The Poetry of South Africa E-Book

Various

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The Poetry of South Africa is a richly curated anthology that serves as a testament to the diverse voices and poignant themes that permeate the South African poetic landscape. This collection encompasses an array of styles, from the lyrical musings of early 20th-century poets to the innovative forms crafted in the post-apartheid era. Through evocative imagery and profound social commentary, the anthology reflects upon themes of identity, struggle, and resilience, offering a multifaceted glimpse into South African life and culture. Such literary craftsmanship not only captures the complex historical context but also situates contemporary South African poetry within global literary traditions. The editors of this anthology, drawn from various poetic backgrounds, are notable figures in the South African literary scene, each bringing their own critical perspective. Their collective experiences in navigating the sociopolitical changes of the nation have profoundly influenced their selection, highlighting the crucial role poetry plays in articulating collective memory and individual expression. This work showcases the evolution of South African poetry as it grapples with the legacy of apartheid, colonialism, and the ongoing quest for cultural identity. Readers seeking a comprehensive understanding of South African poetry will find this anthology invaluable. It serves not only as an introduction to the country'Äôs rich literary heritage but also as a poignant exploration of human experience. Through its pages, one can expect to encounter the vibrancy of voices that challenge, inspire, and ultimately unite through the power of verse.

Leseprobe

Various

The Poetry of South Africa

Published by Good Press, 2022

[email protected]

EAN 4064066232900

Table of Contents

PREFACE.

“THE SMOUSE.”

POEMS.

THE EMIGRANTS.

THE BECHUANA BOY.

AFAR IN THE DESERT.

EVENING RAMBLES.

THE LION HUNT.

THE LION AND THE GIRAFFE.

THE DESOLATE VALLEY.

THE CORANNA.

SONG OF THE WILD BUSHMAN.

THE CAPTIVE OF CAMALÚ.

THE BROWN HUNTER’S SONG.

THE BUSHMAN.

THE CAPE OF STORMS.

THE HOTTENTOT.

THE CAFFER.

THE GHONA WIDOW’S LULLABY.

THE KOSA.

MAKANNA’S GATHERING.

THE INCANTATION.

THE CAFFER COMMANDO.

THE ROCK OF RECONCILEMENT.

THE FORESTER OF THE NEUTRAL GROUND. A SOUTH AFRICAN BORDER BALLAD.

THE EMIGRANT’S CABIN AT THE CAPE. AN EPISTLE IN RHYME.

THE VOLUNTEERS OF ENGLAND. BY A COLONIST.

“ THE DEAR OLD LAND. ”

THE FUNERAL IN THE ABBEY.

A FAREWELL TO ENGLISH FRIENDS.

A MISSIONARY’S LAST FAREWELL TO ENGLAND.

A REMINISCENCE OF 1820.

PAST AND PRESENT.

A SOUTH AFRICAN WILDERNESS.

A SUNRISE THOUGHT AT “COVE ROCK.”

AN OCEAN SUNSET.

A SIGHT FROM THE SHORE.

THE THUNDERSTORM AT BATHURST.

A MORNING WISH FOR A FRIEND.

A NIGHT THOUGHT.

THE LITTLE SHELL AT COVE ROCK.

A TRIBUTE OF SYMPATHY TO THE DEFENDERS OF GLEN LYNDEN.

OUR BOYS.

IN THE DROUGHT LANDS OF SOUTH AFRICA. THE RAIN.

THE LANDING OF THE BRITISH SETTLERS OF 1820. (Written on occasion of the celebration of the Settlers’ Jubilee in Grahamstown, in 1870.)

IN THE COUNTRY OF MANKORAAN. (NORTH OF THE VAAL RIVER, DECEMBER, 1882.)

DRINK.

SOUTH AFRICA REDIVIVA.

THE BEAUTFUL ISLAND OF DREAMS.

CAPE OF GOOD HOPE.

GOOD HOPE.

ODE. (From Horace. — Lib. ii. Od. 18.)

AFTER A STORM.

AMMAP AND GRIET. A LEGEND OF THE ’NOSOP.

SONNETS OF THE CAPE.

I. GOVERNMENT GARDENS, CAPE TOWN.

II. NIGHT.

THE FADED PHOTOGRAPH. TO MY FRIEND, DAVID C——, BATH, SOMERSETSHIRE.

EVELEEN.

FAREWELL TO MADEIRA.

FAREWELL TO FIFTY-FIVE.

“ LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. ”

“ SHOULD IT BE ACCORDING TO THY MIND. ” (Job xxxiv 33.)

TO GRAAFF REINET.

HYMN. WRITTEN DURING THE ZULU WAR.

THE LAMENT OF THE GUTTER LATELY FILLED UP BY AN UNPOETICAL MUNICIPALITY.

MY “SALTED” STEED.

A ROMANCE FROM THE FIELDS. A COLONIAL BALLAD.

THE FLIGHT OF THE AMAKOSA. A RIFLE CORPS LEGEND.

AN IDYL OF A PRINCE. (NOT AFTER TENNYSON.)

MORAL.

A CHRISTMAS APPARITION. A BIL-IOUS LEGEND.

MORAL.

FREEDOM’S HOME.

THE GALLANT “TEUTON.”

THE SUNNY HILLS OF AFRICA.

THE SOUTHERN CROSS. AN ODE.

HON. WILLIAM PORTER, C.M.G. AN ELEGY.

ODE ON THE BRITISH SETTLERS’ YEAR OF JUBILEE. NAM QUI HŒC DICUNT, PALAM OSTENDUNT SE PATRIAM QUŒRERE.

DIVES REDIVIVUS.

THE BURGHERS’ GATHERING.

STORM IN TUGELA VALLEY, NATAL.

THE NATAL GOLD DIGGINGS. TO GREENHORNS.

NATURE. A DAY ON THE HILLS, IN NATAL.

CONTENTMENT. FOR MY MOTHER.

NOT HERE.

REVELATION XXII. VERSIFIED.

EZEKIEL XLVII. 1-12.

CHANGE.

HEAVENLY FRIENDSHIP.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

THE DEFENCE OF RORKE’S DRIFT. JANUARY 22-23, 1879.

“ RORKE’S DRIFT. ” JANUARY 22, 1879.

BEFORE ULUNDI.

THE BARON’S ADVENTURE. (A FACT.)

SOUTH AFRICAN COURTSHIP.

THE BETTER LAND. AFTER SHEMANS.

“ DOLLY. ” A REMEMBRANCE.

GOING HOME. FROM THE TRANSVAAL TO ENGLAND.

THE OXFORD BIBLE. ON WORN-OUT SAILS BEING USED AS MATERIAL FOR THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER ON WHICH BIBLES ARE PRINTED.

THE LAST MISSION OF THE SAILS.

THE WORN-OUT SAILS.

IN MEMORIAM.

EPITAPH ON A DIAMOND DIGGER.

AFRIC’S GREETING TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS ALEXANDRA, PRINCESS OF WALES, ON HER WEDDING DAY, MARCH 10, 1863.

ROBERT GODLINTON.

THE DIAMOND DIGGER. ON FINDING HIS FIRST LARGE DIAMOND. (From the drama “I. D. B.”)

THE LAST OF THE BOWKERS. A DIRGE.

THE DRUNKARD’S CHILD. FOUNDED ON ONE OF J. B. GOUGH’S THRILLING ANECDOTES.

THE ANGEL’S MESSAGE.

THE “CHURL” OF THE PERIOD; AND ANOTHER. A LEGEND OF THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE.

The Churl.

Another.

Moral.

WELCOME.

PRECEPTS FOR YOUNG AND OLD.

BE KIND TO ONE ANOTHER.

PADDY’S LOVE SYMPTOMS. FOR MUSIC.

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY OF HUMBUG.

PLATTEKLIP CASCADE.

THE PORT ELIZABETH PYRAMID.

“ IN MEMORIAM. ” THE REV. R. TEMPLETON, WHO DIED IN THE ZUURBERG FOREST, JANUARY 1886.

“ LORD! WHAT IS MAN THAT THOU ART MINDFUL OF HIM! ”

THE RHYME OF THE OX-WAGON. (A MODEST PENDANT TO PRINGLE’S “AFAR IN THE DESERT.”)

THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE. A PATRIOTIC SONG.

THE ERYTHRINA TREE. A CAROL OF THE WOODS.

PREFACE.

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THIS collection of verse has been made from various sources in the Cape Colony, Natal, and the Transvaal, and it is a matter of regret that many pieces of interest have been omitted owing to the difficulty of obtaining copies. Also as most colonists in South Africa understand the Dutch language “as spoken there,” it could be wished that certain well-known productions in the “Boerentaal” could have been preserved in these pages. Some of the inimitable “versions” of Reitz,—for instance, his rendering of “Tam o’ Shanter” and “The Maid of Athens,” and some others which have appeared from time to time, we believe, in one of the Cape journals, ought not to be forgotten.

We have received from Natal, since this volume was “in the press,” some lines by the late T. Fannin, who used in the olden days to sing his own rhymes in right good style. We do not apologise to our readers for giving these in their entirety.

“THE SMOUSE.”

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“I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse in the wilderness wide—The veld is my home, and the wagon’s my pride;The crack of my “voerslag,” shall sound o’er the lea.I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!I heed not the Governor, I fear not his law,I care not for ‘civilisation’ (?) one straw—And ne’er to ‘Ompanda’—‘Umgazis’ I’ll throw,While my arm carries fist, or my foot bears a toe!‘Trek,’ ‘trek,’ ply the whip,—touch the fore oxen’s skin,I’ll warrant we’ll ‘go it’ through thick and through thin—‘Loop! loop ye oud skellums! ot Vigmaan trek jy.’I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!

They may talk of quick going by mail or by rail—What matters? our wagon creeps on like a snail;What to ‘her’ is the steam-engine’s whistle and din?We have time all before, and the ‘prog’ all within—The snows of Kathlamba our progress can’t stay;We mount to its summit, and travel away,Or go we by Biggarsberg—wagon upset,The tent lies in atoms, the stuff is all wet—Never mind, that won’t hurt us—we’ll soon get it dry.But ho! there go Elands—saddle up, boys! mount! fly!Load your rifles, give chase as they bound o’er the lea—I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!

I’m alone—I’m alone, and ’tis night on the plain—And I think, as I lie, of old England again;The jackal cries round me, the wolf quits his lair,And the roar of the lion resounds through the air—‘Alamagtig!’ cries Jansi—‘Ma-wo!’ cries Kewitt;The cattle stand trembling—the Smouse on his feet.My ‘Lancaster’ rings, while the brute gives a bound,And the king of the desert lies dead on the ground!Hurrah! then, what care I for king or for prince?My horse and my gun are my pride and defence;The town for the coward—the desert for me!I’m a Smouse, I’m a Smouse, and the trader is free!”

All is changed since these lines were written, and since Pringle (the “father” of South African verse) “sang” amid the wild surroundings of his home. The whistle of the locomotive has taken the place of the shrill cry of the Kaffir. The lion has retired from business. The “big game” which used to cover the plains beyond the Drachensberg has gone, never to return; and the wandering trader has to pay taxes, and is no longer in need of a gun. The railway from Delagoa Bay to the Portuguese border is almost completed. Soon “excursions to Ophir” will be advertised, and the romance of the “Dark Continent” will be dead! There is little time for thought or rest in a country which can show a town risen up, as by Aladdin’s power, in a few short months, holding five thousand people, all gathered together for one object—gold.[1] Still, and in spite of all this, we hope our modest volume may not be wholly neglected, but will find a welcome in many a home. There must be “intervals for refreshment,” however transient, both for body and mind, even in a world where the “go as you please” race for wealth engages everybody, and we trust that many colonists will find something in these pages to satisfy their tastes even if it be only a reminder of the days when their fathers were young, and ventured over the sea to make for themselves homes in untrodden wilds.

B.

24th September 1887.

POEMS.

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THE EMIGRANTS.

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... The sire has toldThe heart-struck group of dark disaster nigh:Their old paternal home must now be sold,And that last relic of ancestryResigned to strangers. Long and strenuouslyHe strove to stem the flood’s o’erwhelming mass;But still some fresh unseen calamityBurst like a foaming billow—till, alas!No hope remains that this their sorest grief may pass.

“Yet be not thus dismayed. Our altered lotHe that ordains will brace us to endure.This changeful world affords no sheltered spot,Where man may count his frail possessions sure:Our better birthright, noble, precious, pure,May well console for earthly treasures marred,—Treasures, alas! how vain and insecure,Where none from rust and robbery can guard:The wise man looks to heaven alone for his reward.”

The Christian father thus. But whither nowShall the bewildered band their course direct?What home shall shield that matron’s honoured brow,And those dear pensive maids from wrong protect?Or cheer them ’mid the world’s unkind neglect?That world to the unfortunate so cold,While lavish of its smiles and fair respectUnto the proud, the prosperous, the bold;Still shunning want and woe; still courting pomp and gold.

Shall they adopt the poor retainer’s trade,And sue for pity from the great and proud?No! never shall ungenerous souls upbraidTheir conduct in adversity—which bowedBut not debased them. Or, amidst the crowd,In noisome towns shall they themselves immure,Their wounds, their woes, their weary days to shroudIn some mean melancholy nook obscure?No! worthier tasks await, and brighter scenes allure.

A land of climate fair and fertile soil,Teeming with milk and wine and waving corn,Invites from far the venturous Briton’s toil:And thousands, long by fruitless cares foresworn,And now across the wide Atlantic borne,To seek new homes on Afric’s southern strand:Better to launch with them than sink forlorn,To vile dependence in our native land;Better to fall in God’s than man’s unfeeling hand!

With hearts resigned they tranquilly prepareTo share the fortunes of that exile train.And soon with many a follower, forth they fare—High hope and courage in their hearts again:And now, afloat upon the dark-blue main,They gaze upon the fast-receding shoreWith tearful eyes—while thus the ballad strain,Half heard amidst the ocean’s weltering roar,Bids farewell to the scenes they ne’er shall visit more:—

“Our native land—our native vale—A long and last adieu!Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale,And Cheviot mountains blue!

“Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,And streams renowned in song;Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meadsOur hearts have loved so long.

“Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes,Where thyme and harebells grow!Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes,O’erhung with birk and sloe.

“The battle-mound, the Border-tower,That Scotia’s annals tell;The martyr’s grave, the lover’s bower—To each—to all—farewell!

“Home of our hearts! our father’s home!Land of the brave and free!The sale is flapping on the foamThat bears us far from thee!

“We seek a wild and distant shoreBeyond the Atlantic main;We leave thee to return no more,Nor view thy cliffs again:

“But may dishonour blight our fame,And quench our household fires,When we, or ours, forget thy name,Green Island of our Sires.

“Our native land—our native vale—A long, a last adieu!Farewell to bonny Teviot-dale,And Scotland’s mountains blue.”

Thomas Pringle.

Huntschaw, Sept. 20, 1819.

THE BECHUANA BOY.

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Isat at noontide in my tent,And looked across the desert dun,Beneath the cloudless firmamentFar gleaming in the sun,When from the bosom of the wasteA swarthy stripling came in haste,With foot unshod and naked limb;And a tame springbok followed him.

With open aspect, frank yet bland,And with a modest mien he stood,Caressing with a gentle handThat beast of gentle brood;Then, meekly gazing in my face,Said in the language of his race,With smiling look yet pensive tone,“Stranger—I’m in the world alone!”

“Poor boy,” I said, “thy native homeLies far beyond the Stormberg blue:Why hast thou left it, boy! to roamThis desolate Karroo?”His face grew sadder while I spoke;The smile forsook it; and he brokeShort silence with a sob-like sigh,And told his hapless history.

“I have no home!” replied the boy;“The Bergenaars—by night they came,And raised their wolfish howl of joy,While o’er our huts the flameResistless rushed; and aye their yellPealed louder as our warriors fellIn helpless heaps beneath their shot:—One living man they left us not!

“The slaughter o’er, they gave the slainTo feast the foul-beaked birds of prey,And with our herds across the plainThey hurried us away—The widowed mothers and their brood.Oft, in despair, for drink or foodWe vainly cried; they heeded not,But with sharp lash the captive smote.

“Three days we tracked that dreary wild,Where thirst and anguish pressed us sore;And many a mother and her childLay down to rise no more.Behind us, on the desert brown,We saw the vultures swooping down;And heard, as the grim night was falling,The wolf to his gorged comrade calling.

“At length was heard a river sounding’Midst that dry and dismal land,And, like a troop of wild deer bounding,We hurried to its strand—Among the maddened cattle rushing,The crowd behind still forward pushing,Till in the flood our limbs were drenchedAnd the fierce rage of thirst was quenched.

“Hoarse roaring, dark, the broad GareepIn turbid streams was sweeping fast,Huge sea-cows in its eddies deepLoud snorting as we passed;But that relentless robber clanRight through those waters wild and wanDrove on like sheep our wearied band:—Some never reached the farther strand.

“All shivering from the foaming flood,We stood upon the strangers’ ground,When, with proud looks and gestures rude,The white men gathered round:And there, like cattle from the fold,By Christians we were bought and sold,’Midst laughter loud and looks of scorn—And roughly from each other torn.

“My mother’s scream, so long and shrill,My little sister’s wailing cry(In dreams I often hear them still!),Rose wildly to the sky.A tiger’s heart came to me then,And fiercely on those ruthless menI sprang—alas! dashed on the sandBleeding, they bound me foot and hand.

“Away, away on prancing steedsThe stout man-stealers blithely go,Through long low valleys fringed with reeds,O’er mountains capped with snowEach with his captive, far and fast;Until yon rock-bound ridge we passed,And distant strips of cultured soilBespoke the land of tears and toil.

“And tears and toil have been my lotSince I the white-man’s thrall became,And sorer griefs I wish forgot—Harsh blows, and scorn, and shame!Oh, Englishman! thou ne’er canst knowThe injured bondman’s bitter woe,When round his breast, like scorpions, clingBlack thoughts that madden while they sting!

“Yet this hard fate I might have borne,And taught in time my soul to bend,Had my sad yearning heart forlornBut found a single friend:My race extinct or far removed,The Boer’s rough brood I could have loved;But each to whom my bosom turnedEven like a hound the black boy spurned.

“While, friendless, thus, my master’s flocksI tended on the upland waste,It chanced this fawn leapt from the rocks,By wolfish wild-dogs chased:I rescued it, though wounded soreAnd dabbled in its mother’s gore;And nursed it in a cavern wild,Until it loved me like a child.

“Gently I nursed it; for I thought(Its hapless fate so like to mine)By good Utíko[2] it was broughtTo bid me not repine,—Since in this world of wrong and illOne creature lived that loved me still,Although its dark and dazzling eyeBeamed not with human sympathy.

“Thus lived I, a lone orphan lad,My task the proud Boer’s flocks to tend;And this poor fawn was all I hadTo love or call my friend;When suddenly, with haughty lookAnd taunting words, that tyrant tookMy playmate for his pampered boy,Who envied me my only joy.

“High swelled my heart!—But when the starOf midnight gleamed, I softly ledMy bounding favourite forth, and farInto the desert fled.And here, from human kind exiled,Three moons on roots and berries wildI’ve fared; and braved the beasts of prey,To ’scape from spoilers worse than they.

“But yester morn a Bushman broughtThe tidings that thy tents were near;And now with hasty foot I’ve soughtThy presence, void of fear;Because they say, O English chief,Thou scornest not the captive’s grief:Then let me serve thee, as thine own—For I am in the world alone!”

Such was Marossi’s touching tale.Our breasts they were not made of stone:His words, his winning looks prevail—We took him for “our own.”And one, with woman’s gentle art,Unlocked the fountains of his heart;And love gushed forth—till he becameHer child in everything but name.

Thomas Pringle.

AFAR IN THE DESERT.

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Afar in the desert I love to ride,With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:When the sorrows of life the soul o’ercast,And, sick of the Present, I cling to the past;When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,From the fond recollections of former years;And shadows of things that have long since fledFlit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead:Bright visions of glory—that vanished too soon;Day dreams—that departed ere manhood’s noon;Attachments—by fate or by falsehood reft;Companions of early days—lost or left;And my native Land—whose magical nameThrills to the heart like electric flame;The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;All the passions and scenes of that rapturous timeWhen the feelings were young and the world was new,Like the fresh flowers of Eden unfolding to view;All—all now forsaken—forgotten—foregone!And I—a lone exile remembered by none—My high aims abandoned,—my good acts undone,—Aweary of all that is under the sun,—With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan,I fly to the desert, afar from man!

Afar in the desert I love to ride,With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife—The proud man’s frown, and the base man’s fear,—The scorner’s laugh, and the sufferer’s tear,—And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly,Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,And my soul is sick with the bondsman’s sigh—Oh! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride,Afar in the desert alone to ride!There is rapture to vault on the champing steed,And to bound away with the eagle’s speed,With the death-fraught firelock in my hand—The only law in the Desert Land!

Afar in the desert I love to ride,With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:Away, away, from the dwellings of men,By the wild deer’s haunt, by the buffalo’s glen;By valleys remote where the oribi plays,Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze,And the kùdù and eland unhunted reclineBy the skirts of grey forests o’erhung with wild vine;Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood,And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood,And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at willIn the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:O’er the brown Karroo, where the bleating cryOf the springbok’s fawn sounds plaintively;And the timorous quagga’s shrill whistling neighIs heard by the fountain at twilight grey;Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane,With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;And the fleet-footed ostrich over the wasteSpeeds like a horseman who travels in haste,Hieing away to the home of her rest,Where she and her mate have scooped their nest,Far hid from the pitiless plunderer’s viewIn the pathless depths of the parched Karroo.

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 BechuánHath 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.

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The sultry summer-noon is past;And mellow evening comes at last,With a low and languid breezeFanning the mimosa trees,That cluster o’er the yellow vale,And oft perfume the panting galeWith fragrance faint; it seems to tellOf primrose-tufts in Scottish dell,Peeping forth in tender springWhen the blithe lark begins to sing.

But soon, amidst our Libyan vale,Such soothing recollections fail;Soon we raise the eye to rangeO’er prospects wild, grotesque, and strange:Sterile mountains, rough and steep,That bound abrupt the valley deep,Heaving to the clear blue skyTheir 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 belowThe landscape hath a warmer glow:There the spekboom spreads its bowersOf 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 shakesIts coral tufts above the brakes,Brilliant as the glancing plumesOf sugar birds among its blooms,With the deep green verdure bendingIn the stream of light descending.

And now along the grassy meads,Where the skipping reebok feeds,Let me through the mazes roveOf the light acacia grove;Now while yet the honey-beeHums around the blossomed tree;And the turtles softly chide,Wooingly, on every side;And the clucking pheasant callsTo his mate at intervals;And the duiker at my treadSudden 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 baboonSits gibbering on the rising moon,Or chides with hoarse and angry cryThe 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 weepsDrooping o’er the headlong steeps,Where the torrent in his wrathHath 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 courseMemorial of its frantic force.—Now o’er its shrunk and slimy bedRank weeds and withered wrack are spread,With the faint rill just oozing through,And vanishing again from view;Save where the guana’s glassy poolHolds 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 floodSuspend the loxia’s callow broodIn 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 seeUpon the rich pomegranate tree.

But lo! the sun’s descending carSinks o’er Mount Dunion’s peaks afar;And now along the dusky valeThe homeward herds and flocks I hail,Returning from their pastures dryAmid the stony uplands high.First, the brown Herder with his flockComes 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 BechuanBears on his brow the port of man;A naked homeless exile he—But not debased by slavery.

Now, wizard-like, slow Twilight sailsWith soundless wing adown the vales,Waving with his shadowy rodThe owl and bat to come abroad,With things that hate the garish sun,To frolic now when day is done.Now along the meadows dampThe enamoured firefly lights his lamp.Link-boy he of woodland greenTo light fair Avon’s Elfin Queen;Here, I ween, more wont to shineTo light the thievish porcupine,Plundering my melon-bed,—Or villain lynx, whose stealthy treadRouses not the wakeful houndAs he creeps the folds around.

But lo! the night-bird’s boding screamBreaks abrupt my twilight dream;And warns me it is time to hasteMy homeward walk across the waste,Lest my rash step provoke the wrathOf 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.

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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 brainPlant 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.

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Wouldst thou view the lion’s den?Search afar from haunts of men—Where the reed-encircled rillOozes from the rocky hill,By its verdure far descried’Mid the desert brown and wide.

Close beside the sedgy brimCouchant lurks the lion grim;Watching till the close of dayBrings the death-devoted prey.Heedless at the ambushed brinkThe tall giraffe stoops down to drink.

Upon him straight the savage springsWith cruel joy. The desert ringsWith 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 prizeRides proudly—tearing as he flies.