The Poetry of South Africa. Various

He serves the Colonist for bread:

       Yet this poor heathen Bechuan

       Bears on his brow the port of man;

       A naked homeless exile he—

       But not debased by slavery.

      Now, wizard-like, slow Twilight sails

       With soundless wing adown the vales,

       Waving with his shadowy rod

       The owl and bat to come abroad,

       With things that hate the garish sun,

       To frolic now when day is done.

       Now along the meadows damp

       The enamoured firefly lights his lamp.

       Link-boy he of woodland green

       To light fair Avon’s Elfin Queen;

       Here, I ween, more wont to shine

       To light the thievish porcupine,

       Plundering my melon-bed—

       Or villain lynx, whose stealthy tread

       Rouses not the wakeful hound

       As he creeps the folds around.

      But lo! the night-bird’s boding scream

       Breaks abrupt my twilight dream;

       And warns me it is time to haste

       My homeward walk across the waste,

       Lest my rash step provoke the wrath

       Of 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.

       Table of Contents

      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 brain

       Plant 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.

       Table of Contents

      Wouldst thou view the lion’s den?

       Search afar from haunts of men—

       Where the reed-encircled rill

       Oozes from the rocky hill,

       By its verdure far descried

       ’Mid the desert brown and wide.

      Close beside the sedgy brim

       Couchant lurks the lion grim;

       Watching till the close of day

       Brings the death-devoted prey.

       Heedless at the ambushed brink

       The tall giraffe stoops down to drink.

      Upon him straight the savage springs

       With cruel joy. The desert rings

       With 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: