The Poetry of South Africa. Various

Rides proudly—tearing as he flies.

      For life—the victim’s utmost speed

       Is mustered in this hour of need:

       For life—for life—his giant might

       He strains, and pours his soul in flight:

       And mad with terror, thirst and pain,

       Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain.

      ’Tis vain; the thirsty sands are drinking

       His streaming blood—his strength is sinking;

       The victor’s fangs are in his veins—

       His flanks are streaked with sanguine stains—

       His panting breast in foam and gore

       Is bathed—he reels—his race is o’er:

       He falls—and, with convulsive throe,

       Resigns his throat to the ravening foe!

       —And lo! ere quivering life has fled,

       The vultures, wheeling overhead,

       Swoop down, to watch, in gaunt array,

       Till the gorged tyrant quits his prey.

       Thomas Pringle.

THE DESOLATE VALLEY.

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      Far up among the forest-belted mountains,

       Where Winterberg, stern giant old and grey,

       Looks down the subject dells, whose gleaming fountains

       To wizard Kat their virgin tribute pay,

       A valley opens to the noontide ray,

       With green savannahs shelving to the brim

       Of the swift river, sweeping on its way

       To where Umtóka[3] tries to meet with him, Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim.

      Round this secluded region circling rise

       Are billowy wastes of mountains, wild and wide;

       Upon whose grassy slopes the pilgrim spies

       The gnu and quagga, by the greenwood side,

       Tossing their shaggy manes in tameless pride;

       Or troop of elands near some sedgy fount;

       Or Kùdù fawns, that from the thicket glide.

       To seek their dam upon the misty mount,

       With harts, gazelles, and roes, more than the eye can count.

      And as we journeyed up the pathless glen,

       Flanked by romantic hills on either hand,

       The boschbok oft would bound away—and then

       Beside the willows, backward gazing, stand.

       And where old forests darken all the land

       From rocky Kalberg to the river’s brink,

       The buffalo would start upon the strand,

       Where, ’mid palmetto flags, he stooped to drink,

       And, crashing through the brakes, to the deep jungle shrink.

      Then, couched at night in hunter’s wattled sheiling,

       How wildly beautiful it was to hear

       The elephant his shrill réveillé pealing, Like some far signal-trumpet on the ear! While the broad midnight moon was shining clear, How fearful to look forth upon the woods, And see those stately forest-kings appear, Emerging from their shadowy solitudes— As if that trump had woke Earth’s old gigantic broods!

      Such the majestic, melancholy scene

       Which ’midst that mountain-wilderness we found;

       With scarce a trace to tell where man had been,

       Save the old Caffer cabins crumbling round.

       Yet this lone glen (Sicāna’s ancient ground)

       To nature’s savage tribes abandoned long,

       Had heard, erewhile, the Gospel’s joyful sound,

       And low of herds mixed with the Sabbath song.

       But all is silent now. The oppressor’s hand was strong.

      Now the blithe loxia hangs her pensile nest

       From the wild-olive, bending o’er the rock,

       Beneath whose shadow, in grave mantle drest,

       The Christian pastor taught his swarthy flock.

       A roofless ruin, scathed by flame and smoke,

       Tells where a decent mission-chapel stood;

       While the baboon with jabbering cry doth mock

       The pilgrim, pausing in his pensive mood

       To ask—“Why is it thus? Shall Evil baffle Good?”

      Yes—for a season Satan may prevail,

       And hold, as if secure, his dark domain;

       The prayers of righteous men may seem to fail,

       And Heaven’s glad tidings be proclaimed in vain.

       But wait in faith: ere long shall spring again

       The seed that seemed to perish in the ground;

       And fertilised by Zion’s latter rain,

       The long-parched land shall laugh, with harvests crowned,

       And through those silent wastes Jehovah’s praise resound.

      Look round that vale: behold the unburied bones

       Of Ghona’s children withering in the blast:

       The sobbing wind, that through the forest moans,

       Whispers—“The spirit hath for ever passed!”

       Thus, in the vale of desolation vast,

       In moral death dark Afric’s myriads lie;

       But the appointed day shall dawn at last,

       When breathed on by a spirit from on high,

       The dry bones shall awake, and shout—“Our God is nigh!”

       Thomas Pringle.

THE CORANNA.

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      Fast by his wild resounding river

       The listless Córan lingers ever;

       Still drives his heifers forth to feed,

       Soothed by the gorrah’s humming reed;[4]

       A rover still unchecked will range,

       As humour calls, or seasons change;

       His tent of mats and leathern gear

       All packed upon the patient steer.

       ’Mid all his wanderings hating toil,