Part 7

Herds, flocks, and trade shall be Proof of your industry, Making prosperity Smile upon labour.

Sons of the great and free, On! let your motto be, “God and the right for me, Forward for ever.”

Why come they here, amidst the desert’s gloom? To raise a nation from a lifeless tomb; To bid fair plains the fruits of labour yield; To tend the flock; to plough the fertile field; The wealth of commerce by success to gain; To found a home where peace and plenty reign. These are your tasks: but oh! with hardships drear, With toils unnumbered you must labour here; For blasted crops, and floods, and drought shall come, And savage yells around your burning home. On toilsome sand they wander up and down, Through numb’rous tents which form a canvas town; With curious eyes all view the motley throng,-- Huge waggons dragging their slow length along,-- The wily Bushman and the Bechu’an, The Hottentot, the Boer, and Englishman. Here strange plants bloom beneath this southern sky, And graceful aloes raise their blossoms high, While prickly cacti and the feathery reed Grow rank and common as the worthless weed. And now they strike their tents. All “Parties” go, They leave the sandy beach in waggons slow, And cross the bushy plain, and Zwartkrops’ stream, Whose jungle-covered heights above them gleam; O’er hills, o’er plains, they “trek”--and through the kloof, Where the high rocky crags their paths o’er-roof,-- Where brilliant birds and gorgeous flowers are seen, Screened by pavilions of perpetual green,-- Euphorbia raise their candelabra high, And vivid bush o’er-curtains half the sky.

North, south, east, west, the settlers scatter wide, By stream, by valley, and by mountain side. They raise rough homesteads, and by labour’s strain Soon see around them fields of smiling grain. Alas, their labour’s vain! Too soon they view The crops unhealthy, and of dusky hue; Gaunt famine stalks upon the treach’rous soil, And failures thrice renewed repay their toil. Behold dark discontent with angry frown Upon their hills and valleys settles down. Again--dawn rises out of horrid night, Relief has come and prospects are more bright; They, now successful in the arts of peace, Find, like the Argonauts, a golden fleece.

But trials still more hard have yet to come, With Kafir yell and sight of blazing home. The Kafirs long have angry passions nursed, And now the flames from smouldering embers burst. “Must we still retreat from the haunts of man To the desert drear and the wild Bushman, Where the lion and jackal are forced to flee, With the wildebeeste and oribe? Ah, no; in foray and vengesome fight, We will dare the invader’s utmost might; And from bushy ambush again shall fly Our shaft of destruction, the assegai.” The sky is lurid with a coming storm; Against the white man common cause they form-- Their bands of hatred gather from afar, And league together in a cruel war. Fierce, treacherous, false, in untamed freedom bold, The kloof or bush was still the Kafir’s hold; They sought not battle in the open field, But used the weapons cunning loves to wield: To lie in wait, to strike a sudden blow Of ambushed vengeance on a dreaded foe; With poisonous lies to sue for speedy peace; To plot more murder in a brief release; To pause, to strike with double force the blow;-- The flaming homesteads light them to their foe; And women’s screams for mercy, drowned in blood, Cry out for vengeance to an angry God. And foremost mingling in that awful strife, The settlers fought for wife, for child, for life. They see around them hideous signals rise, The _Kafir’s Fiery Cross_ illumes the midnight skies. They rush from burning homes, or die, as brave men die, With face unto the foe and hopes in God on high. And then, ye swarthy warriors, then began Unequal warfare with the strong white man. The assegai is measured with the gun; The gage once taken up, war is not done Till Hintza’s death, and Gwanga’s gory tide, And Waterkloof, and many a red hillside, And burning huts, and savage screams of woe, Have proved the prowess of your British foe. Three dreadful wars have Kafir fierceness proved, And thrice their vengeance sought the white man’s blood; While thrice their warriors have been taught to know, How vain their battle against such a foe. Sir Harry Smith’s and Cathcart’s names rank high With those renowned in English chivalry, And many a nameless kloof’s mimosas wave O’er the brave British soldier’s grave; And Bowker’s, Southey’s, Currie’s names shall be, With those of others, kept in memory.[16]

Queenstown and Cradock’s volunteers lay down Their warlike weapons,--while King Williamstown Rests on its arms by the Buffalo’s side, And starts new commerce on East London’s tide. The settler’s city in success has grown, And busy commerce smiles on Grahamstown; And Port Elizabeth, their landing-place, Still striding onward in progressive race, Makes commerce speed its sails from Algoa Bay, And sends new products o’er the watery way; And far and near the bustling towns arise, Planted and nursed by settlers’ enterprise. To God Almighty let us thanks upraise, To Him all glory; to Him endless praise.

Now fifty years have passed. Here is the field Of dauntless energy, and this the yield; Their advent here we celebrate in days Which well can speak the British settler’s praise,-- Their glory with their memory is blent, THE EASTERN PROVINCE IS THEIR MONUMENT.

_Alex. Wilmot._

_IN THE COUNTRY OF MANKORAAN._

(NORTH OF THE VAAL RIVER, DECEMBER, 1882.)

Ah sad are our hearts, Our souls full of trouble, Ruin’s harvest has come-- We are left as the stubble.

The white man is here For our fields and our cattle; No hope is now left us-- No chance in the battle.

We look on like men Who are used to disaster, And see ruin’s night Falling faster and faster.

Or like animals struck By the swift assegai, We are sentenced to death, We have only to die.

From Limpopo to Vaal Has the mandate been given, “From his veld and his home Must the black man be driven.”

From the homes of our youth, Which our eyes love to scan, We are forced from the kraals Of our chief--Mankoraan.

We starve in the veld So blooming and verdant; The invader is lord, The owner--his servant.

Christianity--lo! To your justice we fly; Protect us at once, Or we perish and die.

_Alex. Wilmot._

_DRINK._

Behold the Moloch of our Pagan days, The Bacchic God, whom all his votaries praise; For “Io Bacchus” is a modern hymn, Chanted in praise of drink ’midst festive din. The god is worshipped here in our own days, Enshrined in radiance ’midst the hotels’ blaze-- Or, where the drink-shop, with its beaming light, Attracts the moth-like worshippers at night-- The sacrificial victims never fail, With gait unsteady, and with features pale-- Still they come on; nor sex nor age is spared, Recruits by thousands easily are snared; Here comes the husband, with unsteady tread, And offers up for drink his children’s bread; His weary wife soon learns to follow in, And drown her wretchedness in draughts of gin; The starving children, outcast and forlorn, From Virtue’s path at once are quickly torn. Hence, from this nursery of sin and grief, We get the outcast woman and cunning thief; And the first lessons of the murderer’s sin Are taught in brawls amidst the tavern’s din. Moloch of drink! to thee are offered still Youth, beauty, fortune, science, art, and skill; Thousands of votaries drink thy poisoned cup, And health, strength, life are freely offered up In thy fell service. Life-blood still is poured In new libations--neither plague nor sword Obtains its victims, in the town or field, In such abundance as thy altars yield.

“The cheerful cup, the drinking cup, goes round!’ Convivial spirits gladly hail the sound. See here, in wretched misery, crawls along The shadow of a man once hale and strong, At one time wealthy--held in high esteem; He loved, and was beloved--his upright mien Told of an upright heart, till drink stepped in, And all the train of curses following sin. Then farewell heaven and friends, and peaceful life, And welcome squalor, penury, and strife; His once-loved partner learns from him to shrink, Her life a martyrdom, her murderer Drink! His son and daughter--God in heaven to be The cause of such great crime and misery! The girl, an outcast, walks the midnight street; The boy skulks, trembling, ’fore policeman’s feet.

“In festive houses festive cups go round!” Widows and orphans shudder at the sound. A death-knell tolls in every drinking song, To some most heedless ’midst the drinking throng. Ah! when the nations suffer, is it well To wreath with flowers the portal of their hell? When tens of thousands perish by the cup. For neighbour’s sake, for God’s sake, give it up! Its use is lawful, let its disuse be Heaven’s key for thee and thousands--Charity.

Not blasting fire from heaven so surely kills, As burning draughts which flow from Bacchic rills. See nations fall, as oaks by lightning stroke, Their glories rivened, and their manhood broke. Britain! “the Kafirs” curse before they die, The cup--their poison, and thy infamy-- In Afric’s land are riveted new chains, And freedom flies when drunkenness remains.

_Alex. Wilmot._

_SOUTH AFRICA REDIVIVA._

Bright land which stretchest down through Southern seas On which the Sun loves well to look--South Africa-- Thou now hast wakened--and the stirring breeze Which comes from the northward fills thee with a soul. Arise, throw off thy shackles and advance-- Among the nations claim thy place, and live! The time has come to shake off thy dull sleep Of slavery and apathy: thou wast made to be A home for millions of the brave and free.

For God has blest thee with a dower of wealth, Of tree, of herb, of pasture, and of field: Thy children laugh aloud in jocund health, And all things men require thy plains can yield; At faintest knock thy mountain portals ope, Revealing treasure glimpses fair to see-- Rich diamonds, metals, aye, Imperial gold, Are in the dower which God hath given thee. Arise, ye Lotus-eaters of the South, and know The plenteous blessings which from labour flow.

As men have reaped great Europe--pouring down From Scandinavia and far Baltic’s wave, So must our future too be reaped--now sown, The crops will grow above this era’s grave. South Afric calls aloud to Europe, filled With overflowing energy and youth, Come in your thousands--work as your fathers willed, With strength, with power, with energy and truth. Good Hope will turn to Hope at last fulfilled, And Southern Africa be great--as God has willed.

_Alex. Wilmot._

_THE BEAUTFUL ISLAND OF DREAMS._

“They come, the shapes of joy and woe, The airy crowds of long ago, The dreams and fancies known of yore That have been and shall be no more; They change the cloisters of the night Into a garden of delight.”--_Golden Legend._

When sorrow’s dull clouds o’ershadow the soul, And the sunshine of life is concealed, When the waves of misfortune still over us roll, There is sometimes a refuge and shield, In a calm little harbour lit up by its sun, With genial though transient beams, ’Tis hailed as a shelter whene’er it is won-- The Beautiful Island of Dreams.

When pursued by avenging demons of hate, The wretched oft pause in their path, And find a retreat and a respite from fate-- A brief lull in the tempest of wrath; In the fair fairy bowers where in shadowy light, Illusion reality seems, Whose oceans are bridged by the visions of night-- The Beautiful Island of Dreams.

And still in this desert as onward we roam, On a dull and a desolate track, Fast journeying on to Eternity’s home, We sometimes in Dreamland look back; And in slumber behold the dear friends that have gone; And the past or the future now seems Rich with memory or hope to that oasis flown-- The Beautiful Island of Dreams.

_Alex Wilmot._

_CAPE OF GOOD HOPE._

There is a land, unknown to fame, A land whose heroes have no name In the grey records of past age; Unchronicled in hist’ry’s page, Untamed by art, yet wild and free, That land lies in the Southern sea-- It laughs to heav’n which smiles on it; There midway in wild waters set, With suns serene and balmier breeze Than ever swept these northern seas, Its beetling crags rise vast, and war With oceans, meeting from afar, To break their billows on its shore, With fearful never-ending roar.

Bold mariners who sailed of old Through unknown seas in search of gold, Saw those dark rocks, those giant forms, And, fear-quelled, named them “Cape of Storms.” O land of storms, I pine to hear That music which made others fear; I long to see thy storm-fiend scowl, I long to hear the fierce winds howl, Hot with fell fires, across thy plains.

Thou glorious land! where Nature reigns Supreme in awful loveliness, O shall thy exiled son not bless Those hills and dales of thine, where first He roamed a careless child; where burst Thy tropic splendour on his eye; Where days were spent, whose mem’ries lie Deep ’neath all afterthought and care, Yet rise more buoyant than the air, And float o’er all his days? O home Of beauty rare, where I did roam In childhood’s golden days, my pray’r For thee soars through this northern air.

Land of “Good Hope!” thy future lies Bright ’fore my vision as thy skies! O Africa! long lost in night, Upon the horizon gleams the light Of breaking dawn. Thy star of fame Shall rise and brightly gleam; thy name Shall blaze on hist’ry’s later page; Thy birth-time is the last great age; Thy name has been, slave of the world; But, when thy banner is unfurled, Triumphant Liberty shall wave That standard o’er foul slav’ry’s grave, And earth--decaying earth--shall see Her freest, fairest child in thee!

_William Rodger Thomson._

UTRECHT, 1856.

_GOOD HOPE._

“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If we would but dare and do; If we would but stand with ready hand To grasp ere the blessings go.

“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If we would but stay life-streams, Which will past us flow while we, too slow, Stand rapt on the bank in dreams.

“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If we would but cease to hope That the rain will drop and bring a crop While we idly sit and mope.

“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If we work, e’en while we wait For the sun and rain to ripen grain We have sown, then left to fate.

“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If we use each heav’n-sent gift As means to an end, and do not spend Our best without care and thrift.

“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If we live and struggle still To a better life, through toil and strife, With a stout heart and strong will.

“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If our faith be active trust, And not blind belief, which, at each grief, Still mourns that what must be, must.

“Good Hope” for this good land yet, If we would but trust in God, And the Christ, who came and took our name To bless, not to turn the sod.

_William Rodger Thomson._

_ODE._

(FROM HORACE.--_Lib._ ii. _Od._ 18.)

No ivory--no golden ceiling Adorns my modest home; No marble pillars, wealth revealing Proudly support the dome. No regal fortune, princely dwelling, Hath fate vouchsafed to me, I am not clad, in state excelling, In robe of sovereignty: A vein of wit, by nature’s blessing, And honest heart are mine. Yet me to honour, nought possessing The wealthiest incline; Why should I then the gods importune To add unto my store, Contented with my humble fortune I could not wish for more. Day hastes to follow day, and truly New moons but come to die, The tomb awaits thy ashes duly Mid all thy pageantry. Yet mindless of the fatal hour On high thou build’st the hall, Insatiate with thy wealth and power Thou fain would’st seize on all; Thy neighbour’s farm, thy neighbour’s dwelling, All would’st thou have for thee, ’Gainst justice and ’gainst law rebelling With base cupidity; While from their home unjustly driven The husband and the wife (The babes exposed to winds of heaven) Must linger out their life: But one sure homestead there remaineth Than all on earth more sure, The dark abode where Orcus reigneth Alike o’er rich and poor, Just earth entombeth ev’n the poorest With sons of royalty, And Charon thou in vain allurest For gold to set it free: Great kings renowned in ancient story He holdeth in his might, Far famed of old for warlike glory Now doomed to endless night: Invoked in pity he hath risen, And uninvoked,--to free The hapless poor from their earth-prison And grant them liberty.

_E. B. Watermeyer._

_AFTER A STORM._

Morning has come upon us,--from the day Has rolled each darkling cloud, the orient view Unveils with gorgeous sun, and deep clear blue. But ocean riots still;--in ponderous play Thousands of heavy surges plunge away, Dazzling with snow-white foam, or swiftly woos Iris to paint all brightly tinted hues. Strangely fair magic, mid their shivered spray, Around us many a little whale-bird skims, Dipping its tiny bosom in the deep, Then instantly uprises blithe and high, Even as the heart unthralled by earthly things Will walk this troubled earth yet ever keep Its dearest home up in the azure sky.

_E. B. Watermeyer._

_AMMAP AND GRIET._

A LEGEND OF THE ’NOSOP.

On a huge rock of granite stone, A dark-skinned maiden stands alone, Her eyes with vengeance gleam. ’Twas in a wild and savage glen, Far from the busy haunts of men, Where ’Nosop rolls its stream.

And who is she? What does she there? Alone beside by the lion’s lair! Has she no woman’s fear? She had--but all that fear is gone, She stands upon that very stone, Because she knows he’s near.

“Dark-skinned maiden, come away, Tempt not thus the beast of prey, Haste, haste, your life to save.” “No, no,” the dark-skinned maiden cried, “He tore my Ammap from my side, And vengeance I will have!”

A white man stood behind a tree, A double-barrelled gun had he, And steady was his aim; She knew not that his help was nigh, But lightly poised the assegai, When forth the lion came.

He sees her! With a single bound He strove to reach the vantage ground, But ere the rock he gained, The dark-skinned maiden’s aim was true, Downwards the fearful weapon flew, And in his side remained!

He fell, and writhing in his pain, Madly he strove, but strove in vain, To rise upon his feet. “Ah, ah,” the dark-skinned maiden cried, “This day I was to be his bride, He tore my Ammap from my side, Ah, ah, revenge is sweet.”

Beneath that rock of granite stone, On which the white man stands alone, The lion writhes in pain. The dark-skinned maid is at his side She drew a dirk, her Ammap’s pride, He never rose again.

Some months had rolled away, and then, Within that very lion’s den, Were found the bones of Griet; And to this day, who ventures nigh That granite rock, will hear the cry, “Ah, ah, revenge is sweet!”

But visitors are very rare, The native seldom ventures there, He rather turns aside. And why? Because he fears to meet The wandering ghost of faithful Griet With Ammap at her side.

_S. A. M._

_SONNETS OF THE CAPE._

I.

GOVERNMENT GARDENS, CAPE TOWN.

Oft, when my feet at evening homeward tread The stately cloisters of the oaks along, My fervent soul breaks into grateful song, And I a glad, rapt worshipper am led. God, what a glorious prospect is outspread! Impersoned nature here hath built her shrine: On yon great altar sacrifice divine She offers to her Maker. On the head Of the majestic peak upon the west, Her favoured seat, at eve oft sitteth she, Soothing the busy city into rest, Whilst the sun setting lights the golden sea. Here, in thy fane, bright Presence, I divest My heart of lower thoughts, and bow to heaven and thee.

II.

NIGHT.

Dost thou not love, O angel of the night, Above all others this fair southern land? For thou hast gemmed its skies with lavish hand, With rarest stars and constellations bright. Shines not its vestal moon with purer light? Hath not its galaxy more lustrous hue While star-clouds, set in heavens more deeply blue, Still gladden ours, as erst Magellan’s sight? O would that while the old grey mountains sleep There might be silence in the which to find Grand music! But if joyous creatures keep Perpetual chorus, shall my captious mind Object? Creation’s harmonies lie deep, But to the soul attuned the parts are well combined.

_G. Longmore._

_THE FADED PHOTOGRAPH._

TO MY FRIEND, DAVID C----, BATH, SOMERSETSHIRE.

Your portrait hangs upon my wall, Among my treasures highly classed, For it is potent to recall Old days that we have passed In close communion, heart and mind, Where Avon’s placid waters wind.

And very often, as I gaze, Bath’s noble hills with you I climb, Or tread the valley’s wooded ways Where we’ve roved many a time: Delightful scenes that I would fain, Before I sleep, behold again.

Our Cape its beauties hath, ’tis true: Old Table Mountain’s always grand, Our sun is bright, our sky is blue; The Maker’s bounteous hand, From which all beauty hath its birth, Made this far corner of His earth.

Yet must a Briton love his home The more for absence, as I ween, And greatly do I long to roam Through daisied meadows green, Perchance made dulcet by the swell Of distant chiming village bell.

O for a field of new mown hay, A beach, or elm, or tasselled birch; A springtide scent of virgin May, Or a glimpse of an ivied church! To tramp the stubbles of the corn Upon a fresh September morn;