its_ dead, as yet, unmissed, With thousands in reserve to fill their place. Man after man the British soldier falls,-- Falls where he stood,--his right arm’s strength exhausted, And his _dead_ foes hurled on his bayonet’s point, To clear the way for others! PULLEINE saw His own end near,--and gave his dying charge:-- “Preserve the COLOURS! Let no savage hands Stain the old honour of ‘the 24th.’ Come _death_,--if come it must, but _not_ disgrace!” And MELVILLE took the COLOUR,--_sacred trust_! _And bore it from the field._ One farewell grasp, One mutual gaze, and then they sadly part, Comrades in arms, to meet on earth no more. “Men of the 24th. _I_ stay with _you_;-- We bide it to the end.”--A ringing cheer Shows the old fire unquenched; and though no hope Of succour nerves their arm, they face the foe, Till men and their commander sink together, And join in death their comrades gone before.

* * * * *

The fight is done:--the cannon’s boom is stilled; Stilled is the rocket’s rush,--the rifle’s ring. The yell of onslaught,--the defying cheer,-- Wails of the wounded, and the dying groan Rise on the breeze no longer; nor the shrieks Of hapless followers of the camp, unarmed, And slaughtered in their helplessness.--The spoils In savage triumph proudly borne away With battle song of victory, upraised By myriad voices ’mongst the echoing hills, Are passing from the scene. The hush of death Has settled all around; and gloomy night Spreads her dark pall o’er the now silent field. But where is MELVILLE? How shall _he_ escape? Leagues must he traverse of a hostile land Ere he can safely place his sacred trust. And, scattered far and wide in headlong flight, “Native Contingents” from the field of death Urge their fear-stricken way with failing strength; While ruthless foes, red-handed, strike them down On every side. “Where? where is _he_? the guardian Of his dead regiment’s honour? Who shall say? For, be it that he fights his way alone-- Horseman or footman, through the host of foes-- Or be it he evades their hot pursuit, There crosses still his path, and bars his way, The river boundary in summer flood, The swirling waters as they rush and roar, Mock at the wearied limbs that reach their banks, And can _no more_, although the foe is on them! Numbers die here; numbers plunge in--and drown. Dies Melville too? Have any seen him fall? Or has he dared the river with his charge? Grasping the COLOUR, could he breast the flood? Or is he swept away? Alas! none knows. Explore the river! search its wooded banks;-- Men, horses, arms, caught ’midst entangling branches, May yield _some_ relic of the lost one,-- Ah! Who lies _here_? MELVILLE!--And who lies _here_? COGHILL _with_ MELVILLE, side by side in _death_! Slain, though the raging flood was braved and conquered: Slain, though escaped the hot pursuit beyond: Slain in a mutual, last attempt to save From the wild waters _that_--than LIFE more dear. Hard, hard the fate--wrecked when the port was gained! Shield we from vulture’s greed the sad remains, By hasty cairn--and breathe a hurried prayer-- ’Tis all we can--till worthier rites be paid-- But hark! that shout! “The COLOUR! lo! the COLOUR!” Snatched from the turbid waters, drenched and torn, But SAVED! by friendly branches caught and held. Hark how the glen resounds! Cheer answers cheer; And the wild rocks with rapturous echoes ring. They are not “24th” men who have found The prize and its dead guardians:--What of that? They share a soldier’s sympathies, and feel The joy of brother soldiers as their own. Mark now the swift return, while, borne aloft, The sacred emblem challenges from far The eager outlook--Ha! ’tis seen! ’tis seen! The quick-eyed sentinel has caught it, and There bursts the shout exultant from his lips. The spark electric sets the camp on fire; “The COLOUR! lo! the COLOUR! HONOUR SAVED!” Rush from all sides the eager throng to greet And welcome--while with cheers the camp resounds. And now once more in martial order stands The remnant of the regiment, to receive And place in its old shrine the rescued treasure. A guard of honour from the reverent hands Of those who bear it take the precious pledge-- More precious for its perils--and it rests-- Dearer than ever in the regiment’s heart.

MELVILLE and COGHILL! twins in death--your names Belong to history! On Fame’s bright scroll They stand already blazoned. Men from far Shall visit as a shrine your hero grave; And grey-haired veterans in after years Shall tell their children how, long, long ago, At ISANDLANA’S deadly, woe-fraught fight, Ye saved the honour of “the 24th,” And DIED IN SAVING IT!

_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._

_OUR BOYS._

“Our boys came back from the army’s van; Toilworn with travel each horse and man,-- Bronzed nigh to blackness each face and hand,-- But bright every eye of the youthful band.

They had sprung “to the front” at the war’s first call, And a warrior’s welcome had greeted them all. “_First in the field!_--’twas your _father’s_ wont; And the right to your place in the army’s front, Through the whole campaign ye shall yield to none, Rest horses awhile, boys, and then,--march on; _Elliot_ and _Bailie_ your leaders shall be, And your post the heights of the deep Bashee.”

* * * * *

Loud through the camp the “Assembly” rings; Quick to the saddle each horseman springs,-- And “Eastward ho!” is the warlike cry, As “Headquarter” cheers give a warm “Good-bye!”

The camp is reached, the “Division” joined, The “arms of the Service” all combined; The “fellows” of “Number 6” are there, Ready each peril and toil to share; Second to none in the pluck they show, And eager as any to face the foe. There are black “allies,” but with leaders _white_, To show them the way the “English” fight.

And now they chafe at the long delay; The halt grows tedious from day to day. Weary of seeing the wild war-dance They long for the welcome word “Advance!” The foe is escaping, and drives afar His flocks and herds from the field of war.

The slow-footed order comes at last, And the camp wakes up at the trumpet’s blast; The column forms quick, as the bugles ring, The skirmishers scatter on either wing Where the war-song rises in savage pride, And its echoes come back from the mountain side.

Few are the chances of open fight, But enough to tell that the hearts are right, And eager for battle with warriors bold, While sparing and shielding the helpless and old. Once and again is the issue tried, Ere sinks the “sons of Kauta’s” pride. Once and again!--’tis useless all;-- They front the white man but to fall.

And now on the march, to wondering eyes, The land’s bright beauties around them rise; The green hill’s verdure,--the vale’s soft sweep,-- The beetling crag on the mountain steep. The view sublime o’er the gorges grand, Where the Bashee winds towards ocean’s strand. While fountains sparkle--and woodlands wave O’er the shore that the sea’s blue waters lave. Alas! alas!--with its beauties rare, That the war-smoke should blacken a land so fair.

All is not sunshine; storm-winds rise, And torrents pour from the darkened skies: Dreary the march o’er the mist-clad heights,-- Weary the watch through the dark cold nights; Baffling the beat of the driving rain, Baulking the conflict again and again. But no chilled spirits;--the hearts beat strong, And the fiercer the rainstorm the louder the song.

“Our Boys” came back when their work was done;-- O’er river and mountain their march had gone, They had stood on Umtata’s farther shore, Where no white man’s army had stood before. The foe is scattered,--the land is swept, By the bands in the rear the “drifts” are kept. But the toil is telling,--the steeds fail fast; Umtata’s battle must be the last.

Proud the dismissal “our Boys” receive:-- “First in the field, and the last to leave.” Prouder the welcome awaiting them here, As the end of the homeward march draws near. The cannon is booming!--“They come! They come!” And the crowds thicken fast at the “Welcome Home!” Where pennons are streaming, and banners wave, To hail the return of the youthful brave.

Dark through the dust-cloud the column nears, And hearts are throbbing ’midst rising tears. Mothers and sisters, with straining eyes, Are striving to pierce the strange disguise In which toil, and combat, and dust, and storms Have almost hidden the well-known forms Of sons and brothers long lost from view, And now emerging to life anew.

To the burst of “The conquering heroes come;” To the tenderer strains of “Home, sweet home!” Their march holds still through the thronging crowd, While kerchiefs are waving, and cheers ring loud, Till they halt at the spot where the march began, When they started to join the army’s van.

“Our Boys” had come back to rest awhile;-- To sun each heart in a mother’s smile;-- To tell in a sister’s or loved one’s arms The thoughts that had cheered them ’midst war’s alarms. And fathers were waiting with hearts that swell, To learn if their “lads” had borne them _well_,-- And the warrior spirit had waked to life In the _first strange_ vision of mortal strife. And little prattlers were waiting there More eager than any to claim their share, Looking with wondering hearts and eyes On trophy shields and assegais, And clustering round their knees to know How their “big brothers” had beaten the foe.

Once more the “Assembly” rings aloud, And the “Boys” muster fast ’midst the gathering crowd. They have come their last “Dismiss!” to hear, And bid good-bye to the camp’s rough cheer, To shake brave _Harvey’s_ warm right hand, Who had headed them _well_ through Galekaland.

* * * * *

“Boys! I had thought to dissolve your ranks, And send you home with your country’s thanks. But again from the mountains the war-cry sounds, And the tribes on the border are breaking bounds; The country may need you, hearts and hands, While taming the pride of the Gaika bands: Are you willing to answer a _second_ call?” “_Willing! aye Willing!_ One and All!”

The response rang out, to be drowned among The echoing cheers of the listening throng; And if proud we had been of “our Boys” before, Our triumph and pride gathered head the more, As they turned from their homes to encamp again, (With those homes in sight) on the tented plain. Ready once more, at the trumpet’s clang, To spring to horse as at _first_ they sprang.

_Rev. H. H. Dugmore._

_IN THE DROUGHT LANDS OF SOUTH AFRICA._

THE RAIN.

It was a land of rills, Of mountains, kloofs, and hills; High peaks were westward; eastward the great main-- A rich good land, and free Men lived in liberty, Worked and had quiet sleep, and loved the rain.

Thus was it for a time In this fair sunny clime-- Flocks prospered; prospered, too, the bearded grain, There only was good cheer, And farmers felt no fear When Nature’s lavish bounties fell in rain.

But there came a change, Clouds were few and strange-- The stored-up waters soon began to wane; Broken and weak all day, The streamlets ceased to play, The sun glared on with no sweet veil of rain.

And lo! the land lay dry-- No moisture in the sky; The streams dry--sterile the once fertile plain; And round the empty tank The ocean feebly sank-- Alas, why cometh not the wished-for rain!

The gentle animals whose fleeces give The means whereby the people hope to live, Lie down and die. It seems that ne’er again Life-giving showers shall fall. In churches now they call, “O God, in mercy, send us down the rain!”

All Nature cries aloud-- Oh, come, life-giving cloud! The flowers, the grass, all herbage green is slain, The corpse-like earth is black, Skeletons form a track O’er regions mourning for the want of rain.

Now has the joyful sight Filled us with pure delight-- Of fatness dropping from the clouds again; From mountains to the sea, One Hymn of Jubilee Should thank the Master who has sent the rain.

_Alex. Wilmot._

_THE LANDING OF THE BRITISH SETTLERS OF 1820._

(_Written on occasion of the celebration of the Settlers’ Jubilee in Grahamstown, in 1870._)

Winds of the North blew cold with icy breath, And parting seemed a sorrow like to death, When fifty years ago our little band Of British settlers left their native land. They said farewell for ever! ah, farewell The friends, the joys, the land, they loved so well. We never more shall stand On that dear English land, Nor view our native skies; Gone each familiar face Of whose sweet loving grace Dear memories rise.

Spring shall come back again, Smiling on hill and plain, We shall be gone; Our old homes will be gay With sunshine and the may, From our hearts flown.

Farewell, dear land of birth! Farewell our native earth-- Hill, plain, and river; Farewell, each dearest friend, May God all blessings send-- Farewell for ever!

Away they go, ’midst mist and sudden gale, O’er stormy seas, through Biscay’s Bay they sail. The sun is covered by dark lowering cloud, And heaven seems hidden in a dusky shroud. Hark! the huge vessel felt the thund’ring stroke, While whelming waves in sudden deluge broke; The seas around for horrid vengeance rave, And every yawning gulf now seems a grave.

Again--the storm is o’er, with steady breeze They glide in safety upon summer seas, Whose azure surface as a mirror tries To catch the sunny radiance of the skies. Here gorgeous tinted sunsets come at even, To show ten thousand gateways into Heaven-- While gentle zephyrs on the ocean play, And balmy night succeeds the heat of day.

The twinkling beacons show how far they roam; No longer the pale pole-star points our home; The starry banners of the North are furled,-- The Southern Cross shines on a Southern world. Now soon, with ecstasy, they hear the cry, Land! land in sight! the land we can descry. And now the longed-for shores before them rise, With mountain peaks which fringe the azure skies; Tall beetling crags frown o’er the breaker’s roar, Whose white-tipped billows kiss a sandy shore; ’Tis Afric! land of mystery and fear, Of burning climate, and of desert drear, Where the fierce lion and fiercer savage roam; Here is your bourne,--here is your future home.

Supplies obtained within a western bay, Again they sally forth upon their way, And round that Cape which, hid in misty forms, Towered o’er the ocean’s verge “the Cape of Storms,” Whose dangers Diaz did not fear to cope, And proved it to the world Cape of Good Hope. The oceans which this Cape for ever lave While time shall last is that great sailor’s grave; And Nature’s self proclaims his honours here, By such a monument o’er such a bier. Along the coast they sail. With pleasured eyes They view new shores--new hills, new plains, arise, The Cape St. Blaise and Longkloof Mountains past, The hoped-for, longed-for haven comes at last; Then, ’midst the glories of an April day, They cast their anchor in Algoa Bay, Whose outstretched arms receive in their embrace Those dauntless settlers of a Northern race. Here first brave Diaz stayed his vent’rous sail, First here sought refuge from wild western gale,-- On a small isle, when tempests ceased to toss, Planted Faith’s emblem there, “The Holy Cross.” Religion’s banner thus was first unfurled, First reared within this savage Southern world. Bare sand-hills line a tract of barren coast,-- No town, or village, can the seaport boast; The vacant beach and bleak hill-side show clear The work that waits the hardy pioneer: O’er walls of surf they reach the welcome strand, And the first British settlers touch the land. Upon this South-sea strand-- Unto this savage land-- Welcome, ye little band, Fit to brave danger.

Losses and wars will be Fires of adversity, Tests which you cannot flee Trials and sorrow.

Yours for success to fight; Yours to defend the right; Striving with all your might For life and freedom.

Under benignant skies, Fruits on the plains shall rise, As labour’s sacrifice To the Creator.