The Poetry of South Africa. Various

To lift her where she lieth low,

       And prove indeed her Christian Friend!

       Thomas Pringle.

THE BROWN HUNTER’S SONG.

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      Under the Didima[10] lies a green dell, Where fresh from the forest the blue waters swell; And fast by that brook stands a yellow-wood tree Which shelters the spot which is dearest to me.

      Down by the streamlet my heifers are grazing;

       In the pool of the guanas the herd-boy is gazing;

       Under the shade my amana is singing—

       The shade of the tree where her cradle is swinging.

      When I come from the upland as daylight is fading,

       Though spent with the chase, and the game for my lading,

       My nerves are new-strung and my fond heart is swelling

       As I gaze from the cliff on our wood-circled dwelling.

      Down the steep mountain and through the brown forest,

       I haste like a hart when his thirst is the sorest;

       I bound o’er the swift brook that skirts the savannah,

       And clasp my first-born in the arms of Amana.

       Thomas Pringle.

THE BUSHMAN.

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      The Bushman sleeps within his black-browed den,

       In the lone wilderness. Around him lie

       His wife and little ones unfearingly—

       For they are far away from “Christian men.”

       No herds, loud lowing, call him down the glen:

       He fears no foe but famine; and may try

       To wear away the hot noon slumberingly;

       Then rise to search for roots—and dance again.

       But he shall dance no more! His secret lair,

       Surrounded, echoes to the thundering gun,

       And the wild shriek of anguish and despair!

       He dies—yet, ere life’s ebbing sands are run,

       Leaves to his sons a curse, should they be friends

       With the proud “Christian men,”—for they are fiends!

       Thomas Pringle.

THE CAPE OF STORMS.

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      O Cape of Storms! although thy front be dark,

       And bleak thy naked cliffs and cheerless vales,

       And perilous thy fierce and faithless gales

       To staunchest mariner and stoutest bark;

       And though along thy coasts with grief I mark

       The servile and the slave, and him who wails

       An exile’s lot—and blush to hear thy tales

       Of sin and sorrow and oppression stark:—

       Yet, spite of physical and moral ill,

       And after all I’ve seen and suffered here,

       There are strong links that bind me to thee still,

       And render even thy rocks and deserts dear;

       Here dwell kind hearts which time nor place can chill—

       Loved kindred and congenial friends sincere.

       Thomas Pringle, 1825.

THE HOTTENTOT.

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      Mild, melancholy, and sedate, he stands,

       Tending another’s flock upon the fields,

       His fathers’ once, where now the white man builds

       His home, and issues forth his proud commands.

       His dark eye flashes not; his listless hands

       Lean on the shepherd’s staff; no more he wields

       The Libyan bow—but to th’ oppressor yields

       Submissively his freedom and his lands.

       Has he no courage? Once he had—but, lo!

       Harsh servitude hath worn him to the bone.

       No enterprise? Alas! the brand, the blow,

       Hath humbled him to dust—even hope is gone! “He’s a base-hearted hound—not worth his food”— His master cries; “he has no gratitude!”

       Thomas Pringle.

THE CAFFER.

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      Lo! where he crouches by the Kloof’s dark side,

       Eyeing the farmer’s lowing herds, afar;

       Impatient watching till the evening star

       Leads forth the twilight dim, that he may glide

       Like panther to the prey. With freeborn pride

       He scorns the herdsman, nor regards the scar

       Of recent wound—but burnishes for war

       His assegai and targe of buffalo hide.

       He is a robber? True; it is a strife

       Between the black skinned bandit and the white.

       A savage?—Yes; though loth to aim at life,

       Evil for evil fierce he doth requite.

       A heathen?—Teach him, then, thy better creed,

       Christian! if thou deserv’st that name indeed.

       Thomas Pringle.

THE GHONA WIDOW’S LULLABY.

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