Isatat noontide in my tent,And looked across the desert dun,Beneath the cloudless firmamentFar gleaming in the sun,When from the bosom of the wasteA swarthy stripling came in haste,With foot unshod and naked limb;And a tame springbok followed him.With open aspect, frank yet bland,And with a modest mien he stood,Caressing with a gentle handThat beast of gentle brood;Then, meekly gazing in my face,Said in the language of his race,With smiling look yet pensive tone,“Stranger—I’m in the world alone!”“Poor boy,” I said, “thy native homeLies far beyond the Stormberg blue:Why hast thou left it, boy! to roamThis desolate Karroo?”His face grew sadder while I spoke;The smile forsook it; and he brokeShort silence with a sob-like sigh,And told his hapless history.“I have no home!” replied the boy;“The Bergenaars—by night they came,And raised their wolfish howl of joy,While o’er our huts the flameResistless rushed; and aye their yellPealed louder as our warriors fellIn helpless heaps beneath their shot:—One living man they left us not!“The slaughter o’er, they gave the slainTo feast the foul-beaked birds of prey,And with our herds across the plainThey hurried us away—The widowed mothers and their brood.Oft, in despair, for drink or foodWe vainly cried; they heeded not,But with sharp lash the captive smote.“Three days we tracked that dreary wild,Where thirst and anguish pressed us sore;And many a mother and her childLay down to rise no more.Behind us, on the desert brown,We saw the vultures swooping down;And heard, as the grim night was falling,The wolf to his gorged comrade calling.“At length was heard a river sounding’Midst that dry and dismal land,And, like a troop of wild deer bounding,We hurried to its strand—Among the maddened cattle rushing,The crowd behind still forward pushing,Till in the flood our limbs were drenchedAnd the fierce rage of thirst was quenched.“Hoarse roaring, dark, the broad GareepIn turbid streams was sweeping fast,Huge sea-cows in its eddies deepLoud snorting as we passed;But that relentless robber clanRight through those waters wild and wanDrove on like sheep our wearied band:—Some never reached the farther strand.“All shivering from the foaming flood,We stood upon the strangers’ ground,When, with proud looks and gestures rude,The white men gathered round:And there, like cattle from the fold,By Christians we were bought and sold,’Midst laughter loud and looks of scorn—And roughly from each other torn.“My mother’s scream, so long and shrill,My little sister’s wailing cry(In dreams I often hear them still!),Rose wildly to the sky.A tiger’s heart came to me then,And fiercely on those ruthless menI sprang—alas! dashed on the sandBleeding, they bound me foot and hand.“Away, away on prancing steedsThe stout man-stealers blithely go,Through long low valleys fringed with reeds,O’er mountains capped with snowEach with his captive, far and fast;Until yon rock-bound ridge we passed,And distant strips of cultured soilBespoke the land of tears and toil.“And tears and toil have been my lotSince I the white-man’s thrall became,And sorer griefs I wish forgot—Harsh blows, and scorn, and shame!Oh, Englishman! thou ne’er canst knowThe injured bondman’s bitter woe,When round his breast, like scorpions, clingBlack thoughts that madden while they sting!“Yet this hard fate I might have borne,And taught in time my soul to bend,Had my sad yearning heart forlornBut found a single friend:My race extinct or far removed,The Boer’s rough brood I could have loved;But each to whom my bosom turnedEven like a hound the black boy spurned.“While, friendless, thus, my master’s flocksI tended on the upland waste,It chanced this fawn leapt from the rocks,By wolfish wild-dogs chased:I rescued it, though wounded soreAnd dabbled in its mother’s gore;And nursed it in a cavern wild,Until it loved me like a child.“Gently I nursed it; for I thought(Its hapless fate so like to mine)By goodUtíko[2]it was broughtTo bid me not repine,—Since in this world of wrong and illOne creature lived that loved me still,Although its dark and dazzling eyeBeamed not with human sympathy.“Thus lived I, a lone orphan lad,My task the proud Boer’s flocks to tend;And this poor fawn was all I hadTo love or call my friend;When suddenly, with haughty lookAnd taunting words, that tyrant tookMy playmate for his pampered boy,Who envied me my only joy.“High swelled my heart!—But when the starOf midnight gleamed, I softly ledMy bounding favourite forth, and farInto the desert fled.And here, from human kind exiled,Three moons on roots and berries wildI’ve fared; and braved the beasts of prey,To ’scape from spoilers worse than they.“But yester morn a Bushman broughtThe tidings that thy tents were near;And now with hasty foot I’ve soughtThy presence, void of fear;Because they say, O English chief,Thou scornest not the captive’s grief:Then let me serve thee, as thine own—For I am in the world alone!”Such was Marossi’s touching tale.Our breasts they were not made of stone:His words, his winning looks prevail—We took him for “our own.”And one, with woman’s gentle art,Unlocked the fountains of his heart;And love gushed forth—till he becameHer child in everything but name.Thomas Pringle.
Isatat noontide in my tent,And looked across the desert dun,Beneath the cloudless firmamentFar gleaming in the sun,When from the bosom of the wasteA swarthy stripling came in haste,With foot unshod and naked limb;And a tame springbok followed him.With open aspect, frank yet bland,And with a modest mien he stood,Caressing with a gentle handThat beast of gentle brood;Then, meekly gazing in my face,Said in the language of his race,With smiling look yet pensive tone,“Stranger—I’m in the world alone!”“Poor boy,” I said, “thy native homeLies far beyond the Stormberg blue:Why hast thou left it, boy! to roamThis desolate Karroo?”His face grew sadder while I spoke;The smile forsook it; and he brokeShort silence with a sob-like sigh,And told his hapless history.“I have no home!” replied the boy;“The Bergenaars—by night they came,And raised their wolfish howl of joy,While o’er our huts the flameResistless rushed; and aye their yellPealed louder as our warriors fellIn helpless heaps beneath their shot:—One living man they left us not!“The slaughter o’er, they gave the slainTo feast the foul-beaked birds of prey,And with our herds across the plainThey hurried us away—The widowed mothers and their brood.Oft, in despair, for drink or foodWe vainly cried; they heeded not,But with sharp lash the captive smote.“Three days we tracked that dreary wild,Where thirst and anguish pressed us sore;And many a mother and her childLay down to rise no more.Behind us, on the desert brown,We saw the vultures swooping down;And heard, as the grim night was falling,The wolf to his gorged comrade calling.“At length was heard a river sounding’Midst that dry and dismal land,And, like a troop of wild deer bounding,We hurried to its strand—Among the maddened cattle rushing,The crowd behind still forward pushing,Till in the flood our limbs were drenchedAnd the fierce rage of thirst was quenched.“Hoarse roaring, dark, the broad GareepIn turbid streams was sweeping fast,Huge sea-cows in its eddies deepLoud snorting as we passed;But that relentless robber clanRight through those waters wild and wanDrove on like sheep our wearied band:—Some never reached the farther strand.“All shivering from the foaming flood,We stood upon the strangers’ ground,When, with proud looks and gestures rude,The white men gathered round:And there, like cattle from the fold,By Christians we were bought and sold,’Midst laughter loud and looks of scorn—And roughly from each other torn.“My mother’s scream, so long and shrill,My little sister’s wailing cry(In dreams I often hear them still!),Rose wildly to the sky.A tiger’s heart came to me then,And fiercely on those ruthless menI sprang—alas! dashed on the sandBleeding, they bound me foot and hand.“Away, away on prancing steedsThe stout man-stealers blithely go,Through long low valleys fringed with reeds,O’er mountains capped with snowEach with his captive, far and fast;Until yon rock-bound ridge we passed,And distant strips of cultured soilBespoke the land of tears and toil.“And tears and toil have been my lotSince I the white-man’s thrall became,And sorer griefs I wish forgot—Harsh blows, and scorn, and shame!Oh, Englishman! thou ne’er canst knowThe injured bondman’s bitter woe,When round his breast, like scorpions, clingBlack thoughts that madden while they sting!“Yet this hard fate I might have borne,And taught in time my soul to bend,Had my sad yearning heart forlornBut found a single friend:My race extinct or far removed,The Boer’s rough brood I could have loved;But each to whom my bosom turnedEven like a hound the black boy spurned.“While, friendless, thus, my master’s flocksI tended on the upland waste,It chanced this fawn leapt from the rocks,By wolfish wild-dogs chased:I rescued it, though wounded soreAnd dabbled in its mother’s gore;And nursed it in a cavern wild,Until it loved me like a child.“Gently I nursed it; for I thought(Its hapless fate so like to mine)By goodUtíko[2]it was broughtTo bid me not repine,—Since in this world of wrong and illOne creature lived that loved me still,Although its dark and dazzling eyeBeamed not with human sympathy.“Thus lived I, a lone orphan lad,My task the proud Boer’s flocks to tend;And this poor fawn was all I hadTo love or call my friend;When suddenly, with haughty lookAnd taunting words, that tyrant tookMy playmate for his pampered boy,Who envied me my only joy.“High swelled my heart!—But when the starOf midnight gleamed, I softly ledMy bounding favourite forth, and farInto the desert fled.And here, from human kind exiled,Three moons on roots and berries wildI’ve fared; and braved the beasts of prey,To ’scape from spoilers worse than they.“But yester morn a Bushman broughtThe tidings that thy tents were near;And now with hasty foot I’ve soughtThy presence, void of fear;Because they say, O English chief,Thou scornest not the captive’s grief:Then let me serve thee, as thine own—For I am in the world alone!”Such was Marossi’s touching tale.Our breasts they were not made of stone:His words, his winning looks prevail—We took him for “our own.”And one, with woman’s gentle art,Unlocked the fountains of his heart;And love gushed forth—till he becameHer child in everything but name.Thomas Pringle.
Isatat noontide in my tent,And looked across the desert dun,Beneath the cloudless firmamentFar gleaming in the sun,When from the bosom of the wasteA swarthy stripling came in haste,With foot unshod and naked limb;And a tame springbok followed him.
With open aspect, frank yet bland,And with a modest mien he stood,Caressing with a gentle handThat beast of gentle brood;Then, meekly gazing in my face,Said in the language of his race,With smiling look yet pensive tone,“Stranger—I’m in the world alone!”
“Poor boy,” I said, “thy native homeLies far beyond the Stormberg blue:Why hast thou left it, boy! to roamThis desolate Karroo?”His face grew sadder while I spoke;The smile forsook it; and he brokeShort silence with a sob-like sigh,And told his hapless history.
“I have no home!” replied the boy;“The Bergenaars—by night they came,And raised their wolfish howl of joy,While o’er our huts the flameResistless rushed; and aye their yellPealed louder as our warriors fellIn helpless heaps beneath their shot:—One living man they left us not!
“The slaughter o’er, they gave the slainTo feast the foul-beaked birds of prey,And with our herds across the plainThey hurried us away—The widowed mothers and their brood.Oft, in despair, for drink or foodWe vainly cried; they heeded not,But with sharp lash the captive smote.
“Three days we tracked that dreary wild,Where thirst and anguish pressed us sore;And many a mother and her childLay down to rise no more.Behind us, on the desert brown,We saw the vultures swooping down;And heard, as the grim night was falling,The wolf to his gorged comrade calling.
“At length was heard a river sounding’Midst that dry and dismal land,And, like a troop of wild deer bounding,We hurried to its strand—Among the maddened cattle rushing,The crowd behind still forward pushing,Till in the flood our limbs were drenchedAnd the fierce rage of thirst was quenched.
“Hoarse roaring, dark, the broad GareepIn turbid streams was sweeping fast,Huge sea-cows in its eddies deepLoud snorting as we passed;But that relentless robber clanRight through those waters wild and wanDrove on like sheep our wearied band:—Some never reached the farther strand.
“All shivering from the foaming flood,We stood upon the strangers’ ground,When, with proud looks and gestures rude,The white men gathered round:And there, like cattle from the fold,By Christians we were bought and sold,’Midst laughter loud and looks of scorn—And roughly from each other torn.
“My mother’s scream, so long and shrill,My little sister’s wailing cry(In dreams I often hear them still!),Rose wildly to the sky.A tiger’s heart came to me then,And fiercely on those ruthless menI sprang—alas! dashed on the sandBleeding, they bound me foot and hand.
“Away, away on prancing steedsThe stout man-stealers blithely go,Through long low valleys fringed with reeds,O’er mountains capped with snowEach with his captive, far and fast;Until yon rock-bound ridge we passed,And distant strips of cultured soilBespoke the land of tears and toil.
“And tears and toil have been my lotSince I the white-man’s thrall became,And sorer griefs I wish forgot—Harsh blows, and scorn, and shame!Oh, Englishman! thou ne’er canst knowThe injured bondman’s bitter woe,When round his breast, like scorpions, clingBlack thoughts that madden while they sting!
“Yet this hard fate I might have borne,And taught in time my soul to bend,Had my sad yearning heart forlornBut found a single friend:My race extinct or far removed,The Boer’s rough brood I could have loved;But each to whom my bosom turnedEven like a hound the black boy spurned.
“While, friendless, thus, my master’s flocksI tended on the upland waste,It chanced this fawn leapt from the rocks,By wolfish wild-dogs chased:I rescued it, though wounded soreAnd dabbled in its mother’s gore;And nursed it in a cavern wild,Until it loved me like a child.
“Gently I nursed it; for I thought(Its hapless fate so like to mine)By goodUtíko[2]it was broughtTo bid me not repine,—Since in this world of wrong and illOne creature lived that loved me still,Although its dark and dazzling eyeBeamed not with human sympathy.
“Thus lived I, a lone orphan lad,My task the proud Boer’s flocks to tend;And this poor fawn was all I hadTo love or call my friend;When suddenly, with haughty lookAnd taunting words, that tyrant tookMy playmate for his pampered boy,Who envied me my only joy.
“High swelled my heart!—But when the starOf midnight gleamed, I softly ledMy bounding favourite forth, and farInto the desert fled.And here, from human kind exiled,Three moons on roots and berries wildI’ve fared; and braved the beasts of prey,To ’scape from spoilers worse than they.
“But yester morn a Bushman broughtThe tidings that thy tents were near;And now with hasty foot I’ve soughtThy presence, void of fear;Because they say, O English chief,Thou scornest not the captive’s grief:Then let me serve thee, as thine own—For I am in the world alone!”
Such was Marossi’s touching tale.Our breasts they were not made of stone:His words, his winning looks prevail—We took him for “our own.”And one, with woman’s gentle art,Unlocked the fountains of his heart;And love gushed forth—till he becameHer child in everything but name.
Thomas Pringle.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Afarin 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 fledFlit 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 nameThrills to the heart like electric flame;The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;All the passions and scenes of that rapturous timeWhen 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 hartebeest graze,And the kùdù and eland unhunted reclineBy 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 willIn 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 Karroo, where the bleating cryOf the springbok’s fawn sounds plaintively;And the timorous quagga’s shrill whistling neighIs heard by the fountain at twilight grey;Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane,With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;And the fleet-footed ostrich over the wasteSpeeds 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 viewIn the pathless depths of the parched Karroo.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 BechuánHath 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 horizon, round and round,Spread—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 his fretful child),Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,—Saying—Man is distant, but God is near!Thomas Pringle.
Afarin 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 fledFlit 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 nameThrills to the heart like electric flame;The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;All the passions and scenes of that rapturous timeWhen 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 hartebeest graze,And the kùdù and eland unhunted reclineBy 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 willIn 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 Karroo, where the bleating cryOf the springbok’s fawn sounds plaintively;And the timorous quagga’s shrill whistling neighIs heard by the fountain at twilight grey;Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane,With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;And the fleet-footed ostrich over the wasteSpeeds 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 viewIn the pathless depths of the parched Karroo.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 BechuánHath 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 horizon, round and round,Spread—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 his fretful child),Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,—Saying—Man is distant, but God is near!Thomas Pringle.
Afarin 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 fledFlit 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 nameThrills to the heart like electric flame;The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;All the passions and scenes of that rapturous timeWhen 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 hartebeest graze,And the kùdù and eland unhunted reclineBy 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 willIn 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 Karroo, where the bleating cryOf the springbok’s fawn sounds plaintively;And the timorous quagga’s shrill whistling neighIs heard by the fountain at twilight grey;Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane,With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;And the fleet-footed ostrich over the wasteSpeeds 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 viewIn the pathless depths of the parched Karroo.
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 BechuánHath 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 horizon, round and round,Spread—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 his fretful child),Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,—Saying—Man is distant, but God is near!
Thomas Pringle.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Thesultry summer-noon is past;And mellow evening comes at last,With a low and languid breezeFanning the mimosa trees,That cluster o’er the yellow vale,And oft perfume the panting galeWith fragrance faint; it seems to tellOf primrose-tufts in Scottish dell,Peeping forth in tender springWhen the blithe lark begins to sing.But soon, amidst our Libyan vale,Such soothing recollections fail;Soon we raise the eye to rangeO’er prospects wild, grotesque, and strange:Sterile mountains, rough and steep,That bound abrupt the valley deep,Heaving to the clear blue skyTheir 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 belowThe landscape hath a warmer glow:There the spekboom spreads its bowersOf light green leaves and lilac flowers;And the aloe rears her crimson crest,Like stately queen for gala drest;And the bright-blossomed bean-tree shakesIts coral tufts above the brakes,Brilliant as the glancing plumesOf sugar birds among its blooms,With the deep green verdure bendingIn the stream of light descending.And now along the grassy meads,Where the skipping reebok feeds,Let me through the mazes roveOf the light acacia grove;Now while yet the honey-beeHums around the blossomed tree;And the turtles softly chide,Wooingly, on every side;And the clucking pheasant callsTo his mate at intervals;And the duiker at my treadSudden 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 baboonSits gibbering on the rising moon,Or chides with hoarse and angry cryThe 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 weepsDrooping o’er the headlong steeps,Where the torrent in his wrathHath rifted him a rugged path,Like fissure cleft by earthquake’s shock,Through mead and jungle, mound and rock.But the swoln water’s wasteful sway,Like tyrant’s rage, hath passed away,And left the ravage of its courseMemorial of its frantic force.—Now o’er its shrunk and slimy bedRank weeds and withered wrack are spread,With the faint rill just oozing through,And vanishing again from view;Save where the guana’s glassy poolHolds 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 floodSuspend the loxia’s callow broodIn 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 love to seeUpon the rich pomegranate tree.But lo! the sun’s descending carSinks o’er Mount Dunion’s peaks afar;And now along the dusky valeThe homeward herds and flocks I hail,Returning from their pastures dryAmid the stony uplands high.First, the brown Herder with his flockComes 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 hornèd throng.From the destroying foeman fled,—He serves the Colonist for bread:Yet this poor heathen BechuanBears on his brow the port of man;A naked homeless exile he—But not debased by slavery.Now, wizard-like, slow Twilight sailsWith soundless wing adown the vales,Waving with his shadowy rodThe owl and bat to come abroad,With things that hate the garish sun,To frolic now when day is done.Now along the meadows dampThe enamoured firefly lights his lamp.Link-boy he of woodland greenTo light fair Avon’s Elfin Queen;Here, I ween, more wont to shineTo light the thievish porcupine,Plundering my melon-bed,—Or villain lynx, whose stealthy treadRouses not the wakeful houndAs he creeps the folds around.But lo! the night-bird’s boding screamBreaks abrupt my twilight dream;And warns me it is time to hasteMy homeward walk across the waste,Lest my rash step provoke the wrathOf 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.
Thesultry summer-noon is past;And mellow evening comes at last,With a low and languid breezeFanning the mimosa trees,That cluster o’er the yellow vale,And oft perfume the panting galeWith fragrance faint; it seems to tellOf primrose-tufts in Scottish dell,Peeping forth in tender springWhen the blithe lark begins to sing.But soon, amidst our Libyan vale,Such soothing recollections fail;Soon we raise the eye to rangeO’er prospects wild, grotesque, and strange:Sterile mountains, rough and steep,That bound abrupt the valley deep,Heaving to the clear blue skyTheir 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 belowThe landscape hath a warmer glow:There the spekboom spreads its bowersOf light green leaves and lilac flowers;And the aloe rears her crimson crest,Like stately queen for gala drest;And the bright-blossomed bean-tree shakesIts coral tufts above the brakes,Brilliant as the glancing plumesOf sugar birds among its blooms,With the deep green verdure bendingIn the stream of light descending.And now along the grassy meads,Where the skipping reebok feeds,Let me through the mazes roveOf the light acacia grove;Now while yet the honey-beeHums around the blossomed tree;And the turtles softly chide,Wooingly, on every side;And the clucking pheasant callsTo his mate at intervals;And the duiker at my treadSudden 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 baboonSits gibbering on the rising moon,Or chides with hoarse and angry cryThe 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 weepsDrooping o’er the headlong steeps,Where the torrent in his wrathHath rifted him a rugged path,Like fissure cleft by earthquake’s shock,Through mead and jungle, mound and rock.But the swoln water’s wasteful sway,Like tyrant’s rage, hath passed away,And left the ravage of its courseMemorial of its frantic force.—Now o’er its shrunk and slimy bedRank weeds and withered wrack are spread,With the faint rill just oozing through,And vanishing again from view;Save where the guana’s glassy poolHolds 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 floodSuspend the loxia’s callow broodIn 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 love to seeUpon the rich pomegranate tree.But lo! the sun’s descending carSinks o’er Mount Dunion’s peaks afar;And now along the dusky valeThe homeward herds and flocks I hail,Returning from their pastures dryAmid the stony uplands high.First, the brown Herder with his flockComes 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 hornèd throng.From the destroying foeman fled,—He serves the Colonist for bread:Yet this poor heathen BechuanBears on his brow the port of man;A naked homeless exile he—But not debased by slavery.Now, wizard-like, slow Twilight sailsWith soundless wing adown the vales,Waving with his shadowy rodThe owl and bat to come abroad,With things that hate the garish sun,To frolic now when day is done.Now along the meadows dampThe enamoured firefly lights his lamp.Link-boy he of woodland greenTo light fair Avon’s Elfin Queen;Here, I ween, more wont to shineTo light the thievish porcupine,Plundering my melon-bed,—Or villain lynx, whose stealthy treadRouses not the wakeful houndAs he creeps the folds around.But lo! the night-bird’s boding screamBreaks abrupt my twilight dream;And warns me it is time to hasteMy homeward walk across the waste,Lest my rash step provoke the wrathOf 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.
Thesultry summer-noon is past;And mellow evening comes at last,With a low and languid breezeFanning the mimosa trees,That cluster o’er the yellow vale,And oft perfume the panting galeWith fragrance faint; it seems to tellOf primrose-tufts in Scottish dell,Peeping forth in tender springWhen the blithe lark begins to sing.
But soon, amidst our Libyan vale,Such soothing recollections fail;Soon we raise the eye to rangeO’er prospects wild, grotesque, and strange:Sterile mountains, rough and steep,That bound abrupt the valley deep,Heaving to the clear blue skyTheir 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 belowThe landscape hath a warmer glow:There the spekboom spreads its bowersOf light green leaves and lilac flowers;And the aloe rears her crimson crest,Like stately queen for gala drest;And the bright-blossomed bean-tree shakesIts coral tufts above the brakes,Brilliant as the glancing plumesOf sugar birds among its blooms,With the deep green verdure bendingIn the stream of light descending.
And now along the grassy meads,Where the skipping reebok feeds,Let me through the mazes roveOf the light acacia grove;Now while yet the honey-beeHums around the blossomed tree;And the turtles softly chide,Wooingly, on every side;And the clucking pheasant callsTo his mate at intervals;And the duiker at my treadSudden 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 baboonSits gibbering on the rising moon,Or chides with hoarse and angry cryThe 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 weepsDrooping o’er the headlong steeps,Where the torrent in his wrathHath rifted him a rugged path,Like fissure cleft by earthquake’s shock,Through mead and jungle, mound and rock.But the swoln water’s wasteful sway,Like tyrant’s rage, hath passed away,And left the ravage of its courseMemorial of its frantic force.—Now o’er its shrunk and slimy bedRank weeds and withered wrack are spread,With the faint rill just oozing through,And vanishing again from view;Save where the guana’s glassy poolHolds 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 floodSuspend the loxia’s callow broodIn 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 love to seeUpon the rich pomegranate tree.
But lo! the sun’s descending carSinks o’er Mount Dunion’s peaks afar;And now along the dusky valeThe homeward herds and flocks I hail,Returning from their pastures dryAmid the stony uplands high.First, the brown Herder with his flockComes 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 hornèd throng.From the destroying foeman fled,—He serves the Colonist for bread:Yet this poor heathen BechuanBears on his brow the port of man;A naked homeless exile he—But not debased by slavery.
Now, wizard-like, slow Twilight sailsWith soundless wing adown the vales,Waving with his shadowy rodThe owl and bat to come abroad,With things that hate the garish sun,To frolic now when day is done.Now along the meadows dampThe enamoured firefly lights his lamp.Link-boy he of woodland greenTo light fair Avon’s Elfin Queen;Here, I ween, more wont to shineTo light the thievish porcupine,Plundering my melon-bed,—Or villain lynx, whose stealthy treadRouses not the wakeful houndAs he creeps the folds around.
But lo! the night-bird’s boding screamBreaks abrupt my twilight dream;And warns me it is time to hasteMy homeward walk across the waste,Lest my rash step provoke the wrathOf 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.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
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 brainPlant 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.
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 brainPlant 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.
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 brainPlant 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.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Wouldstthou view the lion’s den?Search afar from haunts of men—Where the reed-encircled rillOozes from the rocky hill,By its verdure far descried’Mid the desert brown and wide.Close beside the sedgy brimCouchant lurks the lion grim;Watching till the close of dayBrings the death-devoted prey.Heedless at the ambushed brinkThe tall giraffe stoops down to drink.Upon him straight the savage springsWith cruel joy. The desert ringsWith 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:In vain!—the spoiler on his prizeRides proudly—tearing as he flies.For life—the victim’s utmost speedIs mustered in this hour of need:For life—for life—his giant mightHe 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 drinkingHis 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 goreIs 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.
Wouldstthou view the lion’s den?Search afar from haunts of men—Where the reed-encircled rillOozes from the rocky hill,By its verdure far descried’Mid the desert brown and wide.Close beside the sedgy brimCouchant lurks the lion grim;Watching till the close of dayBrings the death-devoted prey.Heedless at the ambushed brinkThe tall giraffe stoops down to drink.Upon him straight the savage springsWith cruel joy. The desert ringsWith 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:In vain!—the spoiler on his prizeRides proudly—tearing as he flies.For life—the victim’s utmost speedIs mustered in this hour of need:For life—for life—his giant mightHe 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 drinkingHis 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 goreIs 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.
Wouldstthou view the lion’s den?Search afar from haunts of men—Where the reed-encircled rillOozes from the rocky hill,By its verdure far descried’Mid the desert brown and wide.
Close beside the sedgy brimCouchant lurks the lion grim;Watching till the close of dayBrings the death-devoted prey.Heedless at the ambushed brinkThe tall giraffe stoops down to drink.
Upon him straight the savage springsWith cruel joy. The desert ringsWith 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:In vain!—the spoiler on his prizeRides proudly—tearing as he flies.
For life—the victim’s utmost speedIs mustered in this hour of need:For life—for life—his giant mightHe 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 drinkingHis 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 goreIs 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.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Farup 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[3]tries to meet with him,Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim.Round this secluded region circling riseAre billowy wastes of mountains, wild and wide;Upon whose grassy slopes the pilgrim spiesThe 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 thenBeside the willows, backward gazing, stand.And where old forests darken all the landFrom 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 hearThe elephant his shrillréveillépealing,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 sceneWhich ’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 nestFrom 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 mockThe pilgrim, pausing in his pensive moodTo ask—“Why is it thus? ShallEvilbaffleGood?”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 againThe 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 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.
Farup 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[3]tries to meet with him,Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim.Round this secluded region circling riseAre billowy wastes of mountains, wild and wide;Upon whose grassy slopes the pilgrim spiesThe 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 thenBeside the willows, backward gazing, stand.And where old forests darken all the landFrom 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 hearThe elephant his shrillréveillépealing,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 sceneWhich ’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 nestFrom 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 mockThe pilgrim, pausing in his pensive moodTo ask—“Why is it thus? ShallEvilbaffleGood?”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 againThe 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 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.
Farup 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[3]tries to meet with him,Like a blue serpent gliding through the acacias dim.
Round this secluded region circling riseAre billowy wastes of mountains, wild and wide;Upon whose grassy slopes the pilgrim spiesThe 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 thenBeside the willows, backward gazing, stand.And where old forests darken all the landFrom 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 hearThe elephant his shrillréveillépealing,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 sceneWhich ’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 nestFrom 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 mockThe pilgrim, pausing in his pensive moodTo ask—“Why is it thus? ShallEvilbaffleGood?”
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 againThe 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 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.
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Fastby his wild resounding riverThe 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 gearAll 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 awayIn languid trance the weary day;Oft as he feels gaunt hunger’s stound,[5]Still tightening famine’s girdle round;Lulled by the sound of the Gareep,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.
Fastby his wild resounding riverThe 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 gearAll 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 awayIn languid trance the weary day;Oft as he feels gaunt hunger’s stound,[5]Still tightening famine’s girdle round;Lulled by the sound of the Gareep,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.
Fastby his wild resounding riverThe 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 gearAll 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 awayIn languid trance the weary day;Oft as he feels gaunt hunger’s stound,[5]Still tightening famine’s girdle round;Lulled by the sound of the Gareep,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.
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Letthe 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;[6]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 commandHis 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.[7]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 RocksHis den doth yet retain;And none who there his stings provokesShall find his poison vain!Thomas Pringle.
Letthe 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;[6]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 commandHis 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.[7]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 RocksHis den doth yet retain;And none who there his stings provokesShall find his poison vain!Thomas Pringle.
Letthe 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;[6]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 commandHis 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.[7]
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 RocksHis den doth yet retain;And none who there his stings provokesShall find his poison vain!
Thomas Pringle.
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