The Poetry of South Africa. Various

And what spontaneous earth supplies.

       Should some long parching droughts prevail,

       And milk and bulbs and locusts fail,

       He lays him down to sleep away

       In languid trance the weary day;

       Oft as he feels gaunt hunger’s stound,[5] Still tightening famine’s girdle round; Lulled by the sound of the Gareep, Beneath the willows murmuring deep: Till thunder-clouds surcharged with rain, Pour verdure o’er the panting plain; And call the famished dreamer from his trance, To feast on milk and game, and wake the moonlight dance.

       Thomas Pringle.

SONG OF THE WILD BUSHMAN.

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      Let the proud white man boast his flocks,

       And fields of foodful grain;

       My home is ’mid the mountain rocks,

       The desert my domain.

       I plant no herbs nor pleasant fruits,

       I toil not for my cheer;

       The desert yields me juicy roots,

       And herds of bounding deer.

      The countless springboks are my flock,

       Spread o’er the unbounded plain;

       The buffalo bendeth to my yoke,

       The wild horse to my rein;[6] My yoke is the quivering assegai, My rein the tough bow-string; My bridle curb a slender barb— Yet it quells the forest king. The crested adder honoureth me, And yields at my command His poison bag, like the honey-bee, When I seize him on the sand. Yea, even the wasting locust-swarm, Which mighty nations dread, To me nor terror brings, nor harm— For I make of them my bread.[7]

      Thus I am lord of the Desert Land,

       And I will not leave my bounds,

       To crouch beneath the Christian’s hand,

       And kennel with his hounds:

       To be a hound, and watch the flocks,

       For the cruel white man’s gain—

       No! the brown Serpent of the Rocks

       His den doth yet retain;

       And none who there his stings provokes

       Shall find his poison vain!

       Thomas Pringle.

THE CAPTIVE OF CAMALÚ.

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      O Camalú—green Camalú!

       ’Twas there I fed my father’s flock,

       Beside the mount where cedars threw

       At dawn their shadows from the rock;

       There tended I my father’s flock

       Along the grassy margined rills,

       Or chased the bounding bontébok

       With hound and spear among the hills.

      Green Camalú! methinks I view

       The lilies in thy meadows growing;

       I see thy waters bright and blue

       Beneath the pale-leaved willows flowing;

       I hear along the valleys lowing,

       The heifers wending to the fold,

       And jocund herd-boys loudly blowing

       The horn—to mimic hunters bold.

      Methinks I see the umkóba tree[8] That shades the village-chieftain’s cot; The evening smoke curls lovingly Above that calm and pleasant spot. My father?—Ha!—I had forgot— The old man rests in slumber deep: My mother?—Ay! she answers not— Her heart is hushed in dreamless sleep.

      My brothers too—green Camalú,

       Repose they by thy quiet tide?

       Ay! there they sleep—where white men slew

       And left them—lying side by side.

       No pity had those men of pride,

       They fired the huts above the dying!—

       While bones bestrew that valley wide—

       I wish that mine were with them lying!

      I envy you by Camalú,

       Ye wild harts on the woody hills;

       Though tigers there their prey pursue,

       And vultures slake in blood their bills.

       The heart may strive in Nature’s ills,

       To Nature’s common doom resigned:

       Death the frail body only kills—

       But thraldom brutifies the mind.

      Oh, wretched fate!—heart desolate,

       A captive in the spoiler’s hand,

       To serve the tyrant, whom I hate—

       To crouch beneath his proud command—

       Upon my flesh to bear his brand—

       His blows, his bitter scorn to bide!—

       Would God I in my native land

       Had with my slaughtered brothers died!

      Ye mountains blue of Camalú,

       Where once I fed my father’s flock,

       Though desolation dwells with you,

       And Amakósa’s heart is broke,

       Yet, spite of chains these limbs that mock,

       My homeless heart to you doth fly—

       As flies the wild dove to the rock,

       To hide its wounded breast—and die!

      Yet, ere my spirit wings its flight

       Unto Death’s silent shadowy clime,

       Utíko! Lord of life and light,

       Who, high above the clouds of Time,

       Calm sittest, where yon hosts sublime

       Of stars wheel round thy bright abode,

       Oh, let my cry unto thee climb,

       Of every race the Father-God!

      I ask not judgments from thy hand—

       Destroying hail or parching drought,

       Or locust swarms to waste the land,

       Or pestilence, by Famine brought;

       I say the prayer Jankanna[9] taught, Who wept for Amakósa’s wrongs— “Thy kingdom come—Thy will be wrought— For unto Thee all power belongs.”

      Thy kingdom come! Let Light and Grace

       Throughout all lands in triumph go;

       Till pride and strife to love give place,

       And blood and tears forget to flow;

       Till Europe mourn for Afric’s woe,