The Poetry of South Africa. Various

storm hath ceased: yet still I hear

       The distant thunder sounding,

       And from the mountains, far and near,

       The headlong torrents bounding.

       The jackal shrieks upon the rocks,

       The tiger wolf is howling,

       The panther round the folded flocks

       With stifled gurr is prowling. But lay thee down in peace, my child, God watcheth o’er us ’midst the wild.

      I fear the Bushman is abroad—

       He loves the midnight thunder;

       The sheeted lightning shows the road

       That leads his feet to plunder:

       I’d rather meet the hooded snake

       Than hear his rattling quiver,

       When, like an adder, through the brake,

       He glides along the river.

       But, darling, hush thy heart to sleep—

       The Lord our Shepherd watch doth keep.

      The Kosa from Luhéri high

       Looks down upon our dwelling,

       And shakes the vengeful assegai—

       Unto his clansmen telling

       How he, for us, by grievous wrong, Hath lost these fertile valleys, And boasts that now his hand is strong To pay the debt of malice. But sleep, my child; a mightier Arm Shall shield thee (helpless one!) from harm.

      The moon is up; a fleecy cloud

       O’er heaven’s blue deep is sailing;

       The stream, that lately raved so loud,

       Makes now a gentle wailing.

       From yonder crags, lit by the moon,

       I hear a wild voice crying:

       —’Tis but the harmless bear-baboon,

       Unto his mates replying.

       Hush—hush thy dreams, my moaning dove,

       And slumber in the arms of love!

      The wolf, scared by the watch-dog’s bay,

       Is to the woods returning:

       By his rock fortress, far away,

       The Bushman’s fire is burning.

       And hark! Sicána’s midnight hymn,

       Along the valley swelling,

       Calls us to stretch the wearied limb,

       While kinsmen guard our dwelling:

       Though vainly watchmen wake from sleep,

       “Unless the Lord the city keep.”

      At dawn we’ll seek, with songs of praise,

       Our food on the savannah,

       As Israel sought, in ancient days,

       The heaven-descending manna;

       With gladness from the fertile land

       The veld-kost we will gather,

       A harvest planted by the hand

       Of the Almighty Father—

       From thraldom who redeems our race,

       To plant them in their ancient place.

      Then let us calmly rest, my child,

       Jehovah’s arm is round us,

       The God, the Father reconciled,

       In heathen gloom who found us;

       Who to this heart, by sorrow broke,

       His wondrous WORD revealing,

       Led me, a lost sheep, to the flock,

       And to the Fount of Healing.

       Oh, may the Saviour-Shepherd lead

       My darling where His lambs do feed!

       Thomas Pringle.

THE KOSA.

       Table of Contents

      The free-born Kosa still doth hold

       The fields his fathers held of old;

       With club and spear in jocund ranks,

       Still hunts the elk by Chumi’s banks:

       By Keisis meads his herds are lowing;

       On Debè’s slopes his gardens glowing,

       Where laughing maids at sunset roam,

       To bear the juicy melons home:

       And striplings from Kalunna’s wood

       Bring wild grapes and the pigeon’s brood,

       With fragrant hoards of honey-bee

       Rifled from the hollow tree:

       And herdsmen shout from rock to rock:

       And through the glen the hamlets smoke;

       And children gambol round the kraal,[11] To greet their sires at evening-fall: And matrons sweep the cabin floor, And spread the mat beside the door, And with dry faggots wake the flame To dress the wearied huntsman’s game.

      Bright gleams the fire: its ruddy blaze

       On many a dusky visage plays.

       On forkèd twigs the game is drest;

       The neighbours share the simple feast:

       The honey-mead, the millet-ale,

       Flow round—and flow the jest and tale;

       Wild legends of the ancient day,

       Of hunting feat, of warlike fray;

       And now come smiles, and now come sighs,

       As mirth and grief alternate rise.

       Or should a sterner strain awake,

       Like sudden flame in summer-brake,

       Bursts fiercely forth in battle song

       The tale of Amakósa’s wrong;

       Throbs every warrior bosom high,

       With lightning flashes every eye,

       And, in wild cadence, rings the sound

       Of barbèd javelins clashing round.

      But, lo! like a broad shield on high,

       The moon gleams in the midnight sky.

       ’Tis time to part; the watch-dog’s bay

       Beside the folds has died away.

       ’Tis time to rest; the mat is spread,

       The hardy hunter’s simple bed;

       His wife her dreaming infant hushes,

       On the low cabin’s couch of rushes:

       Softly he draws its door of hide,

       And, stretched by his Gulúwi’s side,

       Sleeps soundly till the peep of dawn

       Wakes on the hill the dappled fawn;

       Then forth again he gaily bounds,

       With club and spear and questing hounds.

       Thomas Pringle.

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