The Poetry of South Africa. Various

lord of the desert will follow him soon: And the tiger-wolf laughs in his bone-strewed brake, As he calls on his mate and her cubs to awake; And the panther and leopard come leaping along; All hymning to Hecate a festival song: For the tumult is over, the slaughter hath ceased— And the vulture hath bidden them all to the feast.

       Thomas Pringle.

THE ROCK OF RECONCILEMENT.

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      A rugged mountain, round whose summit proud

       The eagle sailed, or heaved the thunder-cloud,

       Poured from its cloven breast a gurgling brook,

       Which down the grassy glades its journey took;

       Oft bending round to lave, with rambling tide,

       The groves of evergreens on either side.

       Fast by this stream, where yet its course was young,

       And, stooping from the heights, the forest flung

       A grateful shadow o’er the narrow dell,

       Appeared the missionary’s hermit cell.

       Woven of wattled boughs, and thatched with leaves,

       The sweet wild jasmine clustering to its eaves,

       It stood, with its small casement gleaming through

       Between two ancient cedars. Round it grew

       Clumps of acacias and young orange bowers,

       Pomegranate hedges, gay with scarlet flowers,

       And pale-stemmed fig-trees with their fruit yet green,

       And apple blossoms waving light between.

       All musical it seemed with humming bees;

       And bright-plumed sugar birds among the trees

       Fluttered like living blossoms.

       In the shade

       Of a grey rock, that ’midst the leafy glade

       Stood like a giant sentinel, we found

       The habitant of this fair spot of ground—

       A plain tall Scottish man, of thoughtful mien;

       Grave but not gloomy. By his side was seen

       An ancient chief of Amakósa’s race,

       With javelin armed for conflict or the chase,

       And, seated at their feet upon the sod,

       A youth was reading from the Word of God,

       Of Him who came for sinful men to die,

       Of every race and tongue beneath the sky.

       Unnoticed, towards them we softly stept.

       Our friend was rapt in prayer; the warrior wept,

       Leaning upon his hand; the youth read on.

       And then we hailed the group: the chieftain’s son,

       Training to be his country’s Christian guide—

       And Brownlee and old Ishátshu side by side.

       Thomas Pringle.

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

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      We met in the midst of the neutral ground,

       ’Mong the hills where the buffalo’s haunts are found;

       And we joined in the chase of the noble game,

       Nor asked each other of nation or name.

      The buffalo bull wheeled suddenly round,

       When first from my rifle he felt a wound;

       And, before I could gain the Umtóka’s bank,

       His horns were tearing my courser’s flank.

      That instant a ball whizzed past my ear,

       Which smote the beast in his fierce career;

       And the turf was drenched with purple gore,

       As he fell at my feet with a bellowing roar.

      The stranger came galloping up to my side,

       And greeted me with a bold huntsman’s pride:

       Full blithely we feasted beneath a tree;—

       Then out spoke the Forester, Arend Plessie.

      “Stranger, we now are true comrades sworn;

       Come pledge me thy hand while we quaff the horn.

       Thou’rt an Englishman good, and thy heart is free,

       And ’tis therefore I’ll tell my story to thee.

      “A Heemraad of Camdebóo was my sire;

       He had flocks and herds to his heart’s desire,

       And bondmen and maidens to run at his call,

       And seven stout sons to be heirs of all.

      “When we had grown up to man’s estate,

       Our father bid each of us choose a mate,

       Of Fatherland blood, from the black taint free, As became a Dutch burgher’s proud degree.

      “My brothers they rode to the Bovenland,

       And each came with a fair bride back in his hand;

       But I brought the handsomest bride of them all— Brown Dinah, the bondmaid who sat in our hall.

      “My father’s displeasure was stern and still;

       My brothers’ flamed forth like a fire on the hill;

       And they said that my spirit was mean and base,

       To lower myself to the servile race.

      “I bade them rejoice in their herds and flocks,

       And their pale-faced spouses with flaxen locks;

       While I claimed for my share, as the youngest son,

       Brown Dinah alone with my horse and gun.

      “My father looked black as a thunder-cloud,

       My brothers reviled me and railed aloud,

       And their young wives laughed with disdainful pride,

       While Dinah in terror clung close to my side.

      “Her ebon eyelashes were moistened with tears,

       As she shrank abashed from their venomous jeers:

       But I bade her look up like a burgher’s wife—

       Next day to be mine, if God granted life.

      “At dawn brother Roelof came galloping home

       From the pastures—his courser all covered with foam;

       ‘’Tis the Bushmen!’ he shouted; ‘haste friends to the spoor!

       Bold Arend come help with your long-barrelled roer.’

      “Far o’er Bruintjes-hoogtè we followed—in vain:

       At length surly Roelof cried, ‘Slacken your rein;

       We have quite lost the track’—Hans replied with a smile,

       —Then my dark-boding spirit suspected