Noivory—no golden ceilingAdorns my modest home;No marble pillars, wealth revealingProudly support the dome.No regal fortune, princely dwelling,Hath fate vouchsafed to me,I am not clad, in state excelling,In robe of sovereignty:A vein of wit, by nature’s blessing,And honest heart are mine.Yet me to honour, nought possessingThe wealthiest incline;Why should I then the gods importuneTo add unto my store,Contented with my humble fortuneI could not wish for more.Day hastes to follow day, and trulyNew moons but come to die,The tomb awaits thy ashes dulyMid all thy pageantry.Yet mindless of the fatal hourOn high thou build’st the hall,Insatiate with thy wealth and powerThou fain would’st seize on all;Thy neighbour’s farm, thy neighbour’s dwelling,All would’st thou have for thee,’Gainst justice and ’gainst law rebellingWith base cupidity;While from their home unjustly drivenThe husband and the wife(The babes exposed to winds of heaven)Must linger out their life:But one sure homestead there remainethThan all on earth more sure,The dark abode where Orcus reignethAlike o’er rich and poor,Just earth entombeth ev’n the poorestWith sons of royalty,And Charon thou in vain allurestFor gold to set it free:Great kings renowned in ancient storyHe holdeth in his might,Far famed of old for warlike gloryNow doomed to endless night:Invoked in pity he hath risen,And uninvoked,—to freeThe hapless poor from their earth-prisonAnd grant them liberty.E. B. Watermeyer.
Noivory—no golden ceilingAdorns my modest home;No marble pillars, wealth revealingProudly support the dome.No regal fortune, princely dwelling,Hath fate vouchsafed to me,I am not clad, in state excelling,In robe of sovereignty:A vein of wit, by nature’s blessing,And honest heart are mine.Yet me to honour, nought possessingThe wealthiest incline;Why should I then the gods importuneTo add unto my store,Contented with my humble fortuneI could not wish for more.Day hastes to follow day, and trulyNew moons but come to die,The tomb awaits thy ashes dulyMid all thy pageantry.Yet mindless of the fatal hourOn high thou build’st the hall,Insatiate with thy wealth and powerThou fain would’st seize on all;Thy neighbour’s farm, thy neighbour’s dwelling,All would’st thou have for thee,’Gainst justice and ’gainst law rebellingWith base cupidity;While from their home unjustly drivenThe husband and the wife(The babes exposed to winds of heaven)Must linger out their life:But one sure homestead there remainethThan all on earth more sure,The dark abode where Orcus reignethAlike o’er rich and poor,Just earth entombeth ev’n the poorestWith sons of royalty,And Charon thou in vain allurestFor gold to set it free:Great kings renowned in ancient storyHe holdeth in his might,Far famed of old for warlike gloryNow doomed to endless night:Invoked in pity he hath risen,And uninvoked,—to freeThe hapless poor from their earth-prisonAnd grant them liberty.E. B. Watermeyer.
Noivory—no golden ceilingAdorns my modest home;No marble pillars, wealth revealingProudly support the dome.No regal fortune, princely dwelling,Hath fate vouchsafed to me,I am not clad, in state excelling,In robe of sovereignty:A vein of wit, by nature’s blessing,And honest heart are mine.Yet me to honour, nought possessingThe wealthiest incline;Why should I then the gods importuneTo add unto my store,Contented with my humble fortuneI could not wish for more.Day hastes to follow day, and trulyNew moons but come to die,The tomb awaits thy ashes dulyMid all thy pageantry.Yet mindless of the fatal hourOn high thou build’st the hall,Insatiate with thy wealth and powerThou fain would’st seize on all;Thy neighbour’s farm, thy neighbour’s dwelling,All would’st thou have for thee,’Gainst justice and ’gainst law rebellingWith base cupidity;While from their home unjustly drivenThe husband and the wife(The babes exposed to winds of heaven)Must linger out their life:But one sure homestead there remainethThan all on earth more sure,The dark abode where Orcus reignethAlike o’er rich and poor,Just earth entombeth ev’n the poorestWith sons of royalty,And Charon thou in vain allurestFor gold to set it free:Great kings renowned in ancient storyHe holdeth in his might,Far famed of old for warlike gloryNow doomed to endless night:Invoked in pity he hath risen,And uninvoked,—to freeThe hapless poor from their earth-prisonAnd grant them liberty.
E. B. Watermeyer.
Morninghas come upon us,—from the dayHas rolled each darkling cloud, the orient viewUnveils with gorgeous sun, and deep clear blue.But ocean riots still;—in ponderous playThousands of heavy surges plunge away,Dazzling with snow-white foam, or swiftly woosIris to paint all brightly tinted hues.Strangely fair magic, mid their shivered spray,Around us many a little whale-bird skims,Dipping its tiny bosom in the deep,Then instantly uprises blithe and high,Even as the heart unthralled by earthly thingsWill walk this troubled earth yet ever keepIts dearest home up in the azure sky.E. B. Watermeyer.
Morninghas come upon us,—from the dayHas rolled each darkling cloud, the orient viewUnveils with gorgeous sun, and deep clear blue.But ocean riots still;—in ponderous playThousands of heavy surges plunge away,Dazzling with snow-white foam, or swiftly woosIris to paint all brightly tinted hues.Strangely fair magic, mid their shivered spray,Around us many a little whale-bird skims,Dipping its tiny bosom in the deep,Then instantly uprises blithe and high,Even as the heart unthralled by earthly thingsWill walk this troubled earth yet ever keepIts dearest home up in the azure sky.E. B. Watermeyer.
Morninghas come upon us,—from the dayHas rolled each darkling cloud, the orient viewUnveils with gorgeous sun, and deep clear blue.But ocean riots still;—in ponderous playThousands of heavy surges plunge away,Dazzling with snow-white foam, or swiftly woosIris to paint all brightly tinted hues.Strangely fair magic, mid their shivered spray,Around us many a little whale-bird skims,Dipping its tiny bosom in the deep,Then instantly uprises blithe and high,Even as the heart unthralled by earthly thingsWill walk this troubled earth yet ever keepIts dearest home up in the azure sky.
E. B. Watermeyer.
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Ona huge rock of granite stone,A dark-skinned maiden stands alone,Her eyes with vengeance gleam.’Twas in a wild and savage glen,Far from the busy haunts of men,Where ’Nosop rolls its stream.And who is she? What does she there?Alone beside by the lion’s lair!Has she no woman’s fear?She had—but all that fear is gone,She stands upon that very stone,Because she knows he’s near.“Dark-skinned maiden, come away,Tempt not thus the beast of prey,Haste, haste, your life to save.”“No, no,” the dark-skinned maiden cried,“He tore my Ammap from my side,And vengeance I will have!”A white man stood behind a tree,A double-barrelled gun had he,And steady was his aim;She knew not that his help was nigh,But lightly poised the assegai,When forth the lion came.He sees her! With a single boundHe strove to reach the vantage ground,But ere the rock he gained,The dark-skinned maiden’s aim was true,Downwards the fearful weapon flew,And in his side remained!He fell, and writhing in his pain,Madly he strove, but strove in vain,To rise upon his feet.“Ah, ah,” the dark-skinned maiden cried,“This day I was to be his bride,He tore my Ammap from my side,Ah, ah, revenge is sweet.”Beneath that rock of granite stone,On which the white man stands alone,The lion writhes in pain.The dark-skinned maid is at his sideShe drew a dirk, her Ammap’s pride,He never rose again.Some months had rolled away, and then,Within that very lion’s den,Were found the bones of Griet;And to this day, who ventures nighThat granite rock, will hear the cry,“Ah, ah, revenge is sweet!”But visitors are very rare,The native seldom ventures there,He rather turns aside.And why? Because he fears to meetThe wandering ghost of faithful GrietWith Ammap at her side.S. A. M.
Ona huge rock of granite stone,A dark-skinned maiden stands alone,Her eyes with vengeance gleam.’Twas in a wild and savage glen,Far from the busy haunts of men,Where ’Nosop rolls its stream.And who is she? What does she there?Alone beside by the lion’s lair!Has she no woman’s fear?She had—but all that fear is gone,She stands upon that very stone,Because she knows he’s near.“Dark-skinned maiden, come away,Tempt not thus the beast of prey,Haste, haste, your life to save.”“No, no,” the dark-skinned maiden cried,“He tore my Ammap from my side,And vengeance I will have!”A white man stood behind a tree,A double-barrelled gun had he,And steady was his aim;She knew not that his help was nigh,But lightly poised the assegai,When forth the lion came.He sees her! With a single boundHe strove to reach the vantage ground,But ere the rock he gained,The dark-skinned maiden’s aim was true,Downwards the fearful weapon flew,And in his side remained!He fell, and writhing in his pain,Madly he strove, but strove in vain,To rise upon his feet.“Ah, ah,” the dark-skinned maiden cried,“This day I was to be his bride,He tore my Ammap from my side,Ah, ah, revenge is sweet.”Beneath that rock of granite stone,On which the white man stands alone,The lion writhes in pain.The dark-skinned maid is at his sideShe drew a dirk, her Ammap’s pride,He never rose again.Some months had rolled away, and then,Within that very lion’s den,Were found the bones of Griet;And to this day, who ventures nighThat granite rock, will hear the cry,“Ah, ah, revenge is sweet!”But visitors are very rare,The native seldom ventures there,He rather turns aside.And why? Because he fears to meetThe wandering ghost of faithful GrietWith Ammap at her side.S. A. M.
Ona huge rock of granite stone,A dark-skinned maiden stands alone,Her eyes with vengeance gleam.’Twas in a wild and savage glen,Far from the busy haunts of men,Where ’Nosop rolls its stream.
And who is she? What does she there?Alone beside by the lion’s lair!Has she no woman’s fear?She had—but all that fear is gone,She stands upon that very stone,Because she knows he’s near.
“Dark-skinned maiden, come away,Tempt not thus the beast of prey,Haste, haste, your life to save.”“No, no,” the dark-skinned maiden cried,“He tore my Ammap from my side,And vengeance I will have!”
A white man stood behind a tree,A double-barrelled gun had he,And steady was his aim;She knew not that his help was nigh,But lightly poised the assegai,When forth the lion came.
He sees her! With a single boundHe strove to reach the vantage ground,But ere the rock he gained,The dark-skinned maiden’s aim was true,Downwards the fearful weapon flew,And in his side remained!
He fell, and writhing in his pain,Madly he strove, but strove in vain,To rise upon his feet.“Ah, ah,” the dark-skinned maiden cried,“This day I was to be his bride,He tore my Ammap from my side,Ah, ah, revenge is sweet.”
Beneath that rock of granite stone,On which the white man stands alone,The lion writhes in pain.The dark-skinned maid is at his sideShe drew a dirk, her Ammap’s pride,He never rose again.
Some months had rolled away, and then,Within that very lion’s den,Were found the bones of Griet;And to this day, who ventures nighThat granite rock, will hear the cry,“Ah, ah, revenge is sweet!”
But visitors are very rare,The native seldom ventures there,He rather turns aside.And why? Because he fears to meetThe wandering ghost of faithful GrietWith Ammap at her side.
S. A. M.
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Oft, when my feet at evening homeward treadThe stately cloisters of the oaks along,My fervent soul breaks into grateful song,And I a glad, rapt worshipper am led.God, what a glorious prospect is outspread!Impersoned nature here hath built her shrine:On yon great altar sacrifice divineShe offers to her Maker. On the headOf the majestic peak upon the west,Her favoured seat, at eve oft sitteth she,Soothing the busy city into rest,Whilst the sun setting lights the golden sea.Here, in thy fane, bright Presence, I divestMy heart of lower thoughts, and bow to heaven and thee.
Oft, when my feet at evening homeward treadThe stately cloisters of the oaks along,My fervent soul breaks into grateful song,And I a glad, rapt worshipper am led.God, what a glorious prospect is outspread!Impersoned nature here hath built her shrine:On yon great altar sacrifice divineShe offers to her Maker. On the headOf the majestic peak upon the west,Her favoured seat, at eve oft sitteth she,Soothing the busy city into rest,Whilst the sun setting lights the golden sea.Here, in thy fane, bright Presence, I divestMy heart of lower thoughts, and bow to heaven and thee.
Oft, when my feet at evening homeward treadThe stately cloisters of the oaks along,My fervent soul breaks into grateful song,And I a glad, rapt worshipper am led.God, what a glorious prospect is outspread!Impersoned nature here hath built her shrine:On yon great altar sacrifice divineShe offers to her Maker. On the headOf the majestic peak upon the west,Her favoured seat, at eve oft sitteth she,Soothing the busy city into rest,Whilst the sun setting lights the golden sea.Here, in thy fane, bright Presence, I divestMy heart of lower thoughts, and bow to heaven and thee.
Dostthou not love, O angel of the night,Above all others this fair southern land?For thou hast gemmed its skies with lavish hand,With rarest stars and constellations bright.Shines not its vestal moon with purer light?Hath not its galaxy more lustrous hueWhile star-clouds, set in heavens more deeply blue,Still gladden ours, as erst Magellan’s sight?O would that while the old grey mountains sleepThere might be silence in the which to findGrand music! But if joyous creatures keepPerpetual chorus, shall my captious mindObject? Creation’s harmonies lie deep,But to the soul attuned the parts are well combined.G. Longmore.
Dostthou not love, O angel of the night,Above all others this fair southern land?For thou hast gemmed its skies with lavish hand,With rarest stars and constellations bright.Shines not its vestal moon with purer light?Hath not its galaxy more lustrous hueWhile star-clouds, set in heavens more deeply blue,Still gladden ours, as erst Magellan’s sight?O would that while the old grey mountains sleepThere might be silence in the which to findGrand music! But if joyous creatures keepPerpetual chorus, shall my captious mindObject? Creation’s harmonies lie deep,But to the soul attuned the parts are well combined.G. Longmore.
Dostthou not love, O angel of the night,Above all others this fair southern land?For thou hast gemmed its skies with lavish hand,With rarest stars and constellations bright.Shines not its vestal moon with purer light?Hath not its galaxy more lustrous hueWhile star-clouds, set in heavens more deeply blue,Still gladden ours, as erst Magellan’s sight?O would that while the old grey mountains sleepThere might be silence in the which to findGrand music! But if joyous creatures keepPerpetual chorus, shall my captious mindObject? Creation’s harmonies lie deep,But to the soul attuned the parts are well combined.
G. Longmore.
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Yourportrait hangs upon my wall,Among my treasures highly classed,For it is potent to recallOld days that we have passedIn close communion, heart and mind,Where Avon’s placid waters wind.And very often, as I gaze,Bath’s noble hills with you I climb,Or tread the valley’s wooded waysWhere we’ve roved many a time:Delightful scenes that I would fain,Before I sleep, behold again.Our Cape its beauties hath, ’tis true:Old Table Mountain’s always grand,Our sun is bright, our sky is blue;The Maker’s bounteous hand,From which all beauty hath its birth,Made this far corner of His earth.Yet must a Briton love his homeThe more for absence, as I ween,And greatly do I long to roamThrough daisied meadows green,Perchance made dulcet by the swellOf distant chiming village bell.O for a field of new mown hay,A beach, or elm, or tasselled birch;A springtide scent of virgin May,Or a glimpse of an ivied church!To tramp the stubbles of the cornUpon a fresh September morn;To tread once more with gladsome feetThe thronging street, the busy mart;To feel again the mighty beatOf England’s wondrous heart!But, though I long, I murmur not,For Heaven appoints each human lot.You know not how we exiles prizeThis modern photographic art,Portraying to our grateful eyes,Exact in every part,Kindred and friends forever dear;We gaze, and almost think you here.Your picture’s somewhat faded now,But to fond memory it showsYour very self; oft mark I howYou wear your homely clothes.You know what one professor teaches,And I have faith in what he preaches.[17]And oft I sit by your fireside,And share your daily household life;Upon my knees the youngsters ride,Or I chat with your blue-eyed wife.Give them my love, and tell them, pray,Not to forget me far away.Let time and age do all they can,And let it fade, if fade it will,This portrait of a sterling manShall grace my chamber still;And I its dimmest lines shall trace,Until I meet him face to face.G. Longmore.Cape Town,February 1862.
Yourportrait hangs upon my wall,Among my treasures highly classed,For it is potent to recallOld days that we have passedIn close communion, heart and mind,Where Avon’s placid waters wind.And very often, as I gaze,Bath’s noble hills with you I climb,Or tread the valley’s wooded waysWhere we’ve roved many a time:Delightful scenes that I would fain,Before I sleep, behold again.Our Cape its beauties hath, ’tis true:Old Table Mountain’s always grand,Our sun is bright, our sky is blue;The Maker’s bounteous hand,From which all beauty hath its birth,Made this far corner of His earth.Yet must a Briton love his homeThe more for absence, as I ween,And greatly do I long to roamThrough daisied meadows green,Perchance made dulcet by the swellOf distant chiming village bell.O for a field of new mown hay,A beach, or elm, or tasselled birch;A springtide scent of virgin May,Or a glimpse of an ivied church!To tramp the stubbles of the cornUpon a fresh September morn;To tread once more with gladsome feetThe thronging street, the busy mart;To feel again the mighty beatOf England’s wondrous heart!But, though I long, I murmur not,For Heaven appoints each human lot.You know not how we exiles prizeThis modern photographic art,Portraying to our grateful eyes,Exact in every part,Kindred and friends forever dear;We gaze, and almost think you here.Your picture’s somewhat faded now,But to fond memory it showsYour very self; oft mark I howYou wear your homely clothes.You know what one professor teaches,And I have faith in what he preaches.[17]And oft I sit by your fireside,And share your daily household life;Upon my knees the youngsters ride,Or I chat with your blue-eyed wife.Give them my love, and tell them, pray,Not to forget me far away.Let time and age do all they can,And let it fade, if fade it will,This portrait of a sterling manShall grace my chamber still;And I its dimmest lines shall trace,Until I meet him face to face.G. Longmore.Cape Town,February 1862.
Yourportrait hangs upon my wall,Among my treasures highly classed,For it is potent to recallOld days that we have passedIn close communion, heart and mind,Where Avon’s placid waters wind.
And very often, as I gaze,Bath’s noble hills with you I climb,Or tread the valley’s wooded waysWhere we’ve roved many a time:Delightful scenes that I would fain,Before I sleep, behold again.
Our Cape its beauties hath, ’tis true:Old Table Mountain’s always grand,Our sun is bright, our sky is blue;The Maker’s bounteous hand,From which all beauty hath its birth,Made this far corner of His earth.
Yet must a Briton love his homeThe more for absence, as I ween,And greatly do I long to roamThrough daisied meadows green,Perchance made dulcet by the swellOf distant chiming village bell.
O for a field of new mown hay,A beach, or elm, or tasselled birch;A springtide scent of virgin May,Or a glimpse of an ivied church!To tramp the stubbles of the cornUpon a fresh September morn;
To tread once more with gladsome feetThe thronging street, the busy mart;To feel again the mighty beatOf England’s wondrous heart!But, though I long, I murmur not,For Heaven appoints each human lot.
You know not how we exiles prizeThis modern photographic art,Portraying to our grateful eyes,Exact in every part,Kindred and friends forever dear;We gaze, and almost think you here.
Your picture’s somewhat faded now,But to fond memory it showsYour very self; oft mark I howYou wear your homely clothes.You know what one professor teaches,And I have faith in what he preaches.[17]
And oft I sit by your fireside,And share your daily household life;Upon my knees the youngsters ride,Or I chat with your blue-eyed wife.Give them my love, and tell them, pray,Not to forget me far away.
Let time and age do all they can,And let it fade, if fade it will,This portrait of a sterling manShall grace my chamber still;And I its dimmest lines shall trace,Until I meet him face to face.
G. Longmore.
Cape Town,February 1862.
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Myown girl at home,Weep no longer for me,The ship steps through the ocean foamThat bears me back to thee.Full sail and bending mast,We cleave the waters green;I’m hasting home to thee, at last,My own Eveleen.I have o’ercome the fateThat parted us so long;I have o’erpast the treacherous hate,Forgot the rankling wrong.I am speeding o’er the seaThey swore should roll betweenThe one who loves thee well, and thee,My own Eveleen!Of you, how many a nightI’ve dreamed, the long watch through!From noon’s brain-searing shafts of lightMy thoughts have flown to you.To you in your own home bowers,Where the light falls cool and green,My saint of saints! my flower of flowers!My own Eveleen!But now no longer pine,No longer wait and weep;Our pennant floats far o’er the brine,We march along the deep.With store of royal gold,With silks of sunny sheen,And bridal raiment meet to foldMy own Eveleen.An hour! and he shall traceThe old home seen once more;But to have seen his true love’s faceWhite as the shroud she wore!Oh, fading human love!Oh, light in darkness seen!Oh, voiceless as the stone aboveThy grave, Eveleen!C. P. M.Mozambique Channel,November 1861.
Myown girl at home,Weep no longer for me,The ship steps through the ocean foamThat bears me back to thee.Full sail and bending mast,We cleave the waters green;I’m hasting home to thee, at last,My own Eveleen.I have o’ercome the fateThat parted us so long;I have o’erpast the treacherous hate,Forgot the rankling wrong.I am speeding o’er the seaThey swore should roll betweenThe one who loves thee well, and thee,My own Eveleen!Of you, how many a nightI’ve dreamed, the long watch through!From noon’s brain-searing shafts of lightMy thoughts have flown to you.To you in your own home bowers,Where the light falls cool and green,My saint of saints! my flower of flowers!My own Eveleen!But now no longer pine,No longer wait and weep;Our pennant floats far o’er the brine,We march along the deep.With store of royal gold,With silks of sunny sheen,And bridal raiment meet to foldMy own Eveleen.An hour! and he shall traceThe old home seen once more;But to have seen his true love’s faceWhite as the shroud she wore!Oh, fading human love!Oh, light in darkness seen!Oh, voiceless as the stone aboveThy grave, Eveleen!C. P. M.Mozambique Channel,November 1861.
Myown girl at home,Weep no longer for me,The ship steps through the ocean foamThat bears me back to thee.Full sail and bending mast,We cleave the waters green;I’m hasting home to thee, at last,My own Eveleen.
I have o’ercome the fateThat parted us so long;I have o’erpast the treacherous hate,Forgot the rankling wrong.I am speeding o’er the seaThey swore should roll betweenThe one who loves thee well, and thee,My own Eveleen!
Of you, how many a nightI’ve dreamed, the long watch through!From noon’s brain-searing shafts of lightMy thoughts have flown to you.To you in your own home bowers,Where the light falls cool and green,My saint of saints! my flower of flowers!My own Eveleen!
But now no longer pine,No longer wait and weep;Our pennant floats far o’er the brine,We march along the deep.With store of royal gold,With silks of sunny sheen,And bridal raiment meet to foldMy own Eveleen.
An hour! and he shall traceThe old home seen once more;But to have seen his true love’s faceWhite as the shroud she wore!Oh, fading human love!Oh, light in darkness seen!Oh, voiceless as the stone aboveThy grave, Eveleen!
C. P. M.
Mozambique Channel,November 1861.
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Hark! hear the billow swell;Bright Madeira, fare thee well,Shining mountains, azure skies,Sunniest hearts and friendliest eyes:All my soul has felt so long,Like a joyous flow of song,Sinks at vesper’s distant bell,Loved Madeira, fare thee well.Summer island, now no moreShall I move along thy shore,Where in all thy waves I caughtOracles of peaceful thought;Mid thy glittering walls and towers,Girt by vines and gay with flowers,Oft in sleep shall fancy dwell:Loved Madeira, fare thee well.Rock-built isle, whose mountains rude,Are the throne of solitude;Where from giant crag and steepI have gazed on valleys deep,Feeling powers within me passFrom each stern aerial mass;Land of lovely peak and dell,Loved Madeira, fare thee well.Far within the cares of life,Hushed beyond the sound of strife,Where, methinks, thy spirits callFrom thy soothing waterfall;Oft shalt thy remembrance beQuiet strength and joy to me,Brightening mem’ry’s dusky cell,Loved Madeira, fare thee well.From the heights of time and toil,Where I stand on heavenly soil,Far around, discerning clearMany a various land and year,Most the vision seems to smileWarmed by the Hesperian isle;Round thee floats a sunny spell,While I murmur, fare thee well.Often magic lures me farToward the East’s familiar star;Older powers with earlier sway,Chanting call me hence away;And I hear above thy foam,Trembling round the voice of home,Whispering more than tongue can tell—Yet, Madeira, fare thee well.On thee still may summer breathe,Still thy crown with blossoms wreathe;And may still, with peace divine,More of noblest life be thine:Making hearts of kindliest mouldEarnest, glad, serene, and bold.So, supreme all ill to quell,God, fair island, keep thee well!John Stirling.
Hark! hear the billow swell;Bright Madeira, fare thee well,Shining mountains, azure skies,Sunniest hearts and friendliest eyes:All my soul has felt so long,Like a joyous flow of song,Sinks at vesper’s distant bell,Loved Madeira, fare thee well.Summer island, now no moreShall I move along thy shore,Where in all thy waves I caughtOracles of peaceful thought;Mid thy glittering walls and towers,Girt by vines and gay with flowers,Oft in sleep shall fancy dwell:Loved Madeira, fare thee well.Rock-built isle, whose mountains rude,Are the throne of solitude;Where from giant crag and steepI have gazed on valleys deep,Feeling powers within me passFrom each stern aerial mass;Land of lovely peak and dell,Loved Madeira, fare thee well.Far within the cares of life,Hushed beyond the sound of strife,Where, methinks, thy spirits callFrom thy soothing waterfall;Oft shalt thy remembrance beQuiet strength and joy to me,Brightening mem’ry’s dusky cell,Loved Madeira, fare thee well.From the heights of time and toil,Where I stand on heavenly soil,Far around, discerning clearMany a various land and year,Most the vision seems to smileWarmed by the Hesperian isle;Round thee floats a sunny spell,While I murmur, fare thee well.Often magic lures me farToward the East’s familiar star;Older powers with earlier sway,Chanting call me hence away;And I hear above thy foam,Trembling round the voice of home,Whispering more than tongue can tell—Yet, Madeira, fare thee well.On thee still may summer breathe,Still thy crown with blossoms wreathe;And may still, with peace divine,More of noblest life be thine:Making hearts of kindliest mouldEarnest, glad, serene, and bold.So, supreme all ill to quell,God, fair island, keep thee well!John Stirling.
Hark! hear the billow swell;Bright Madeira, fare thee well,Shining mountains, azure skies,Sunniest hearts and friendliest eyes:All my soul has felt so long,Like a joyous flow of song,Sinks at vesper’s distant bell,Loved Madeira, fare thee well.
Summer island, now no moreShall I move along thy shore,Where in all thy waves I caughtOracles of peaceful thought;Mid thy glittering walls and towers,Girt by vines and gay with flowers,Oft in sleep shall fancy dwell:Loved Madeira, fare thee well.
Rock-built isle, whose mountains rude,Are the throne of solitude;Where from giant crag and steepI have gazed on valleys deep,Feeling powers within me passFrom each stern aerial mass;Land of lovely peak and dell,Loved Madeira, fare thee well.
Far within the cares of life,Hushed beyond the sound of strife,Where, methinks, thy spirits callFrom thy soothing waterfall;Oft shalt thy remembrance beQuiet strength and joy to me,Brightening mem’ry’s dusky cell,Loved Madeira, fare thee well.
From the heights of time and toil,Where I stand on heavenly soil,Far around, discerning clearMany a various land and year,Most the vision seems to smileWarmed by the Hesperian isle;Round thee floats a sunny spell,While I murmur, fare thee well.
Often magic lures me farToward the East’s familiar star;Older powers with earlier sway,Chanting call me hence away;And I hear above thy foam,Trembling round the voice of home,Whispering more than tongue can tell—Yet, Madeira, fare thee well.
On thee still may summer breathe,Still thy crown with blossoms wreathe;And may still, with peace divine,More of noblest life be thine:Making hearts of kindliest mouldEarnest, glad, serene, and bold.So, supreme all ill to quell,God, fair island, keep thee well!
John Stirling.
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Farewell, farewell, old Fifty-five! to thee,This circling ball no longer homage yields;Thy record’s closed, and frail humanityStands trembling ’neath the rod that conscience wields.For now, methinks, that record’s page revealsA long dark roll of follies, faults, and crimesBefore His eye, whose love in vain appealsTo hearts ingrate; whose goodness glads our times,And spreads with genial gifts the wide earth’s varied climes.Upon thy wingèd hours, old Fifty-five,Alternate hopes and fears have trembling hung,Capricious as the fleecy clouds which driveAthwart the summer sky, a motley throngOf joys and griefs, have swiftly swept along.Now o’er the welkin peal the bridal bells;Anon the mournful funeral dirge is sung;Big with this truth each passing moment swells,—“Beyond the sky alone unchanging pleasure dwells.”Farewell, old Fifty-five! the visions fairWhich down thy sparkling vista erst appeared,Beguiling Mammon’s votaries with the glareOf sordid wealth in pile on pile upreared,Have flitted past, and left a blank, uncheeredBy one bright gleam, in many an aching breast.O were the sober truth more wide revered,And gaping folly’s golden dreams repressed,How few would groan beneath the gambler’s dark unrest.Few were our tears, old Fifty-five, hadst thouConsigned alone the noisome vampire bandTo disappointment blank, and carking woe:But thou with undiscriminating handHast flung on poverty’s inclement strandFull many a one styled “noblest work of God.”His lowing herds have perished from the land,Or haply o’er his fields a blight has trod;Still,hecan trusting say, “My Father holds the rod.”Farewell, old Fifty-five! bright o’er thy days,Celestial truth has flung her radiant bow;Benignant from her throne she stoops to raiseEach moiling slave of ignorance and woe.Her silv’ry voice proclaims to high and lowThis blood-bought truth, “man’s mind and tongue are free.”May every human breast responsive glow,Till superstition, pride, and bigotry,Their lofty heads abase, and like grim spectres flee.Farewell, old Fifty-five! inhuman warWith blood-red hand has o’er thy cycle swept.Horrific still he rolls his thund’ring car’Mid ghastly wounds, and dying groans unwept.The cannon’s roar which long in silence slept,Unceasing echoes o’er the dismal scene;Deep blushing, Mercy from her throne has stept,While eager Rapine stalks with hideous mien,And gloating scan’s the flaming city’s lurid sheen.O Liberty! Britannia’s proudest boast;O Liberty! man’s brightest heritage;Why on thy steps attendant should a hostOf sanguinary passions fiercely rage?Or why should history’s memorable pageBe blotted o’er with sighs and groans and tears?When will grey time mature the golden age,When men shall snap their swords and quiv’ring spears,And Peace triumphant reign o’er all the circling years?Farewell, old Fifty-five—as ling’ring stillThy last faint echoes on the ear expire,And sadd’ning thoughts the heaving bosom fill,Hope strings anew her animating lyre.Eternal truth—the soul’s immortal fire—Ere long shall claim the homage of the world,High o’er gaunt Slavery’s blazing funeral pyreShall Freedom’s crimson banner wave unfurled,And Ignorance and Vice from their dark thrones be hurled.William Selwyn.Port Elizabeth,January 1, 1856.
Farewell, farewell, old Fifty-five! to thee,This circling ball no longer homage yields;Thy record’s closed, and frail humanityStands trembling ’neath the rod that conscience wields.For now, methinks, that record’s page revealsA long dark roll of follies, faults, and crimesBefore His eye, whose love in vain appealsTo hearts ingrate; whose goodness glads our times,And spreads with genial gifts the wide earth’s varied climes.Upon thy wingèd hours, old Fifty-five,Alternate hopes and fears have trembling hung,Capricious as the fleecy clouds which driveAthwart the summer sky, a motley throngOf joys and griefs, have swiftly swept along.Now o’er the welkin peal the bridal bells;Anon the mournful funeral dirge is sung;Big with this truth each passing moment swells,—“Beyond the sky alone unchanging pleasure dwells.”Farewell, old Fifty-five! the visions fairWhich down thy sparkling vista erst appeared,Beguiling Mammon’s votaries with the glareOf sordid wealth in pile on pile upreared,Have flitted past, and left a blank, uncheeredBy one bright gleam, in many an aching breast.O were the sober truth more wide revered,And gaping folly’s golden dreams repressed,How few would groan beneath the gambler’s dark unrest.Few were our tears, old Fifty-five, hadst thouConsigned alone the noisome vampire bandTo disappointment blank, and carking woe:But thou with undiscriminating handHast flung on poverty’s inclement strandFull many a one styled “noblest work of God.”His lowing herds have perished from the land,Or haply o’er his fields a blight has trod;Still,hecan trusting say, “My Father holds the rod.”Farewell, old Fifty-five! bright o’er thy days,Celestial truth has flung her radiant bow;Benignant from her throne she stoops to raiseEach moiling slave of ignorance and woe.Her silv’ry voice proclaims to high and lowThis blood-bought truth, “man’s mind and tongue are free.”May every human breast responsive glow,Till superstition, pride, and bigotry,Their lofty heads abase, and like grim spectres flee.Farewell, old Fifty-five! inhuman warWith blood-red hand has o’er thy cycle swept.Horrific still he rolls his thund’ring car’Mid ghastly wounds, and dying groans unwept.The cannon’s roar which long in silence slept,Unceasing echoes o’er the dismal scene;Deep blushing, Mercy from her throne has stept,While eager Rapine stalks with hideous mien,And gloating scan’s the flaming city’s lurid sheen.O Liberty! Britannia’s proudest boast;O Liberty! man’s brightest heritage;Why on thy steps attendant should a hostOf sanguinary passions fiercely rage?Or why should history’s memorable pageBe blotted o’er with sighs and groans and tears?When will grey time mature the golden age,When men shall snap their swords and quiv’ring spears,And Peace triumphant reign o’er all the circling years?Farewell, old Fifty-five—as ling’ring stillThy last faint echoes on the ear expire,And sadd’ning thoughts the heaving bosom fill,Hope strings anew her animating lyre.Eternal truth—the soul’s immortal fire—Ere long shall claim the homage of the world,High o’er gaunt Slavery’s blazing funeral pyreShall Freedom’s crimson banner wave unfurled,And Ignorance and Vice from their dark thrones be hurled.William Selwyn.Port Elizabeth,January 1, 1856.
Farewell, farewell, old Fifty-five! to thee,This circling ball no longer homage yields;Thy record’s closed, and frail humanityStands trembling ’neath the rod that conscience wields.For now, methinks, that record’s page revealsA long dark roll of follies, faults, and crimesBefore His eye, whose love in vain appealsTo hearts ingrate; whose goodness glads our times,And spreads with genial gifts the wide earth’s varied climes.
Upon thy wingèd hours, old Fifty-five,Alternate hopes and fears have trembling hung,Capricious as the fleecy clouds which driveAthwart the summer sky, a motley throngOf joys and griefs, have swiftly swept along.Now o’er the welkin peal the bridal bells;Anon the mournful funeral dirge is sung;Big with this truth each passing moment swells,—“Beyond the sky alone unchanging pleasure dwells.”
Farewell, old Fifty-five! the visions fairWhich down thy sparkling vista erst appeared,Beguiling Mammon’s votaries with the glareOf sordid wealth in pile on pile upreared,Have flitted past, and left a blank, uncheeredBy one bright gleam, in many an aching breast.O were the sober truth more wide revered,And gaping folly’s golden dreams repressed,How few would groan beneath the gambler’s dark unrest.
Few were our tears, old Fifty-five, hadst thouConsigned alone the noisome vampire bandTo disappointment blank, and carking woe:But thou with undiscriminating handHast flung on poverty’s inclement strandFull many a one styled “noblest work of God.”His lowing herds have perished from the land,Or haply o’er his fields a blight has trod;Still,hecan trusting say, “My Father holds the rod.”
Farewell, old Fifty-five! bright o’er thy days,Celestial truth has flung her radiant bow;Benignant from her throne she stoops to raiseEach moiling slave of ignorance and woe.Her silv’ry voice proclaims to high and lowThis blood-bought truth, “man’s mind and tongue are free.”May every human breast responsive glow,Till superstition, pride, and bigotry,Their lofty heads abase, and like grim spectres flee.
Farewell, old Fifty-five! inhuman warWith blood-red hand has o’er thy cycle swept.Horrific still he rolls his thund’ring car’Mid ghastly wounds, and dying groans unwept.The cannon’s roar which long in silence slept,Unceasing echoes o’er the dismal scene;Deep blushing, Mercy from her throne has stept,While eager Rapine stalks with hideous mien,And gloating scan’s the flaming city’s lurid sheen.
O Liberty! Britannia’s proudest boast;O Liberty! man’s brightest heritage;Why on thy steps attendant should a hostOf sanguinary passions fiercely rage?Or why should history’s memorable pageBe blotted o’er with sighs and groans and tears?When will grey time mature the golden age,When men shall snap their swords and quiv’ring spears,And Peace triumphant reign o’er all the circling years?
Farewell, old Fifty-five—as ling’ring stillThy last faint echoes on the ear expire,And sadd’ning thoughts the heaving bosom fill,Hope strings anew her animating lyre.Eternal truth—the soul’s immortal fire—Ere long shall claim the homage of the world,High o’er gaunt Slavery’s blazing funeral pyreShall Freedom’s crimson banner wave unfurled,And Ignorance and Vice from their dark thrones be hurled.
William Selwyn.
Port Elizabeth,January 1, 1856.
“A little earthen lamp, 1700 years old, was recently found in the East, which bore this inscription—‘The light of Christ shines for all.’”—Christian Express, December 1, 1878.
“A little earthen lamp, 1700 years old, was recently found in the East, which bore this inscription—‘The light of Christ shines for all.’”—Christian Express, December 1, 1878.
Thistiny lamp of fragile clayOnce shed its faint and flick’ring ray,To cheer perchance some sage’s hall;Its light extinct, ’mid wreck it lies,Through seventeen rolling centuries;Till disentombed, behold the truth,Bright with the glow of pristine youth,“The light of Christ shines for us all!”Hail, glorious truth! Thy music thrillsIn echoes from time’s distant hills;And still thy tones melodious fall.Still may poor wand’rers lift their headsTo Him, whose face benignant shedsEffulgent rays, to warm and cheer,To waken hope, and banish fear;“The light of Christ still shines for all!”The ice-built screens by bigots planned,—As children’s barriers in the sand,Dashed by the wild waves, sink and fall—Melt in the beams from Jesus’ face,Exhale in mist and leave no trace:Free as the breeze on mountain side,Wide as the ocean’s rolling tide,“The light of Christ still shines for all!”Light, light for Afric’s dusky throng;Light for the pris’ners held so longIn superstition’s blinding thrall;Light for the savage and the sage,For smiling youth, and trembling age;Light for all sorrowing, sin-struck eyesThat seek the pathway to the skies;“The light of Christ still shines for all!”W. Selwyn.Port Elizabeth,December 11, 1878.
Thistiny lamp of fragile clayOnce shed its faint and flick’ring ray,To cheer perchance some sage’s hall;Its light extinct, ’mid wreck it lies,Through seventeen rolling centuries;Till disentombed, behold the truth,Bright with the glow of pristine youth,“The light of Christ shines for us all!”Hail, glorious truth! Thy music thrillsIn echoes from time’s distant hills;And still thy tones melodious fall.Still may poor wand’rers lift their headsTo Him, whose face benignant shedsEffulgent rays, to warm and cheer,To waken hope, and banish fear;“The light of Christ still shines for all!”The ice-built screens by bigots planned,—As children’s barriers in the sand,Dashed by the wild waves, sink and fall—Melt in the beams from Jesus’ face,Exhale in mist and leave no trace:Free as the breeze on mountain side,Wide as the ocean’s rolling tide,“The light of Christ still shines for all!”Light, light for Afric’s dusky throng;Light for the pris’ners held so longIn superstition’s blinding thrall;Light for the savage and the sage,For smiling youth, and trembling age;Light for all sorrowing, sin-struck eyesThat seek the pathway to the skies;“The light of Christ still shines for all!”W. Selwyn.Port Elizabeth,December 11, 1878.
Thistiny lamp of fragile clayOnce shed its faint and flick’ring ray,To cheer perchance some sage’s hall;Its light extinct, ’mid wreck it lies,Through seventeen rolling centuries;Till disentombed, behold the truth,Bright with the glow of pristine youth,“The light of Christ shines for us all!”
Hail, glorious truth! Thy music thrillsIn echoes from time’s distant hills;And still thy tones melodious fall.Still may poor wand’rers lift their headsTo Him, whose face benignant shedsEffulgent rays, to warm and cheer,To waken hope, and banish fear;“The light of Christ still shines for all!”
The ice-built screens by bigots planned,—As children’s barriers in the sand,Dashed by the wild waves, sink and fall—Melt in the beams from Jesus’ face,Exhale in mist and leave no trace:Free as the breeze on mountain side,Wide as the ocean’s rolling tide,“The light of Christ still shines for all!”
Light, light for Afric’s dusky throng;Light for the pris’ners held so longIn superstition’s blinding thrall;Light for the savage and the sage,For smiling youth, and trembling age;Light for all sorrowing, sin-struck eyesThat seek the pathway to the skies;“The light of Christ still shines for all!”
W. Selwyn.
Port Elizabeth,December 11, 1878.
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Shallfeeble, vain, presumptuous manWhose loftiest vision’s but a span,Impugn the vast mysterious planBy boundless wisdom laid?Shall His omnipotent behest,That thunders o’er wild ocean’s breast,Or lulls its surging waves to rest,By puny worms be stayed?Shall man, whose moments hurrying flee,Like sparklets from a phosphor sea,Prescribe to dread EternityThe laws of His domain?Shall He who scans each circling pole,And points the course the planets roll,Seek wisdom from the darkling moleTo guide the shining train?Shall yon vast orb whose kindling rayPours forth the universal dayHis glad, majestic progress stay,Lest, haply, his bright beamsWith light unwelcome should illumeThe drowsy couch, and chide the gloomOf some voluptuous sluggard’s room,And chase his idle dreams?Shall thirsty nature pant in vainFor showers of life-restoring rain;Shall desolation sweep the plainAnd beauty droop and die;Lest one bright drop’s exultant springShould snap the spider’s airy string,Or dim, perchance, the golden wingOf some gay butterfly?Shall yon glad stream, whose sparkling tideSpreads verdant beauty far and wide,O’erleap its banks and turn aside,Or in the desert sink;Lest, haply, fraught with summer showers,Its waves should ripple o’er the flowersBy children planted ’mid the bowersThat tangle on its brink?No! He, whose power with life enduedThis glorious universe, pursuedIn His design the highest goodAnd happiness of all;And still, at His benign command,Rich bounties gladden ev’ry land,And still He guides, with all-wise handEach tenant of this ball.O! then, low-bending in the dust,Cling to HisLove, with child-like trust,Believing that Omniscience mustKnow what for thee is best;Let resignation soothe thy cares;Let faith disperse thy gloomy fears;And God Himself shall dry thy tearsIn His eternal rest.W. Selwyn.Port Elizabeth,January 21, 1879.
Shallfeeble, vain, presumptuous manWhose loftiest vision’s but a span,Impugn the vast mysterious planBy boundless wisdom laid?Shall His omnipotent behest,That thunders o’er wild ocean’s breast,Or lulls its surging waves to rest,By puny worms be stayed?Shall man, whose moments hurrying flee,Like sparklets from a phosphor sea,Prescribe to dread EternityThe laws of His domain?Shall He who scans each circling pole,And points the course the planets roll,Seek wisdom from the darkling moleTo guide the shining train?Shall yon vast orb whose kindling rayPours forth the universal dayHis glad, majestic progress stay,Lest, haply, his bright beamsWith light unwelcome should illumeThe drowsy couch, and chide the gloomOf some voluptuous sluggard’s room,And chase his idle dreams?Shall thirsty nature pant in vainFor showers of life-restoring rain;Shall desolation sweep the plainAnd beauty droop and die;Lest one bright drop’s exultant springShould snap the spider’s airy string,Or dim, perchance, the golden wingOf some gay butterfly?Shall yon glad stream, whose sparkling tideSpreads verdant beauty far and wide,O’erleap its banks and turn aside,Or in the desert sink;Lest, haply, fraught with summer showers,Its waves should ripple o’er the flowersBy children planted ’mid the bowersThat tangle on its brink?No! He, whose power with life enduedThis glorious universe, pursuedIn His design the highest goodAnd happiness of all;And still, at His benign command,Rich bounties gladden ev’ry land,And still He guides, with all-wise handEach tenant of this ball.O! then, low-bending in the dust,Cling to HisLove, with child-like trust,Believing that Omniscience mustKnow what for thee is best;Let resignation soothe thy cares;Let faith disperse thy gloomy fears;And God Himself shall dry thy tearsIn His eternal rest.W. Selwyn.Port Elizabeth,January 21, 1879.
Shallfeeble, vain, presumptuous manWhose loftiest vision’s but a span,Impugn the vast mysterious planBy boundless wisdom laid?Shall His omnipotent behest,That thunders o’er wild ocean’s breast,Or lulls its surging waves to rest,By puny worms be stayed?
Shall man, whose moments hurrying flee,Like sparklets from a phosphor sea,Prescribe to dread EternityThe laws of His domain?Shall He who scans each circling pole,And points the course the planets roll,Seek wisdom from the darkling moleTo guide the shining train?
Shall yon vast orb whose kindling rayPours forth the universal dayHis glad, majestic progress stay,Lest, haply, his bright beamsWith light unwelcome should illumeThe drowsy couch, and chide the gloomOf some voluptuous sluggard’s room,And chase his idle dreams?
Shall thirsty nature pant in vainFor showers of life-restoring rain;Shall desolation sweep the plainAnd beauty droop and die;Lest one bright drop’s exultant springShould snap the spider’s airy string,Or dim, perchance, the golden wingOf some gay butterfly?
Shall yon glad stream, whose sparkling tideSpreads verdant beauty far and wide,O’erleap its banks and turn aside,Or in the desert sink;Lest, haply, fraught with summer showers,Its waves should ripple o’er the flowersBy children planted ’mid the bowersThat tangle on its brink?
No! He, whose power with life enduedThis glorious universe, pursuedIn His design the highest goodAnd happiness of all;And still, at His benign command,Rich bounties gladden ev’ry land,And still He guides, with all-wise handEach tenant of this ball.
O! then, low-bending in the dust,Cling to HisLove, with child-like trust,Believing that Omniscience mustKnow what for thee is best;Let resignation soothe thy cares;Let faith disperse thy gloomy fears;And God Himself shall dry thy tearsIn His eternal rest.
W. Selwyn.
Port Elizabeth,January 21, 1879.
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Hail! “Gem of the Desert,” in slumber reposing,The dark hills thy cradle, soft verdure thy bed;The breeze from the kloof richest perfumes disclosing,Lightly sweeps o’er thy bosom, raising dust very red.The last gleams of the sun in gay splendour descendingSeem fondly to linger around the tall spire,While the clouds, rainbow-tinted, their gorgeous hues lending,Make the Dutchmen’s black chimneys seem as if all afire.Deep bosomed in shade the dark river meanders,Save where, like a mirror, it gleams from the glade;Or soapy and slimy through mud-holes it wanders,Where stockings are washed by a Hottentot maid.Sweet abode of content; dearly loved Graaff Reinet!Long, long mayst thou bask in thy slumber profound;Tame spring-bucks be baited for a sixpenny bet,And thy butter be sold at four shillings per pound.W. Selwyn.Graaff Reinet, 1860.
Hail! “Gem of the Desert,” in slumber reposing,The dark hills thy cradle, soft verdure thy bed;The breeze from the kloof richest perfumes disclosing,Lightly sweeps o’er thy bosom, raising dust very red.The last gleams of the sun in gay splendour descendingSeem fondly to linger around the tall spire,While the clouds, rainbow-tinted, their gorgeous hues lending,Make the Dutchmen’s black chimneys seem as if all afire.Deep bosomed in shade the dark river meanders,Save where, like a mirror, it gleams from the glade;Or soapy and slimy through mud-holes it wanders,Where stockings are washed by a Hottentot maid.Sweet abode of content; dearly loved Graaff Reinet!Long, long mayst thou bask in thy slumber profound;Tame spring-bucks be baited for a sixpenny bet,And thy butter be sold at four shillings per pound.W. Selwyn.Graaff Reinet, 1860.
Hail! “Gem of the Desert,” in slumber reposing,The dark hills thy cradle, soft verdure thy bed;The breeze from the kloof richest perfumes disclosing,Lightly sweeps o’er thy bosom, raising dust very red.
The last gleams of the sun in gay splendour descendingSeem fondly to linger around the tall spire,While the clouds, rainbow-tinted, their gorgeous hues lending,Make the Dutchmen’s black chimneys seem as if all afire.
Deep bosomed in shade the dark river meanders,Save where, like a mirror, it gleams from the glade;Or soapy and slimy through mud-holes it wanders,Where stockings are washed by a Hottentot maid.
Sweet abode of content; dearly loved Graaff Reinet!Long, long mayst thou bask in thy slumber profound;Tame spring-bucks be baited for a sixpenny bet,And thy butter be sold at four shillings per pound.
W. Selwyn.
Graaff Reinet, 1860.
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“And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me.”—Johnxii. 32.
“And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me.”—Johnxii. 32.
“And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me.”—Johnxii. 32.
OSaviourthroned in peace aboveReveal Thy piercèd side,And let the vision of Thy loveStay war’s remorseless tide;Risen Saviour, hear!For white, for black, alike didst ThouLow bow Thy fainting head;For all of ev’ry clime and hue,Didst Thou thy heart’s blood shed.Suffering Saviour, hear!Behold fair Afric’s sunny landsWith reeking carnage strewed,See God-made man with rigid handsIn brother’s blood imbrued;Sorrowing Saviour, hear!O hear the Briton’s dying groan,The Zulu’s piercing wail;O hear the famished orphan’s moan,The widow’s sobbing tale;Pitying Saviour, hear!In mercy stay the quiv’ring spear;Avert the death-winged ball;Pour balm for ev’ry scalding tear,And breathe Thy peace o’er all.Mighty Saviour, hear!Draw weary warriors round Thy feetBy love’s constraining cord;There let the scattered nations meet,And hail Thee Sov’reign Lord.Gracious Saviour, hear!William Selwyn.Port Elizabeth,February 9, 1879.
OSaviourthroned in peace aboveReveal Thy piercèd side,And let the vision of Thy loveStay war’s remorseless tide;Risen Saviour, hear!For white, for black, alike didst ThouLow bow Thy fainting head;For all of ev’ry clime and hue,Didst Thou thy heart’s blood shed.Suffering Saviour, hear!Behold fair Afric’s sunny landsWith reeking carnage strewed,See God-made man with rigid handsIn brother’s blood imbrued;Sorrowing Saviour, hear!O hear the Briton’s dying groan,The Zulu’s piercing wail;O hear the famished orphan’s moan,The widow’s sobbing tale;Pitying Saviour, hear!In mercy stay the quiv’ring spear;Avert the death-winged ball;Pour balm for ev’ry scalding tear,And breathe Thy peace o’er all.Mighty Saviour, hear!Draw weary warriors round Thy feetBy love’s constraining cord;There let the scattered nations meet,And hail Thee Sov’reign Lord.Gracious Saviour, hear!William Selwyn.Port Elizabeth,February 9, 1879.
OSaviourthroned in peace aboveReveal Thy piercèd side,And let the vision of Thy loveStay war’s remorseless tide;Risen Saviour, hear!
For white, for black, alike didst ThouLow bow Thy fainting head;For all of ev’ry clime and hue,Didst Thou thy heart’s blood shed.Suffering Saviour, hear!
Behold fair Afric’s sunny landsWith reeking carnage strewed,See God-made man with rigid handsIn brother’s blood imbrued;Sorrowing Saviour, hear!
O hear the Briton’s dying groan,The Zulu’s piercing wail;O hear the famished orphan’s moan,The widow’s sobbing tale;Pitying Saviour, hear!
In mercy stay the quiv’ring spear;Avert the death-winged ball;Pour balm for ev’ry scalding tear,And breathe Thy peace o’er all.Mighty Saviour, hear!
Draw weary warriors round Thy feetBy love’s constraining cord;There let the scattered nations meet,And hail Thee Sov’reign Lord.Gracious Saviour, hear!
William Selwyn.
Port Elizabeth,February 9, 1879.
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Old residents of Port Elizabeth will remember the kloof running down between Donkin Street and Constitution Hill, which was spanned by a rude wooden foot-bridge just opposite Dr. Edwards’ residence. The kloof having been filled up now forms the site of the row of houses on the right-hand side of Donkin Street. This municipal improvement forms the subject of the following pitiful “Lament.” Whatever may be thought of the merit of the verses, the author takes some credit for an eye to the “practical,” for the attempt to lead off the surface water through an underground culvert, resulted in the catastrophe predicted in the concluding verses within a very short time after the completion of the work.
Old residents of Port Elizabeth will remember the kloof running down between Donkin Street and Constitution Hill, which was spanned by a rude wooden foot-bridge just opposite Dr. Edwards’ residence. The kloof having been filled up now forms the site of the row of houses on the right-hand side of Donkin Street. This municipal improvement forms the subject of the following pitiful “Lament.” Whatever may be thought of the merit of the verses, the author takes some credit for an eye to the “practical,” for the attempt to lead off the surface water through an underground culvert, resulted in the catastrophe predicted in the concluding verses within a very short time after the completion of the work.
Ohlist, good folks, a tale of woe,A tale of dark oppression,Let briny tears your cheeks down flowIn sorrowful procession.Till late I trickled down the glen,In sunbeams gaily sparkling;But now, entombed by heartless men,I creep on cold and darkling.Beneath a huge chaotic massOf rubbish vile I mutter;Mid frogs and fungi rank, alas!A melancholy gutter.No more my channel, decked with green,Relieves the eye aweary.Its verdant slopes no more are seen,But all around is dreary.No more the breeze, with fitful sigh,Along my bed breathes mildly,No more, when Boreas blusters high,My caverns echo wildly.The rustic bridge, that bound my banksIn brotherhood together,Is torn away, and its rude planksAre gone—“the Board” knows whither.Away! a dire revenge I’ll brew;My rage, meanwhile, I’ll bung tight.That sordid “Board” the day shall rueWhen next I see the sunlight.When turbid torrents rushing passAdown my peeping square holes,Right through this execrable mass,I, madman like, will tear holes.I’ll heave aloft the lumb’ring load,And crashing down I’ll toss it,Till in the middle of the road[18]I make a “fixed deposit.”William Selwyn.
Ohlist, good folks, a tale of woe,A tale of dark oppression,Let briny tears your cheeks down flowIn sorrowful procession.Till late I trickled down the glen,In sunbeams gaily sparkling;But now, entombed by heartless men,I creep on cold and darkling.Beneath a huge chaotic massOf rubbish vile I mutter;Mid frogs and fungi rank, alas!A melancholy gutter.No more my channel, decked with green,Relieves the eye aweary.Its verdant slopes no more are seen,But all around is dreary.No more the breeze, with fitful sigh,Along my bed breathes mildly,No more, when Boreas blusters high,My caverns echo wildly.The rustic bridge, that bound my banksIn brotherhood together,Is torn away, and its rude planksAre gone—“the Board” knows whither.Away! a dire revenge I’ll brew;My rage, meanwhile, I’ll bung tight.That sordid “Board” the day shall rueWhen next I see the sunlight.When turbid torrents rushing passAdown my peeping square holes,Right through this execrable mass,I, madman like, will tear holes.I’ll heave aloft the lumb’ring load,And crashing down I’ll toss it,Till in the middle of the road[18]I make a “fixed deposit.”William Selwyn.
Ohlist, good folks, a tale of woe,A tale of dark oppression,Let briny tears your cheeks down flowIn sorrowful procession.
Till late I trickled down the glen,In sunbeams gaily sparkling;But now, entombed by heartless men,I creep on cold and darkling.
Beneath a huge chaotic massOf rubbish vile I mutter;Mid frogs and fungi rank, alas!A melancholy gutter.
No more my channel, decked with green,Relieves the eye aweary.Its verdant slopes no more are seen,But all around is dreary.
No more the breeze, with fitful sigh,Along my bed breathes mildly,No more, when Boreas blusters high,My caverns echo wildly.
The rustic bridge, that bound my banksIn brotherhood together,Is torn away, and its rude planksAre gone—“the Board” knows whither.
Away! a dire revenge I’ll brew;My rage, meanwhile, I’ll bung tight.That sordid “Board” the day shall rueWhen next I see the sunlight.
When turbid torrents rushing passAdown my peeping square holes,Right through this execrable mass,I, madman like, will tear holes.
I’ll heave aloft the lumb’ring load,And crashing down I’ll toss it,Till in the middle of the road[18]I make a “fixed deposit.”
William Selwyn.
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Oh! give me back my “salted” steed,They said, he would not die,They said of stable I’d no need,But told a dreadful lie.I let him out one moonlight night—Upon the grass he fed—And in the morning, cruel sight!My salted steed wasDEAD.I bought him with a good “Bewijs,”And thought to get my geld—So wrote a letter in a trice,And sent it through the veld;But when the man who sold him cameAnd opened his inside—He said the “paapjes” were to blame,And that was how he died!I’ve had a dozen steeds or more,Since that eventful day;But no more “salted” ones, be sure—That sort of thing don’t pay,For if a charger’s worth a sou,He’s worth his feed, I swear:And should he live, I laugh, don’t you?And should he die, don’t care.A. Brodrick.Transvaal.
Oh! give me back my “salted” steed,They said, he would not die,They said of stable I’d no need,But told a dreadful lie.I let him out one moonlight night—Upon the grass he fed—And in the morning, cruel sight!My salted steed wasDEAD.I bought him with a good “Bewijs,”And thought to get my geld—So wrote a letter in a trice,And sent it through the veld;But when the man who sold him cameAnd opened his inside—He said the “paapjes” were to blame,And that was how he died!I’ve had a dozen steeds or more,Since that eventful day;But no more “salted” ones, be sure—That sort of thing don’t pay,For if a charger’s worth a sou,He’s worth his feed, I swear:And should he live, I laugh, don’t you?And should he die, don’t care.A. Brodrick.Transvaal.
Oh! give me back my “salted” steed,They said, he would not die,They said of stable I’d no need,But told a dreadful lie.I let him out one moonlight night—Upon the grass he fed—And in the morning, cruel sight!My salted steed wasDEAD.
I bought him with a good “Bewijs,”And thought to get my geld—So wrote a letter in a trice,And sent it through the veld;But when the man who sold him cameAnd opened his inside—He said the “paapjes” were to blame,And that was how he died!
I’ve had a dozen steeds or more,Since that eventful day;But no more “salted” ones, be sure—That sort of thing don’t pay,For if a charger’s worth a sou,He’s worth his feed, I swear:And should he live, I laugh, don’t you?And should he die, don’t care.
A. Brodrick.
Transvaal.