A Treasury of South African Poetry and Verse/Thomas Pringle
THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL.
"Our native land—our native vale—
A long and last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,
And Scotland's mountains blue!
"Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renowned in song;
Farewell, ye blithesome braes and meads
Our hearts have loved so long.
"Farewell, ye broomy elfin knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow!
Farewell, ye hoary haunted howes,
O'erhung with birk and sloe.
"The battle-mound, the Border-tower,
That Scotia's annals tell;
The martyr's grave, the lover's bower—
To each—to all—farewell!
"Home of our hearts! our father's home!
Land of the brave and free!
The sail is flapping on the foam
That bears us far from thee!
"We seek a wild and distant shore,
Beyond the Atlantic main;
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again.
"But may dishonour blight our fame,
And quench our household fires,
When we, or ours, forget thy name,
Green Island of our Sires.
"Our native land—our native vale—
A long, a last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,
And Scotland's mountains blue!"
Thomas Pringle.
AFAR IN THE DESERT.
Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years;
And shadows of things that have long since fled,
Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead:
Bright visions of glory—that vanished too soon;
Day-dreams—that departed ere manhood's noon;
Attachments—by fate or by falsehood reft;
Companions of early days—lost or left;
And my native land—whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time,
When the feelings were young and the world was new,
Like the fresh flowers of Eden unfolding to view;
All—all now forsaken—forgotten—foregone!
And I, a lone exile remembered by none,
My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone,
Aweary of all that is under the sun,
With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan,
I fly to the desert, afar from man.
Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side;
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife,
The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear,
The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear,
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly,
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,
And my soul is sick with the bondsman's sigh—
Oh! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride,
Afar in the desert alone to ride!
There is rapture to vault on the champing steed,
And to bound away with the eagle's speed,
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand—
The only law in the desert land.
Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side;
Away, away from the dwellings of men,
By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen;
By valleys remote where the oribi plays,
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeeste graze;
And the kudu and eland unhunted recline
By the skirts of grey forests o'erhung with wild vine;
Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood,
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood;
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will,
In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill.
Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side;
O'er the brown Karoo, where the bleating cry
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively;
And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh
Is heard by the fountain by twilight grey;
Where the zebra, wantonly tosses his mane,
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste,
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste,
Hieing away to the home of her rest,
Where she and her mate have scooped their nest,
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view
In the pathless depths of the parched Karoo.
Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side;
Away, away, in the wilderness vast,
Where the white man's foot hath never passed;
And the quivered Coránna or Bechuán
Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan;
A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear;
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone;
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot;
And the bitter-melon, for food and drink,
Is the pilgrim's fare, by the salt lake's brink;
A region of drought, where no river glides,
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides;
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,
Appears to refresh the aching eye;
But the barren earth and the burning sky,
And the blank horizion, round and round,
Spreads, void of living sight and sound.
And here, while the night-winds round me sigh,
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,
As I sit apart by the desert stone,
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone,
"A still small voice" comes through the wild
(Like a father consoling a fretful child),
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear—
Saying, "Man is distant, but God is near!"
Thomas Pringle.
THE CAFFER.
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 CORÁNNA.[1]
Fast by his wild resounding river
The listless Coran lingers ever;
Still drives his heifers forth to feed,
Soothed by the Gorrah's humming reed;
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,
He never tills the stubborn soil;
But on the milky dams relies,
And what spontaneous earth supplies.
Should some long parching droughts prevail,
And milk, and bulbs, and locusts fail,
He lays him down to sleep away,
In languid trance the weary day;
Oft as he feels gaunt hunger's stound,
Still tightening famine's girdle round;
Lulled by the sound of the Gareep,[2]
Beneath the willows murmuring deep;
Till thunder-clouds surcharged with rain,
Pour verdure o'er the panting plain;
And call the famished dreamer from his trance,
To feast on milk and game, and wake the moonlight dance.
Thomas Pringle.
THE BUSHMAN.
Let the proud white man boast his flocks,
And fields of foodful grain;
My home is 'mid the mountain rocks,
The desert my domain.
I plant no herbs nor pleasant fruits,
I toil not for my cheer;
The desert yields me juicy roots,
And herds of bounding deer.
The countless springboks are my flock,
Spread o'er the unbounded plain;
The buffalo bendeth to my yoke,
The wild horse to my rein;
My yoke is the quivering assegai,
My rein the tough bow string;
My bridle curb a slender barb—
Yet it quells the forest king.
The crested adder honoureth me,
And yields at my command
His poison-bag, like the honey-bee,
When I seize him on the sand.
Yea, even the wasting locust-swarm,
Which mighty nations dread,
To me nor terror brings, nor harm—
For I make of them my bread.
Thus I am Lord of the desert Land,
And I will not leave my bounds,
To crouch beneath the Christian's hand,
And kennel with his hounds:
To be a hound and watch the flocks,
For the cruel white man's gain—
No! the brown serpent of the rocks
His den doth yet retain;
And none who there his stings provoke
Shall find his poison vain.
Thomas Pringle.
THE INCANTATION.
Half-way up Indoda[3] climbing,
Hangs the wizard forest old,
From whose shade is heard the chiming
Of a streamlet clear and cold:
With a mournful sound it gushes
From its cavern in the steep;
Then at once its wailing hushes
In a lakelet dark and deep.
Standing by the dark-blue water,
Robed in panther's speckled hide,
Who is she? Jaluhsa's daughter,
Bold Makanna's widowed bride.
Stern she stands, her left hand clasping
By the arm her wondering child;
He, her shaggy mantle grasping,
Gazes up with aspect wild.
Thrice in the soft fount of nursing
With sharp steel she pierced a vein,—
Thrice the white oppressor cursing,
While the blood gushed forth amain,—
Wide upon the dark-blue water,
Sprinkling thrice the crimson tide,—
Spoke Jaluhsa's high-souled daughter,
Bold Makanna's widowed bride.
"Thus unto the Demon's River
Blood instead of milk I fling:
Hear, Uhlanga—great Life-giver!
Hear, Toguh—Avenging King!
Thus the mother's feelings tender
In my breast I stifle now:
Thus I summon you to render
Vengeance for the Widow's vow!
"Who shall be the Chief's avenger?
Who the Champion of the Land?
Boy! the pale Son of the Stranger
Is devoted to thy hand.
He who wields the bolt of thunder
Witnesses thy Mother's vow!
He who rends the rocks asunder
To the task shall train thee now!
"When thy arm grows strong for battle,
Thou shalt sound Makanna's cry,
Till ten thousand shields shall rattle
To war-club and assegai:
Then, when like hail-storm in harvest
On the foe sweeps thy career,
Shall Uhlanga, whom thou servest,
Make them stubble to thy spear!"
Thomas Pringle.
MAKANNA'S GATHERING.
Wake! Amakosa,[4] wake!
And arm yourselves for war,
As coming—winds the forest shake,
I hear a sound from far:
It is not thunder in the sky,
Nor lion's roar upon the hill,
But the voice of Him who sits on high,
And bids me speak His will!
He bids me call you forth,
Bold sons of Kahabee,
To sweep the white men from the earth,
And drive them to the sea:
The sea which heaved them up at first,
For Amakosa's curse and bane,
Howls for the progeny she nurst,
To swallow them again.
Hark! 'tis Uhlanga's voice
From Debe's mountain caves!
He calls you now to make your choice—
To conquer or be slaves:
To meet proud Amanglezi's guns,
And fight like warriors nobly born:
Or, like Umlao's feeble sons,[5]
Become the freeman's scorn.
Then come ye chieftains bold,
With war plumes waving high;
Come, every warrior, young and old,
With club and assegai.
Remember how the spoiler's host
Did through our land like locusts range!
Your herds, your wives, your comrades lost—
Remember—and revenge!
Fling your broad shields away—
Bootless against such foes;
But hand to hand we'll fight to-day,
And with their bayonets close.
Grasp each man short his stabbing spear—
And, when to battle's edge we come,
Rush on their ranks in full career,
And to their hearts strike home!
Wake! Amakosa, wake!
And muster for the war:
The wizard-wolves from Keisi's brake,
The vultures from afar,
Are gathering at Uhlanga's call,
And follow fast our westward way—
For well they know, ere evening-fall,
They shall have glorious prey!
Thomas Pringle.
EVENING RAMBLES.
The sultry summer-noon is past;
And mellow evening comes at last,
With a low and languid breeze
Fanning the mimosa trees,
That cluster o'er the yellow vale,
And oft perfume the panting gale
With fragrance faint: it seems to tell
Of primrose tufts in Scottish dell,
Peeping forth in tender spring
When the blithe lark begins to sing.
But soon, amidst our Libyan vale,
Such soothing recollections fail;
Soon we raise the eye to range
O'er prospects wild, grotesque, and strange:
Sterile mountains, rough and steep,
That bound abrupt the valley deep,
Heaving to the clear blue sky
Their ribs of granite, bare and dry,
And ridges by the torrents worn,
Thinly streaked with scraggy thorn,
Which fringes nature's savage dress,
Yet scarce relieves her nakedness.
But where the vale winds deep below
The landscape hath a warmer glow:
There the spekboom spreads its bowers
Of light green leaves and lilac flowers;
And the aloe roars her crimson crest,
Like stately queen for gala drest;
And the bright-blossomed Bean-tree shakes
Its coral tufts above the brakes,
Brilliant as the glancing plumes,
Of sugar birds among its blooms,
With the deep green verdure bending
In the stream of light descending.
And now along the grassy meads,
Where the skipping reebok feeds,
Let me through the mazes rove
Of the light acacia grove;
Now while yet the honey-bee
Hums around the blossomed tree;
And the turtles softly chide,
Wooingly, on every side;
And the clucking pheasant calls
To his mate at intervals;
And the duiker at my tread
Suddenly lifts his startled head,
Then dives affrighted in the brake,
Like wild duck in the reedy lake.
My wonted seat receives me now—
This cliff with myrtle-tufted brow,
Towering high o'er grove and stream,
As if to greet the parting gleam.
With shattered rocks besprinkled o'er,
Behind ascends the mountain hoar,
Whose crest o'erhangs the Bushman's cave
(His fortress once and now his grave),
Where the grim satyr-faced baboon
Sits gibbering on the rising moon,
Or chides with hoarse and angry cry
The herdsman as he wanders by.
Spread out below in sun and shade,
The shaggy glen lies full displayed—
Its sheltered nooks, its sylvan bowers,
Its meadows flushed with purple flowers;
And through it like a dragon spread,
I trace the river's tortuous bed.
Lo! there the Chaldee-willow weeps
Drooping o'er the headlong steeps,
Where the torrent in his wrath
Hath rifted him a rugged path,
Like fissure cleft by earthquake's shock,
Through mead and jungle, mound and rock.
But the swollen water's wasteful sway,
Like tyrant's rage hath passed away,
And left the ravage of its course
Memorial of its frantic force.—
Now o'er its shrunk and slimy bed
Rank weeds and withered wrack are spread,
With the faint rill just oozing through,
And vanishing again from view;
Save where the guana's glassy pool
Holds to some cliff its mirror cool,
Girt by the palmite's leafy screen,
Or graceful rock-ash, tall and green,
Whose slender sprays above the flood
Suspend the loxia's callow brood
In cradle-nests, with porch below,
Secure from winged or creeping foe—
Weasel or hawk or writhing snake;
Light swinging, as the breezes wake,
Like the ripe fruit we like to see
Upon the rich pomegranate tree.
But lo! the sun's descending car
Sinks o'er Mount Dunion's peaks afar;
And now along the dusky vale
The homeward herds and flocks I hail,
Returning from their pastures dry
Amid the stony uplands high.
First, the brown Herder with his flock
Comes winding round my hermit-rock:
His mien and gait and gesture tell,
No shepherd he from Scottish fell;
For crook the guardian gun he bears,
For plaid the sheepskin mantle wears;
Sauntering languidly along;
Nor flute has he, nor merry song,
Nor book, nor tale, nor rustic lay,
To cheer him through his listless day.
His look is dull, his soul is dark;
He feels not Hope's electric spark;
But, born the white man's servile thrall,
Knows that he cannot lower fall.
Next the stout Neat-herd passes by,
With bolder step and blither eye;
Humming low his tuneless song,
Or whistling to the horned throng.
From the destroying foeman fled,—
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 the 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.