PRINGLE
Far up among the forest-belted mountains,Where Winterberg, stern giant old and grey,Looks down the subject dells, whose gleaming fountainsTo wizard Kat their virgin tribute pay,A valley opens to the noontide ray,With green savannahs shelving to the brimOf the swift river, sweeping on its wayTo where Umtóka tries to meet with him,Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim.There, couched at night in hunter’s wattled shieling,How wildly-beautiful it was to hearThe elephant his shrillreveillépealing,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!Look round that vale! behold the unburied bonesOf 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.
Far up among the forest-belted mountains,Where Winterberg, stern giant old and grey,Looks down the subject dells, whose gleaming fountainsTo wizard Kat their virgin tribute pay,A valley opens to the noontide ray,With green savannahs shelving to the brimOf the swift river, sweeping on its wayTo where Umtóka tries to meet with him,Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim.There, couched at night in hunter’s wattled shieling,How wildly-beautiful it was to hearThe elephant his shrillreveillépealing,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!Look round that vale! behold the unburied bonesOf 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.
Far up among the forest-belted mountains,Where Winterberg, stern giant old and grey,Looks down the subject dells, whose gleaming fountainsTo wizard Kat their virgin tribute pay,A valley opens to the noontide ray,With green savannahs shelving to the brimOf the swift river, sweeping on its wayTo where Umtóka tries to meet with him,Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim.
There, couched at night in hunter’s wattled shieling,How wildly-beautiful it was to hearThe elephant his shrillreveillépealing,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!
Look round that vale! behold the unburied bonesOf 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.