Bythe way, as she flew,I may say,entre nous,Something fell from her pocket: it looked like a screwOf tobacco; but though she’s got capital jaws,I never yet found that her ladyship “chaws.”I picked it up carefully, undid the roll,And found nothing in it except a small scroll,Which is just in these words—for what I thought a “quid” is—“Happy the Nation Whose Princes Are Middies!”A. W. Cole.
Bythe way, as she flew,I may say,entre nous,Something fell from her pocket: it looked like a screwOf tobacco; but though she’s got capital jaws,I never yet found that her ladyship “chaws.”I picked it up carefully, undid the roll,And found nothing in it except a small scroll,Which is just in these words—for what I thought a “quid” is—“Happy the Nation Whose Princes Are Middies!”A. W. Cole.
Bythe way, as she flew,I may say,entre nous,Something fell from her pocket: it looked like a screwOf tobacco; but though she’s got capital jaws,I never yet found that her ladyship “chaws.”I picked it up carefully, undid the roll,And found nothing in it except a small scroll,Which is just in these words—for what I thought a “quid” is—“Happy the Nation Whose Princes Are Middies!”
A. W. Cole.
Theday was long sped,The stars overheadFor three hours or longer their glimmer had shed,Since the sun had retired remarkably red,As if the Atlantic had flown to his head,When Timothy Tadpole turned into his bed.It was Christmas night,And a beautiful sightWas each little star with his modest light,As if half afraidOf lending his aidTo the glorious canopy heaven displayed.Mr. Timothy Tadpole had dined that dayIn the ancient and orthodox Christmas way,Turkey and sausages, roast beef and ham,Plum-pudding and mince-pies, he’d managed to cram,With custards and syllabubs, jellies and jam;And claret and sherry,And champagne in veryLarge glasses, which every one voted the right tap;And port which they dish up,And call it a “bishop,”With lemons and nutmegs[19]by way of a “nightcap.”And many a toast,From the health of the hostTo the health of the fair one each tippler loved most,He had drunk, with a swallow few mortals can boast—And “Hip, hip, hooray!”He had shouted that dayIn a highly excited convivial way,’Mid Bacchanal ditties, and protests of scorningTo think of retiring to rest before morning.So when Timothy Tadpole turned into his bedAn ill-natured chronicler might p’r’aps have saidThat he carried a little too much in his head—An uncommon event, too, since Timothy’s brainsWere computed to weigh such a very few grainsThat in Timothy’s head you’d have found them as soonAs a pair of dried peas in the Nassau Balloon.And while Timothy lay,In a restless way,Turning, and twisting, and kicking, and rolling,That you couldn’t supposeHe’d a bit of repose,The bell of St. George’s was grimly tolling!Slowly, deeply, boomed the bell—Midnight hour! it seemed the knellOf hopes, joys, griefs, pains, pleasures dead,Gone with the short-lived day that was fled;Another day from the tiny spanThat makes the weal and woe of man!Yes, twelve at night—That hour of frightWhen ghosts pop out of their graves in white,And glide and slinkThrough keyhole or chink,Or up the chimney or down the sink;And frighten poor sinners, who quake as they tellOf the terrible sight—and the brimstone smell!As Timothy snored, and kicked, and rolled,And the bell of St. George’s grimly tolled,Just as the last stroke died on the airThe candle emitted a bluish glare,(For gentlemen coming home late at nightOften forget to extinguish the light;)It flickered, and spluttered, and out it wentWith a pop, and a hiss, and a nasty scent.And as it went out a ghost walked in!An orthodox ghost, with a churchyard grin;From the head to the feetWrapped in a sheetAs white as pure snow—so that, if a mancanguess,You’d fancy the ghost had a capital laundress.Yet the ghost, though pale, wasn’t lanky or lean,Like all ghosts that I’ve ever yet heard of or seen,But had rather a corpulent, greasy, fat look,Like an alderman’s ghost, or the ghost of a cook.As the ghost walked in poor Timothy woke,And the ghostly vision on Timothy broke;And Timothy’s eyeballs glare and stare,And up on end goes Timothy’s hair,And Timothy shivers with agitation,And his body’s quite damp with perspiration—A common effect of consternation.But as he lies quaking and shivering, still,With a resolute air,He cries, “Who’s there?”And the vision solemnly answers “Bill!”Bill! Bill who? Bill Smith? Bill Jones?For Bill’s a prænomen each family owns;So Timothy tries with might and mainTo guess which Bill, but all in vain;Till, shaking with horror through and through,He faintly stammers out “Bill who?”The ghostly accents seem to fillThe room as they answer, “Christmas Bill!I’m the ghost of the butcher’s bill! nothing can lay me:I’ll haunt you by day and by night till you pay me!”Timothy Tadpole groans with fright,And tries to shut out the horrid sight,When lo! a new ghost pops into light;And the ghost that now burst on the wretched sinnerWas very much paler and very much thinner(Though afterwards Tadpole remarked it as “rum,” heSpoke in a voice that was husky and crummy).As solemn and grave as an undertakerHe stalked forth and said, “I’mthe bill of the baker;I’ll dog you by night—I’ll settle your hash—I’ll never be still till you hand out the cash.”Again poor Timothy Tadpole groans,And turns and wriggles his weary bones,Trying to shut out the dreadful vision—When, alas and alack! there’s anewapparition!This ghost had an air so dapper and nice, heLooked for a spirit uncommonly spicy;But he turned a pitiless glance on Tim,As if with a look he’d annihilatehim,And in accents severe cried, “I’d have you to know, sir,ThatIam the Christmas bill of the grocer!You’ve eaten and stuffed, and you’ve had your fill,And now let us see what you’ve got in the till:I’ll polish you off in a manner that I knowIf you don’t pretty speedily fork out the rhino!”But alas and alack! a new one appears,The tailor’s bill, armed with the goose and the shears,And the bill of the bootmaker, gliding together;The latter quite “larking,”And pertly remarking,“Come, dub up, old fellow, there’s nothing like leather.”And the bill of the wine merchant, troubled with hiccups,And the bill of the hosier for collars called “stick-ups.”And round about his bed they flewHand in hand, this ghostly crew;And they tweaked his nose,And tickled his toes,And rained on his cheeks hard pinches and blows;And seemed to suppose it a capital lark, asThey stamped and jumped on his aching carcase.And aye as they went,The air was rentWith their shouting and yelling, and thus they gave vent:—“Pay us you must,Down with the dust;None of your “kites,”Wewillhave our rights;We’ll plague you and pinch you by days and by nights;We’ll grind you, and bind you, and force you to settle:None of your promises—out with the metal!”And Timothy vows that he ne’er heard before asAwful a noise as this terrible chorus!He writhed and he wriggled, he twisted and turned;His tongue was on fire—his head, how it burned!He struggled and kicked, gave a desperate roarAnd a plunge—and came heels over head on the floor.The chorus is done:One by oneThe ghosts have slipped off, having finished their fun.And Timothy creeps into bed again,Free from his terror, butnotfree from pain.The shades of the night like the spirits are flitting,Grey dawn on the tops of the mountains is sitting,And under the window a small bantam cockIs crowing—in fact, it is just four o’clock,As Timothy, spite of his terrors and bruises,Yawns, shakes up his pillow, and placidly snoozes!
Theday was long sped,The stars overheadFor three hours or longer their glimmer had shed,Since the sun had retired remarkably red,As if the Atlantic had flown to his head,When Timothy Tadpole turned into his bed.It was Christmas night,And a beautiful sightWas each little star with his modest light,As if half afraidOf lending his aidTo the glorious canopy heaven displayed.Mr. Timothy Tadpole had dined that dayIn the ancient and orthodox Christmas way,Turkey and sausages, roast beef and ham,Plum-pudding and mince-pies, he’d managed to cram,With custards and syllabubs, jellies and jam;And claret and sherry,And champagne in veryLarge glasses, which every one voted the right tap;And port which they dish up,And call it a “bishop,”With lemons and nutmegs[19]by way of a “nightcap.”And many a toast,From the health of the hostTo the health of the fair one each tippler loved most,He had drunk, with a swallow few mortals can boast—And “Hip, hip, hooray!”He had shouted that dayIn a highly excited convivial way,’Mid Bacchanal ditties, and protests of scorningTo think of retiring to rest before morning.So when Timothy Tadpole turned into his bedAn ill-natured chronicler might p’r’aps have saidThat he carried a little too much in his head—An uncommon event, too, since Timothy’s brainsWere computed to weigh such a very few grainsThat in Timothy’s head you’d have found them as soonAs a pair of dried peas in the Nassau Balloon.And while Timothy lay,In a restless way,Turning, and twisting, and kicking, and rolling,That you couldn’t supposeHe’d a bit of repose,The bell of St. George’s was grimly tolling!Slowly, deeply, boomed the bell—Midnight hour! it seemed the knellOf hopes, joys, griefs, pains, pleasures dead,Gone with the short-lived day that was fled;Another day from the tiny spanThat makes the weal and woe of man!Yes, twelve at night—That hour of frightWhen ghosts pop out of their graves in white,And glide and slinkThrough keyhole or chink,Or up the chimney or down the sink;And frighten poor sinners, who quake as they tellOf the terrible sight—and the brimstone smell!As Timothy snored, and kicked, and rolled,And the bell of St. George’s grimly tolled,Just as the last stroke died on the airThe candle emitted a bluish glare,(For gentlemen coming home late at nightOften forget to extinguish the light;)It flickered, and spluttered, and out it wentWith a pop, and a hiss, and a nasty scent.And as it went out a ghost walked in!An orthodox ghost, with a churchyard grin;From the head to the feetWrapped in a sheetAs white as pure snow—so that, if a mancanguess,You’d fancy the ghost had a capital laundress.Yet the ghost, though pale, wasn’t lanky or lean,Like all ghosts that I’ve ever yet heard of or seen,But had rather a corpulent, greasy, fat look,Like an alderman’s ghost, or the ghost of a cook.As the ghost walked in poor Timothy woke,And the ghostly vision on Timothy broke;And Timothy’s eyeballs glare and stare,And up on end goes Timothy’s hair,And Timothy shivers with agitation,And his body’s quite damp with perspiration—A common effect of consternation.But as he lies quaking and shivering, still,With a resolute air,He cries, “Who’s there?”And the vision solemnly answers “Bill!”Bill! Bill who? Bill Smith? Bill Jones?For Bill’s a prænomen each family owns;So Timothy tries with might and mainTo guess which Bill, but all in vain;Till, shaking with horror through and through,He faintly stammers out “Bill who?”The ghostly accents seem to fillThe room as they answer, “Christmas Bill!I’m the ghost of the butcher’s bill! nothing can lay me:I’ll haunt you by day and by night till you pay me!”Timothy Tadpole groans with fright,And tries to shut out the horrid sight,When lo! a new ghost pops into light;And the ghost that now burst on the wretched sinnerWas very much paler and very much thinner(Though afterwards Tadpole remarked it as “rum,” heSpoke in a voice that was husky and crummy).As solemn and grave as an undertakerHe stalked forth and said, “I’mthe bill of the baker;I’ll dog you by night—I’ll settle your hash—I’ll never be still till you hand out the cash.”Again poor Timothy Tadpole groans,And turns and wriggles his weary bones,Trying to shut out the dreadful vision—When, alas and alack! there’s anewapparition!This ghost had an air so dapper and nice, heLooked for a spirit uncommonly spicy;But he turned a pitiless glance on Tim,As if with a look he’d annihilatehim,And in accents severe cried, “I’d have you to know, sir,ThatIam the Christmas bill of the grocer!You’ve eaten and stuffed, and you’ve had your fill,And now let us see what you’ve got in the till:I’ll polish you off in a manner that I knowIf you don’t pretty speedily fork out the rhino!”But alas and alack! a new one appears,The tailor’s bill, armed with the goose and the shears,And the bill of the bootmaker, gliding together;The latter quite “larking,”And pertly remarking,“Come, dub up, old fellow, there’s nothing like leather.”And the bill of the wine merchant, troubled with hiccups,And the bill of the hosier for collars called “stick-ups.”And round about his bed they flewHand in hand, this ghostly crew;And they tweaked his nose,And tickled his toes,And rained on his cheeks hard pinches and blows;And seemed to suppose it a capital lark, asThey stamped and jumped on his aching carcase.And aye as they went,The air was rentWith their shouting and yelling, and thus they gave vent:—“Pay us you must,Down with the dust;None of your “kites,”Wewillhave our rights;We’ll plague you and pinch you by days and by nights;We’ll grind you, and bind you, and force you to settle:None of your promises—out with the metal!”And Timothy vows that he ne’er heard before asAwful a noise as this terrible chorus!He writhed and he wriggled, he twisted and turned;His tongue was on fire—his head, how it burned!He struggled and kicked, gave a desperate roarAnd a plunge—and came heels over head on the floor.The chorus is done:One by oneThe ghosts have slipped off, having finished their fun.And Timothy creeps into bed again,Free from his terror, butnotfree from pain.The shades of the night like the spirits are flitting,Grey dawn on the tops of the mountains is sitting,And under the window a small bantam cockIs crowing—in fact, it is just four o’clock,As Timothy, spite of his terrors and bruises,Yawns, shakes up his pillow, and placidly snoozes!
Theday was long sped,The stars overheadFor three hours or longer their glimmer had shed,Since the sun had retired remarkably red,As if the Atlantic had flown to his head,When Timothy Tadpole turned into his bed.
It was Christmas night,And a beautiful sightWas each little star with his modest light,As if half afraidOf lending his aidTo the glorious canopy heaven displayed.
Mr. Timothy Tadpole had dined that dayIn the ancient and orthodox Christmas way,Turkey and sausages, roast beef and ham,Plum-pudding and mince-pies, he’d managed to cram,With custards and syllabubs, jellies and jam;And claret and sherry,And champagne in veryLarge glasses, which every one voted the right tap;And port which they dish up,And call it a “bishop,”With lemons and nutmegs[19]by way of a “nightcap.”And many a toast,From the health of the hostTo the health of the fair one each tippler loved most,He had drunk, with a swallow few mortals can boast—And “Hip, hip, hooray!”He had shouted that dayIn a highly excited convivial way,’Mid Bacchanal ditties, and protests of scorningTo think of retiring to rest before morning.
So when Timothy Tadpole turned into his bedAn ill-natured chronicler might p’r’aps have saidThat he carried a little too much in his head—An uncommon event, too, since Timothy’s brainsWere computed to weigh such a very few grainsThat in Timothy’s head you’d have found them as soonAs a pair of dried peas in the Nassau Balloon.
And while Timothy lay,In a restless way,Turning, and twisting, and kicking, and rolling,That you couldn’t supposeHe’d a bit of repose,The bell of St. George’s was grimly tolling!
Slowly, deeply, boomed the bell—Midnight hour! it seemed the knellOf hopes, joys, griefs, pains, pleasures dead,Gone with the short-lived day that was fled;Another day from the tiny spanThat makes the weal and woe of man!Yes, twelve at night—That hour of frightWhen ghosts pop out of their graves in white,And glide and slinkThrough keyhole or chink,Or up the chimney or down the sink;And frighten poor sinners, who quake as they tellOf the terrible sight—and the brimstone smell!
As Timothy snored, and kicked, and rolled,And the bell of St. George’s grimly tolled,Just as the last stroke died on the airThe candle emitted a bluish glare,(For gentlemen coming home late at nightOften forget to extinguish the light;)It flickered, and spluttered, and out it wentWith a pop, and a hiss, and a nasty scent.
And as it went out a ghost walked in!An orthodox ghost, with a churchyard grin;From the head to the feetWrapped in a sheetAs white as pure snow—so that, if a mancanguess,You’d fancy the ghost had a capital laundress.
Yet the ghost, though pale, wasn’t lanky or lean,Like all ghosts that I’ve ever yet heard of or seen,But had rather a corpulent, greasy, fat look,Like an alderman’s ghost, or the ghost of a cook.
As the ghost walked in poor Timothy woke,And the ghostly vision on Timothy broke;And Timothy’s eyeballs glare and stare,And up on end goes Timothy’s hair,And Timothy shivers with agitation,And his body’s quite damp with perspiration—A common effect of consternation.
But as he lies quaking and shivering, still,With a resolute air,He cries, “Who’s there?”And the vision solemnly answers “Bill!”Bill! Bill who? Bill Smith? Bill Jones?For Bill’s a prænomen each family owns;So Timothy tries with might and mainTo guess which Bill, but all in vain;Till, shaking with horror through and through,He faintly stammers out “Bill who?”
The ghostly accents seem to fillThe room as they answer, “Christmas Bill!I’m the ghost of the butcher’s bill! nothing can lay me:I’ll haunt you by day and by night till you pay me!”
Timothy Tadpole groans with fright,And tries to shut out the horrid sight,When lo! a new ghost pops into light;And the ghost that now burst on the wretched sinnerWas very much paler and very much thinner(Though afterwards Tadpole remarked it as “rum,” heSpoke in a voice that was husky and crummy).As solemn and grave as an undertakerHe stalked forth and said, “I’mthe bill of the baker;I’ll dog you by night—I’ll settle your hash—I’ll never be still till you hand out the cash.”Again poor Timothy Tadpole groans,And turns and wriggles his weary bones,Trying to shut out the dreadful vision—When, alas and alack! there’s anewapparition!
This ghost had an air so dapper and nice, heLooked for a spirit uncommonly spicy;But he turned a pitiless glance on Tim,As if with a look he’d annihilatehim,And in accents severe cried, “I’d have you to know, sir,ThatIam the Christmas bill of the grocer!You’ve eaten and stuffed, and you’ve had your fill,And now let us see what you’ve got in the till:I’ll polish you off in a manner that I knowIf you don’t pretty speedily fork out the rhino!”
But alas and alack! a new one appears,The tailor’s bill, armed with the goose and the shears,And the bill of the bootmaker, gliding together;The latter quite “larking,”And pertly remarking,“Come, dub up, old fellow, there’s nothing like leather.”And the bill of the wine merchant, troubled with hiccups,And the bill of the hosier for collars called “stick-ups.”
And round about his bed they flewHand in hand, this ghostly crew;And they tweaked his nose,And tickled his toes,And rained on his cheeks hard pinches and blows;And seemed to suppose it a capital lark, asThey stamped and jumped on his aching carcase.
And aye as they went,The air was rentWith their shouting and yelling, and thus they gave vent:—“Pay us you must,Down with the dust;None of your “kites,”Wewillhave our rights;We’ll plague you and pinch you by days and by nights;We’ll grind you, and bind you, and force you to settle:None of your promises—out with the metal!”
And Timothy vows that he ne’er heard before asAwful a noise as this terrible chorus!He writhed and he wriggled, he twisted and turned;His tongue was on fire—his head, how it burned!He struggled and kicked, gave a desperate roarAnd a plunge—and came heels over head on the floor.The chorus is done:One by oneThe ghosts have slipped off, having finished their fun.
And Timothy creeps into bed again,Free from his terror, butnotfree from pain.The shades of the night like the spirits are flitting,Grey dawn on the tops of the mountains is sitting,And under the window a small bantam cockIs crowing—in fact, it is just four o’clock,As Timothy, spite of his terrors and bruises,Yawns, shakes up his pillow, and placidly snoozes!
Don’t drink like a fish, and don’t feed like a glutton;Don’t forget to cash up for your beef and your mutton,Your bread and your sugar, your wine and your Allsop;In short,allyour bills, and I hope they’re a small crop.If a tradesman you robYou act like a snob,And you’ll find out, moreover, you’ve done a bad job.So seize on the present,Pay up and look pleasant;Think of Timothy Tadpole—that terrible sight there—A legion of bills makes a deuce of a nightmare!A. W. Cole.
Don’t drink like a fish, and don’t feed like a glutton;Don’t forget to cash up for your beef and your mutton,Your bread and your sugar, your wine and your Allsop;In short,allyour bills, and I hope they’re a small crop.If a tradesman you robYou act like a snob,And you’ll find out, moreover, you’ve done a bad job.So seize on the present,Pay up and look pleasant;Think of Timothy Tadpole—that terrible sight there—A legion of bills makes a deuce of a nightmare!A. W. Cole.
Don’t drink like a fish, and don’t feed like a glutton;Don’t forget to cash up for your beef and your mutton,Your bread and your sugar, your wine and your Allsop;In short,allyour bills, and I hope they’re a small crop.If a tradesman you robYou act like a snob,And you’ll find out, moreover, you’ve done a bad job.So seize on the present,Pay up and look pleasant;Think of Timothy Tadpole—that terrible sight there—A legion of bills makes a deuce of a nightmare!
A. W. Cole.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Tellme, where is Freedom’s home?In forest wild—on ocean’s foam,Amidst the laughing airOf sunny skies?Or is it whereThe soft voluptuary liesIn rich luxuriousness ’neath marble dome?Or does it dwell by moss-grown cellWhere the lone hermit woos the sylvan glen,Deeming his mind, in solitude enshrined,Blest with its happiness afar from men?Tell me, which is Freedom’s path?Where the step no limit hath,As lightly borne alongThe smiling earthMan tunes his songTo soul-enamoured mirth,Devoid of care and undisturbed by wrath?Or when with schemes enwrapt in dreamsThe young enthusiast on Hope’s golden wings,By love inspired and ardent fancy fired,Replenishes life’s cup from pleasure’s springs.Tell me, then, does Freedom’s spellRevel in the battle’s knell,When the trumpet’s toneBetokens death,And a soul is goneIn every passing breath,Whilst war’s loud clangour drowns each wild farewell,When o’er the grave of the fallen braveMemory’s bright tribute echoes Glory’s claim?And was the cause, which sought the world’s applause,Inspired by Freedom’s or Ambition’s aim?Tell me, where does Freedom’s cryRaise its purest notes on high?Oh, not within the hallsWhere Faction’s tongueExcited calls,As if th’ appeal it rungWould burst the bonds of every social tie.The brightest claim to lasting fameIs when in spirit, fired with honest pride,The patriot’s deed stirs nations to be freed,As when a Hampden fell, or Sidney died.Freedom, where is then thy home?Eye may range and steps may roam,And splendour vaunt its joys,And he whose breastThe false world cloysIn solitude feel blest,And fancy sport with some ideal gnome;The pride of might, in war delight,When the earth, bloodstained, rings with victory,But, amongst all, who on thy spirit call,Burns there a pure and sacred love of thee?Freedom, thou of name sublime,Born coeval with all time,Can riches, arms,Or power impartThy courted charms,Unless the human heartInsures thy smiles unsullied with a crime?As when the soul from earth’s controlOn the bright wings of Faith mounts up on high,And offers prayer, in humble hope,—for whereGod’s spirit dwells, oh, there is Liberty!G. L.
Tellme, where is Freedom’s home?In forest wild—on ocean’s foam,Amidst the laughing airOf sunny skies?Or is it whereThe soft voluptuary liesIn rich luxuriousness ’neath marble dome?Or does it dwell by moss-grown cellWhere the lone hermit woos the sylvan glen,Deeming his mind, in solitude enshrined,Blest with its happiness afar from men?Tell me, which is Freedom’s path?Where the step no limit hath,As lightly borne alongThe smiling earthMan tunes his songTo soul-enamoured mirth,Devoid of care and undisturbed by wrath?Or when with schemes enwrapt in dreamsThe young enthusiast on Hope’s golden wings,By love inspired and ardent fancy fired,Replenishes life’s cup from pleasure’s springs.Tell me, then, does Freedom’s spellRevel in the battle’s knell,When the trumpet’s toneBetokens death,And a soul is goneIn every passing breath,Whilst war’s loud clangour drowns each wild farewell,When o’er the grave of the fallen braveMemory’s bright tribute echoes Glory’s claim?And was the cause, which sought the world’s applause,Inspired by Freedom’s or Ambition’s aim?Tell me, where does Freedom’s cryRaise its purest notes on high?Oh, not within the hallsWhere Faction’s tongueExcited calls,As if th’ appeal it rungWould burst the bonds of every social tie.The brightest claim to lasting fameIs when in spirit, fired with honest pride,The patriot’s deed stirs nations to be freed,As when a Hampden fell, or Sidney died.Freedom, where is then thy home?Eye may range and steps may roam,And splendour vaunt its joys,And he whose breastThe false world cloysIn solitude feel blest,And fancy sport with some ideal gnome;The pride of might, in war delight,When the earth, bloodstained, rings with victory,But, amongst all, who on thy spirit call,Burns there a pure and sacred love of thee?Freedom, thou of name sublime,Born coeval with all time,Can riches, arms,Or power impartThy courted charms,Unless the human heartInsures thy smiles unsullied with a crime?As when the soul from earth’s controlOn the bright wings of Faith mounts up on high,And offers prayer, in humble hope,—for whereGod’s spirit dwells, oh, there is Liberty!G. L.
Tellme, where is Freedom’s home?In forest wild—on ocean’s foam,Amidst the laughing airOf sunny skies?Or is it whereThe soft voluptuary liesIn rich luxuriousness ’neath marble dome?Or does it dwell by moss-grown cellWhere the lone hermit woos the sylvan glen,Deeming his mind, in solitude enshrined,Blest with its happiness afar from men?
Tell me, which is Freedom’s path?Where the step no limit hath,As lightly borne alongThe smiling earthMan tunes his songTo soul-enamoured mirth,Devoid of care and undisturbed by wrath?Or when with schemes enwrapt in dreamsThe young enthusiast on Hope’s golden wings,By love inspired and ardent fancy fired,Replenishes life’s cup from pleasure’s springs.
Tell me, then, does Freedom’s spellRevel in the battle’s knell,When the trumpet’s toneBetokens death,And a soul is goneIn every passing breath,Whilst war’s loud clangour drowns each wild farewell,When o’er the grave of the fallen braveMemory’s bright tribute echoes Glory’s claim?And was the cause, which sought the world’s applause,Inspired by Freedom’s or Ambition’s aim?
Tell me, where does Freedom’s cryRaise its purest notes on high?Oh, not within the hallsWhere Faction’s tongueExcited calls,As if th’ appeal it rungWould burst the bonds of every social tie.The brightest claim to lasting fameIs when in spirit, fired with honest pride,The patriot’s deed stirs nations to be freed,As when a Hampden fell, or Sidney died.
Freedom, where is then thy home?Eye may range and steps may roam,And splendour vaunt its joys,And he whose breastThe false world cloysIn solitude feel blest,And fancy sport with some ideal gnome;The pride of might, in war delight,When the earth, bloodstained, rings with victory,But, amongst all, who on thy spirit call,Burns there a pure and sacred love of thee?
Freedom, thou of name sublime,Born coeval with all time,Can riches, arms,Or power impartThy courted charms,Unless the human heartInsures thy smiles unsullied with a crime?As when the soul from earth’s controlOn the bright wings of Faith mounts up on high,And offers prayer, in humble hope,—for whereGod’s spirit dwells, oh, there is Liberty!
G. L.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Atearlet us give for the gallant “Teuton,”And bewail the unfortunate dead,And a wail let us raise for the friends that are gone,As they sleep in their watery bed.A wild shriek rings forth from the crowded deck,Borne aloft on the wings of the breeze,And a cry of despair lingers over the wreckAs she sinks to her berth in the seas.The screaming sea-mew plumes his wings o’er their head,As he rides at his ease o’er the wave,While the wailing sea-gull swoops down o’er the dead,And sports on their watery grave.And the ravenous shark from his cave of gloomHurries forth through the dark ocean’s depth,And frolicking round their wave-hidden tomb,He gloats o’er the havoc of death.Then a tear let us shed for the gallant “Teuton,”And bewail the unfortunate dead,While the screaming sea-mew sings their funeral song,As he rides o’er their watery bed.H. Hartwell.
Atearlet us give for the gallant “Teuton,”And bewail the unfortunate dead,And a wail let us raise for the friends that are gone,As they sleep in their watery bed.A wild shriek rings forth from the crowded deck,Borne aloft on the wings of the breeze,And a cry of despair lingers over the wreckAs she sinks to her berth in the seas.The screaming sea-mew plumes his wings o’er their head,As he rides at his ease o’er the wave,While the wailing sea-gull swoops down o’er the dead,And sports on their watery grave.And the ravenous shark from his cave of gloomHurries forth through the dark ocean’s depth,And frolicking round their wave-hidden tomb,He gloats o’er the havoc of death.Then a tear let us shed for the gallant “Teuton,”And bewail the unfortunate dead,While the screaming sea-mew sings their funeral song,As he rides o’er their watery bed.H. Hartwell.
Atearlet us give for the gallant “Teuton,”And bewail the unfortunate dead,And a wail let us raise for the friends that are gone,As they sleep in their watery bed.
A wild shriek rings forth from the crowded deck,Borne aloft on the wings of the breeze,And a cry of despair lingers over the wreckAs she sinks to her berth in the seas.
The screaming sea-mew plumes his wings o’er their head,As he rides at his ease o’er the wave,While the wailing sea-gull swoops down o’er the dead,And sports on their watery grave.
And the ravenous shark from his cave of gloomHurries forth through the dark ocean’s depth,And frolicking round their wave-hidden tomb,He gloats o’er the havoc of death.
Then a tear let us shed for the gallant “Teuton,”And bewail the unfortunate dead,While the screaming sea-mew sings their funeral song,As he rides o’er their watery bed.
H. Hartwell.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Thesunny hills of Africa, how picturesque and grand,While clothed in mist the vales lie hid, like some dark spirit-landThe mountains in the distance seen, like hoary castles rise,And banks of clouds suspended hang, like icebergs in the skies.The flowery fields of Africa, how beautiful and gay,The fairest blossoms deck the plains, and perfume fills the May,While gushing streams from every kloof spread o’er the verdant green,And browsing game upon the lands add beauty to the scene.The country homes of Africa, where are their equals found?A welcome always greets the ear, and gladness reigns around;And as one cosily reclines upon the snow-white fleece,He feels a thrill of thankfulness, of gratitude and peace.Then should we not love Africa, and speak of her with pride,And hang to her and cling to her whatever may betide?And though we yield to other lands the palm for scenes of mirth,Our song shall be for Africa—the land that gave us birth.H. Hartwell.
Thesunny hills of Africa, how picturesque and grand,While clothed in mist the vales lie hid, like some dark spirit-landThe mountains in the distance seen, like hoary castles rise,And banks of clouds suspended hang, like icebergs in the skies.The flowery fields of Africa, how beautiful and gay,The fairest blossoms deck the plains, and perfume fills the May,While gushing streams from every kloof spread o’er the verdant green,And browsing game upon the lands add beauty to the scene.The country homes of Africa, where are their equals found?A welcome always greets the ear, and gladness reigns around;And as one cosily reclines upon the snow-white fleece,He feels a thrill of thankfulness, of gratitude and peace.Then should we not love Africa, and speak of her with pride,And hang to her and cling to her whatever may betide?And though we yield to other lands the palm for scenes of mirth,Our song shall be for Africa—the land that gave us birth.H. Hartwell.
Thesunny hills of Africa, how picturesque and grand,While clothed in mist the vales lie hid, like some dark spirit-landThe mountains in the distance seen, like hoary castles rise,And banks of clouds suspended hang, like icebergs in the skies.
The flowery fields of Africa, how beautiful and gay,The fairest blossoms deck the plains, and perfume fills the May,While gushing streams from every kloof spread o’er the verdant green,And browsing game upon the lands add beauty to the scene.
The country homes of Africa, where are their equals found?A welcome always greets the ear, and gladness reigns around;And as one cosily reclines upon the snow-white fleece,He feels a thrill of thankfulness, of gratitude and peace.
Then should we not love Africa, and speak of her with pride,And hang to her and cling to her whatever may betide?And though we yield to other lands the palm for scenes of mirth,Our song shall be for Africa—the land that gave us birth.
H. Hartwell.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Thoutype of mysteries revealed,In man forgiven;And plainest record of the book unsealed,Of starry Heaven!God’s pictured Word, from age to age;Alike familiar to the child and sage—In fourfold harmony; like Christ’s Evangel page.How mean to thee this world of sin,This atom earth!Or all the ponderous globes that swing withinIts astral girth.Arcturus and his offspring fair—Where are they? Mazzaroth—Orion, where?And Pleiades? All, all eclipsed—for thou art there.’Tis well, when Keills and Newtons writeWith pens of gold;That ages numberless have winged their flight,Myriads untold!Since thou’st been there; since thou hast taughtHow, in His plan, who man’s redemption wrought,That mystery of love was not an afterthought.Ten thousand worlds have learned of thee(Messiah’s sign),What happier eyes were privileged to seeIn Palestine.But thou, unknown to Eastern seer,Or king, or priest—we hail with reverence here—Great harbinger of joy; to this our Ocean-sphere!So dread we not the wondrous day,O holy Cross!When structures formed of stubble, wood, and hay,Shall suffer loss.When Time’s probation shall have past,And heaven’s high starry cope her orbs shall cast,Even as a tree her fruit, before the felling blast.For thou immortal ensign bright,Art still secure;When worlds and suns and systems sink in nightThou shalt endure.Endure—Redemption’s emblem sweet,Nor from Creation’s altered map retreat,Nor pass away with noise, nor melt with fervent heat.Till then, may faith and hope increase,Firm, fixed above;And make us with ourselves at heavenly peace—True type of love!Mid elemental tumults rifePoint us to Him, the Way, the Truth, the Life,Rock Rimmon of our peace, to heal Baal-tamar’s strife.Stafford Cruikshanks.
Thoutype of mysteries revealed,In man forgiven;And plainest record of the book unsealed,Of starry Heaven!God’s pictured Word, from age to age;Alike familiar to the child and sage—In fourfold harmony; like Christ’s Evangel page.How mean to thee this world of sin,This atom earth!Or all the ponderous globes that swing withinIts astral girth.Arcturus and his offspring fair—Where are they? Mazzaroth—Orion, where?And Pleiades? All, all eclipsed—for thou art there.’Tis well, when Keills and Newtons writeWith pens of gold;That ages numberless have winged their flight,Myriads untold!Since thou’st been there; since thou hast taughtHow, in His plan, who man’s redemption wrought,That mystery of love was not an afterthought.Ten thousand worlds have learned of thee(Messiah’s sign),What happier eyes were privileged to seeIn Palestine.But thou, unknown to Eastern seer,Or king, or priest—we hail with reverence here—Great harbinger of joy; to this our Ocean-sphere!So dread we not the wondrous day,O holy Cross!When structures formed of stubble, wood, and hay,Shall suffer loss.When Time’s probation shall have past,And heaven’s high starry cope her orbs shall cast,Even as a tree her fruit, before the felling blast.For thou immortal ensign bright,Art still secure;When worlds and suns and systems sink in nightThou shalt endure.Endure—Redemption’s emblem sweet,Nor from Creation’s altered map retreat,Nor pass away with noise, nor melt with fervent heat.Till then, may faith and hope increase,Firm, fixed above;And make us with ourselves at heavenly peace—True type of love!Mid elemental tumults rifePoint us to Him, the Way, the Truth, the Life,Rock Rimmon of our peace, to heal Baal-tamar’s strife.Stafford Cruikshanks.
Thoutype of mysteries revealed,In man forgiven;And plainest record of the book unsealed,Of starry Heaven!God’s pictured Word, from age to age;Alike familiar to the child and sage—In fourfold harmony; like Christ’s Evangel page.
How mean to thee this world of sin,This atom earth!Or all the ponderous globes that swing withinIts astral girth.Arcturus and his offspring fair—Where are they? Mazzaroth—Orion, where?And Pleiades? All, all eclipsed—for thou art there.
’Tis well, when Keills and Newtons writeWith pens of gold;That ages numberless have winged their flight,Myriads untold!Since thou’st been there; since thou hast taughtHow, in His plan, who man’s redemption wrought,That mystery of love was not an afterthought.
Ten thousand worlds have learned of thee(Messiah’s sign),What happier eyes were privileged to seeIn Palestine.But thou, unknown to Eastern seer,Or king, or priest—we hail with reverence here—Great harbinger of joy; to this our Ocean-sphere!
So dread we not the wondrous day,O holy Cross!When structures formed of stubble, wood, and hay,Shall suffer loss.When Time’s probation shall have past,And heaven’s high starry cope her orbs shall cast,Even as a tree her fruit, before the felling blast.
For thou immortal ensign bright,Art still secure;When worlds and suns and systems sink in nightThou shalt endure.Endure—Redemption’s emblem sweet,Nor from Creation’s altered map retreat,Nor pass away with noise, nor melt with fervent heat.
Till then, may faith and hope increase,Firm, fixed above;And make us with ourselves at heavenly peace—True type of love!Mid elemental tumults rifePoint us to Him, the Way, the Truth, the Life,Rock Rimmon of our peace, to heal Baal-tamar’s strife.
Stafford Cruikshanks.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Themighty falls: Time’s restless wingHas sped the day,For him!—beloved as Camelot’s blameless king—To pass away.And briny tears bedew the dateIn which that life so marvellously great,Our friend—grand Porter’s self—succumbs, at last, to Fate.He died at home: his labour ceasedWhere it began;While gathering honours, with his years increased;Colossal man!To Africa—that long abode,His work and love discharged the debt he owed;Long toil of years—to him—Life’s grandest Episode.The Libyan clime, in youth becameHis destined soil;Where Time and Fate, the laurels of his fame,Can ne’er despoil.A grateful continent shall pourHer griefs for him whose face we see no more:And mourn as great a man as ever touched her shore.Mourn, soil of grief, your champion bold,Whose work is done;Mourn, land of Ham, as Egypt did of old,For Jacob’s son.The mighty falls!—the Chieftain high—Whose worth not Vaal nor Treasury could buy,Had reached his native land, and reached it but to die.Approach his grave; oh, sight sublime!“Last scene of all.”Let kindred spirits of the olden timeAttend his pall.First that Athenian, who aloneIn days of tyranny—not since unknown—With voice of thunder moved the Macedonian throne.Let Aristides, too, be there—The just one still;’Tis not in Death—on land, or sea, or air,Such minds to kill.Let mighty shades press to the van—From Cataline’s arraigner to the manWho raised a righteous wail for injured Hindostan.Let crowding myriads view in tears,The hero’s grave;Earth yields to earth; a mortal disappears,No love can save.Lost but to sight; in fame alive,Long shall his name our blinding tears survive,And numbers from his dust, true virtue long derive.Repose, great one, in lasting restDear friends among;What rank, what tribe, what country loved thee bestRemains unsung.Pride of the Senate and the Bar!’Tis ours, alas! to wail thy loss afar,Who ’neath the Southern Cross long hailed thee as a star.Thou wert our Statesman—to applyWise counsels best;No selfish partisan to raise a cryFor East or West.Prepared for Right to stand or fall—Deaf to the foeman’s threat, or bigot’s call—’Twas thine to live and die, the sire and friend of all.Who shall succeed thee in our love?Who fill thy chair?Shall we, ignoring succour from above,Yield to despair?No, never, while in hour of needA champion stands, as he who runs may read—A Sprigg well worthy power; yea, Porter to succeed.Stafford Cruikshanks.
Themighty falls: Time’s restless wingHas sped the day,For him!—beloved as Camelot’s blameless king—To pass away.And briny tears bedew the dateIn which that life so marvellously great,Our friend—grand Porter’s self—succumbs, at last, to Fate.He died at home: his labour ceasedWhere it began;While gathering honours, with his years increased;Colossal man!To Africa—that long abode,His work and love discharged the debt he owed;Long toil of years—to him—Life’s grandest Episode.The Libyan clime, in youth becameHis destined soil;Where Time and Fate, the laurels of his fame,Can ne’er despoil.A grateful continent shall pourHer griefs for him whose face we see no more:And mourn as great a man as ever touched her shore.Mourn, soil of grief, your champion bold,Whose work is done;Mourn, land of Ham, as Egypt did of old,For Jacob’s son.The mighty falls!—the Chieftain high—Whose worth not Vaal nor Treasury could buy,Had reached his native land, and reached it but to die.Approach his grave; oh, sight sublime!“Last scene of all.”Let kindred spirits of the olden timeAttend his pall.First that Athenian, who aloneIn days of tyranny—not since unknown—With voice of thunder moved the Macedonian throne.Let Aristides, too, be there—The just one still;’Tis not in Death—on land, or sea, or air,Such minds to kill.Let mighty shades press to the van—From Cataline’s arraigner to the manWho raised a righteous wail for injured Hindostan.Let crowding myriads view in tears,The hero’s grave;Earth yields to earth; a mortal disappears,No love can save.Lost but to sight; in fame alive,Long shall his name our blinding tears survive,And numbers from his dust, true virtue long derive.Repose, great one, in lasting restDear friends among;What rank, what tribe, what country loved thee bestRemains unsung.Pride of the Senate and the Bar!’Tis ours, alas! to wail thy loss afar,Who ’neath the Southern Cross long hailed thee as a star.Thou wert our Statesman—to applyWise counsels best;No selfish partisan to raise a cryFor East or West.Prepared for Right to stand or fall—Deaf to the foeman’s threat, or bigot’s call—’Twas thine to live and die, the sire and friend of all.Who shall succeed thee in our love?Who fill thy chair?Shall we, ignoring succour from above,Yield to despair?No, never, while in hour of needA champion stands, as he who runs may read—A Sprigg well worthy power; yea, Porter to succeed.Stafford Cruikshanks.
Themighty falls: Time’s restless wingHas sped the day,For him!—beloved as Camelot’s blameless king—To pass away.And briny tears bedew the dateIn which that life so marvellously great,Our friend—grand Porter’s self—succumbs, at last, to Fate.
He died at home: his labour ceasedWhere it began;While gathering honours, with his years increased;Colossal man!To Africa—that long abode,His work and love discharged the debt he owed;Long toil of years—to him—Life’s grandest Episode.
The Libyan clime, in youth becameHis destined soil;Where Time and Fate, the laurels of his fame,Can ne’er despoil.A grateful continent shall pourHer griefs for him whose face we see no more:And mourn as great a man as ever touched her shore.
Mourn, soil of grief, your champion bold,Whose work is done;Mourn, land of Ham, as Egypt did of old,For Jacob’s son.The mighty falls!—the Chieftain high—Whose worth not Vaal nor Treasury could buy,Had reached his native land, and reached it but to die.
Approach his grave; oh, sight sublime!“Last scene of all.”Let kindred spirits of the olden timeAttend his pall.First that Athenian, who aloneIn days of tyranny—not since unknown—With voice of thunder moved the Macedonian throne.
Let Aristides, too, be there—The just one still;’Tis not in Death—on land, or sea, or air,Such minds to kill.Let mighty shades press to the van—From Cataline’s arraigner to the manWho raised a righteous wail for injured Hindostan.
Let crowding myriads view in tears,The hero’s grave;Earth yields to earth; a mortal disappears,No love can save.Lost but to sight; in fame alive,Long shall his name our blinding tears survive,And numbers from his dust, true virtue long derive.
Repose, great one, in lasting restDear friends among;What rank, what tribe, what country loved thee bestRemains unsung.Pride of the Senate and the Bar!’Tis ours, alas! to wail thy loss afar,Who ’neath the Southern Cross long hailed thee as a star.
Thou wert our Statesman—to applyWise counsels best;No selfish partisan to raise a cryFor East or West.Prepared for Right to stand or fall—Deaf to the foeman’s threat, or bigot’s call—’Twas thine to live and die, the sire and friend of all.
Who shall succeed thee in our love?Who fill thy chair?Shall we, ignoring succour from above,Yield to despair?No, never, while in hour of needA champion stands, as he who runs may read—A Sprigg well worthy power; yea, Porter to succeed.
Stafford Cruikshanks.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Epochof hope! Auspicious year;Our pride to see;Hail to thy bright eventful advent here—Grand Jubilee!Since on these shores—our lot was cast,Of years, seven Sabbaths number with the past;Thy dawn, O sacred year! proclaim we now at last.Chime for the Settlers’ Jubilee,—Spire, turret, fane!Resound abroad, with quickening ecstasy,The proud refrain.Late, by the Gospel-trumpet called—O Africa! in Satan’s bondage galled,Shout for the Jubilee, with spirit disenthralled.Kloof, table-land, and peak sublime,Take up the peal;Chide o’er this wondrous, Heaven-acknowledged clime,Man’s flagging zeal.From that far bound, where hope first roseOn Lusitanian Vasco’s gathering woes,To regions far beyond—where Transvaal Jordan flows.How vast in prospect, mortal man,One Spring appears!In retrospect, how limited the spanOf fifty years!Yet gaze around,—how few remain,Who, in this land, first shared our joy or pain!Nor doubt we, honoured dead, our loss has been your gain.Shamgars and Jairs! our heroes true,Your types of yoreGain not by fair comparison with you,In heaven-sent lore.No chief, on Seir’s, or Bochim’s brow,Not Gera’s son, nor him of “the rash vow,”In zeal, for cause of right—transcends your glory now.Your god-like clemency to life,In conflicts fell;The Zeebs and Orebs of each mortal strife,Survive to tell.The ruthless hand, with dagger bared,In hour of conquest, by your mercy spared,Has since, as that of friend, your love and bounty shared.Far better learned your skill to pierceThe forest King;Transfix grim Isgram, or the tiger fierce,In his death-spring.Like Kabzeel’s Worthy who could dare,In time of snow, to savage haunts repair,And slay the monster huge, e’en in his gory lair.Not gold but prowess then was fame,Throughout this land;True stalwart valour was the test of claimTo Beauty’s hand.What marvel to acquire such bays,Each tried to emulate his fellow’s praise?Oh, there were mighty men,—yea, “giants in those days”—Then learned Moodie, Temlett sage,And valiant Graham,Bequeathed, in turn, to the historic page,A lasting name.As others of no mean degree,Whose statesmen ken, and iron chivalryMight worthily attain the rank of “the first Three.”This of the dead,—embalmed in tears,In fame alive;And can we less revere their loved compeers,Who still survive?Ah no! their lives, to many a prayer,Long, very long, may Heaven benignly spare,And long each honoured brow its crown of glory wear.Unwooed, chaste Clio, ever young,Descends to saveHer British Settlers from Detraction’s tongue,And Lethe’s wave.The names of the adventurous few,Her lamp of Truth displays aloft in view,Enshrined among the world’s regenerators true.Unutterably fair, behold,The goddess bright!In form and visage of ethereal mould,Enrobed in light!With golden harps—a seraph band,Less prominent her tuneful sisters stand—And thus a child of earth receives her high command:—“Thou, favoured of the Vestal Nine;Forensic Cole!The special delegated task be thine,Beyond control;To celebrate this Jubilee—In Delphic tones—not uninspired by me,That envy’s self shall mark, for immortality.Fail not to chronicle a state,Beset with woes,When, like Apollo, on its vision—lateWise Porter rose;Embodiment of Hyde and Hume—My future Aristides to assumeIn every council sway, and change a nation’s doom.”It comes! the dawn of brighter times—When, to our shores,The ships of Chittim and remoter climesShall bend their oars!When Africa, distressed no more,Shall nobly emulate Columbia’s shore,In European might, and Asiatic lore.It comes, it comes! ye brethren dear,Loud swell the song;Lo, balmy Abib ushers in the year,Expected long!Illustrious in your thousands come!High in your ancestors’ adopted home,Raise to triumphal notes the grand memorial dome.Rouse, Jubilants, by Truth made free,Stand ever true;Nor be your sires Promethean energyExtinct in you.Forget not,—even in Canaan’s land,Though borne to conquest—with a mighty hand,Your faithfulness to prove—unconquered nations stand.Thrones raised upon our primal fall,Yet mock the skies!Fierce and unvanquished still,—yea, worthy allYour war emprize.Press, in His cause, expectant on,Whose sovereign Presence, ever unwithdrawnInspires our Faith and Hope, in this Millennial dawn.Stafford Cruikshanks.
Epochof hope! Auspicious year;Our pride to see;Hail to thy bright eventful advent here—Grand Jubilee!Since on these shores—our lot was cast,Of years, seven Sabbaths number with the past;Thy dawn, O sacred year! proclaim we now at last.Chime for the Settlers’ Jubilee,—Spire, turret, fane!Resound abroad, with quickening ecstasy,The proud refrain.Late, by the Gospel-trumpet called—O Africa! in Satan’s bondage galled,Shout for the Jubilee, with spirit disenthralled.Kloof, table-land, and peak sublime,Take up the peal;Chide o’er this wondrous, Heaven-acknowledged clime,Man’s flagging zeal.From that far bound, where hope first roseOn Lusitanian Vasco’s gathering woes,To regions far beyond—where Transvaal Jordan flows.How vast in prospect, mortal man,One Spring appears!In retrospect, how limited the spanOf fifty years!Yet gaze around,—how few remain,Who, in this land, first shared our joy or pain!Nor doubt we, honoured dead, our loss has been your gain.Shamgars and Jairs! our heroes true,Your types of yoreGain not by fair comparison with you,In heaven-sent lore.No chief, on Seir’s, or Bochim’s brow,Not Gera’s son, nor him of “the rash vow,”In zeal, for cause of right—transcends your glory now.Your god-like clemency to life,In conflicts fell;The Zeebs and Orebs of each mortal strife,Survive to tell.The ruthless hand, with dagger bared,In hour of conquest, by your mercy spared,Has since, as that of friend, your love and bounty shared.Far better learned your skill to pierceThe forest King;Transfix grim Isgram, or the tiger fierce,In his death-spring.Like Kabzeel’s Worthy who could dare,In time of snow, to savage haunts repair,And slay the monster huge, e’en in his gory lair.Not gold but prowess then was fame,Throughout this land;True stalwart valour was the test of claimTo Beauty’s hand.What marvel to acquire such bays,Each tried to emulate his fellow’s praise?Oh, there were mighty men,—yea, “giants in those days”—Then learned Moodie, Temlett sage,And valiant Graham,Bequeathed, in turn, to the historic page,A lasting name.As others of no mean degree,Whose statesmen ken, and iron chivalryMight worthily attain the rank of “the first Three.”This of the dead,—embalmed in tears,In fame alive;And can we less revere their loved compeers,Who still survive?Ah no! their lives, to many a prayer,Long, very long, may Heaven benignly spare,And long each honoured brow its crown of glory wear.Unwooed, chaste Clio, ever young,Descends to saveHer British Settlers from Detraction’s tongue,And Lethe’s wave.The names of the adventurous few,Her lamp of Truth displays aloft in view,Enshrined among the world’s regenerators true.Unutterably fair, behold,The goddess bright!In form and visage of ethereal mould,Enrobed in light!With golden harps—a seraph band,Less prominent her tuneful sisters stand—And thus a child of earth receives her high command:—“Thou, favoured of the Vestal Nine;Forensic Cole!The special delegated task be thine,Beyond control;To celebrate this Jubilee—In Delphic tones—not uninspired by me,That envy’s self shall mark, for immortality.Fail not to chronicle a state,Beset with woes,When, like Apollo, on its vision—lateWise Porter rose;Embodiment of Hyde and Hume—My future Aristides to assumeIn every council sway, and change a nation’s doom.”It comes! the dawn of brighter times—When, to our shores,The ships of Chittim and remoter climesShall bend their oars!When Africa, distressed no more,Shall nobly emulate Columbia’s shore,In European might, and Asiatic lore.It comes, it comes! ye brethren dear,Loud swell the song;Lo, balmy Abib ushers in the year,Expected long!Illustrious in your thousands come!High in your ancestors’ adopted home,Raise to triumphal notes the grand memorial dome.Rouse, Jubilants, by Truth made free,Stand ever true;Nor be your sires Promethean energyExtinct in you.Forget not,—even in Canaan’s land,Though borne to conquest—with a mighty hand,Your faithfulness to prove—unconquered nations stand.Thrones raised upon our primal fall,Yet mock the skies!Fierce and unvanquished still,—yea, worthy allYour war emprize.Press, in His cause, expectant on,Whose sovereign Presence, ever unwithdrawnInspires our Faith and Hope, in this Millennial dawn.Stafford Cruikshanks.
Epochof hope! Auspicious year;Our pride to see;Hail to thy bright eventful advent here—Grand Jubilee!Since on these shores—our lot was cast,Of years, seven Sabbaths number with the past;Thy dawn, O sacred year! proclaim we now at last.
Chime for the Settlers’ Jubilee,—Spire, turret, fane!Resound abroad, with quickening ecstasy,The proud refrain.Late, by the Gospel-trumpet called—O Africa! in Satan’s bondage galled,Shout for the Jubilee, with spirit disenthralled.
Kloof, table-land, and peak sublime,Take up the peal;Chide o’er this wondrous, Heaven-acknowledged clime,Man’s flagging zeal.From that far bound, where hope first roseOn Lusitanian Vasco’s gathering woes,To regions far beyond—where Transvaal Jordan flows.
How vast in prospect, mortal man,One Spring appears!In retrospect, how limited the spanOf fifty years!Yet gaze around,—how few remain,Who, in this land, first shared our joy or pain!Nor doubt we, honoured dead, our loss has been your gain.
Shamgars and Jairs! our heroes true,Your types of yoreGain not by fair comparison with you,In heaven-sent lore.No chief, on Seir’s, or Bochim’s brow,Not Gera’s son, nor him of “the rash vow,”In zeal, for cause of right—transcends your glory now.
Your god-like clemency to life,In conflicts fell;The Zeebs and Orebs of each mortal strife,Survive to tell.The ruthless hand, with dagger bared,In hour of conquest, by your mercy spared,Has since, as that of friend, your love and bounty shared.
Far better learned your skill to pierceThe forest King;Transfix grim Isgram, or the tiger fierce,In his death-spring.Like Kabzeel’s Worthy who could dare,In time of snow, to savage haunts repair,And slay the monster huge, e’en in his gory lair.
Not gold but prowess then was fame,Throughout this land;True stalwart valour was the test of claimTo Beauty’s hand.What marvel to acquire such bays,Each tried to emulate his fellow’s praise?Oh, there were mighty men,—yea, “giants in those days”—
Then learned Moodie, Temlett sage,And valiant Graham,Bequeathed, in turn, to the historic page,A lasting name.As others of no mean degree,Whose statesmen ken, and iron chivalryMight worthily attain the rank of “the first Three.”
This of the dead,—embalmed in tears,In fame alive;And can we less revere their loved compeers,Who still survive?Ah no! their lives, to many a prayer,Long, very long, may Heaven benignly spare,And long each honoured brow its crown of glory wear.
Unwooed, chaste Clio, ever young,Descends to saveHer British Settlers from Detraction’s tongue,And Lethe’s wave.The names of the adventurous few,Her lamp of Truth displays aloft in view,Enshrined among the world’s regenerators true.
Unutterably fair, behold,The goddess bright!In form and visage of ethereal mould,Enrobed in light!With golden harps—a seraph band,Less prominent her tuneful sisters stand—And thus a child of earth receives her high command:—
“Thou, favoured of the Vestal Nine;Forensic Cole!The special delegated task be thine,Beyond control;To celebrate this Jubilee—In Delphic tones—not uninspired by me,That envy’s self shall mark, for immortality.
Fail not to chronicle a state,Beset with woes,When, like Apollo, on its vision—lateWise Porter rose;Embodiment of Hyde and Hume—My future Aristides to assumeIn every council sway, and change a nation’s doom.”
It comes! the dawn of brighter times—When, to our shores,The ships of Chittim and remoter climesShall bend their oars!When Africa, distressed no more,Shall nobly emulate Columbia’s shore,In European might, and Asiatic lore.
It comes, it comes! ye brethren dear,Loud swell the song;Lo, balmy Abib ushers in the year,Expected long!Illustrious in your thousands come!High in your ancestors’ adopted home,Raise to triumphal notes the grand memorial dome.
Rouse, Jubilants, by Truth made free,Stand ever true;Nor be your sires Promethean energyExtinct in you.Forget not,—even in Canaan’s land,Though borne to conquest—with a mighty hand,Your faithfulness to prove—unconquered nations stand.
Thrones raised upon our primal fall,Yet mock the skies!Fierce and unvanquished still,—yea, worthy allYour war emprize.Press, in His cause, expectant on,Whose sovereign Presence, ever unwithdrawnInspires our Faith and Hope, in this Millennial dawn.
Stafford Cruikshanks.
’Tis of a rich man near an African hoek,Imported from some part of Britain;You’d say that account in the sixteenth of LukeFor him, in perspective, was written.The purple, fine linen, and feasting in state,Are all quite in point to the letter;Save this, that no paupers are laid at his gate,Experience has taught them all better.To lordling and swell, he is all “hand-in-glove,”With manners beseeming high station;Every female in silk has his greeting of love,And low bow—and hat salutation.So much for the wealthy; alas for the poor!When one of that number approaches,Such welcome is found, as the comatose boorReserves for the foe who encroaches.Our hero has those who describe him indeed,’Gainst Vice an unsparing declaimer;His name it is needless to write or to read,—What odds be it Dives or Damer!You’ll stare! he is one who on topics divine,Has holiday phrases harmonious;Right Reverend! how many would fondly inclineTo think the description erroneous!The pulpit he mounts, as the tyrant his throne,—And bawls to the young and the hoary,With a scowl and a gesture, a stamp and a toneWhich plainly belie his own story.Does he toil for a master and home in the skies,While in Mammon’s vile services flurried!Pray God that he may never “lift up his eyes”With the “rich man” who “died and was buried.”Stafford Cruikshanks.
’Tis of a rich man near an African hoek,Imported from some part of Britain;You’d say that account in the sixteenth of LukeFor him, in perspective, was written.The purple, fine linen, and feasting in state,Are all quite in point to the letter;Save this, that no paupers are laid at his gate,Experience has taught them all better.To lordling and swell, he is all “hand-in-glove,”With manners beseeming high station;Every female in silk has his greeting of love,And low bow—and hat salutation.So much for the wealthy; alas for the poor!When one of that number approaches,Such welcome is found, as the comatose boorReserves for the foe who encroaches.Our hero has those who describe him indeed,’Gainst Vice an unsparing declaimer;His name it is needless to write or to read,—What odds be it Dives or Damer!You’ll stare! he is one who on topics divine,Has holiday phrases harmonious;Right Reverend! how many would fondly inclineTo think the description erroneous!The pulpit he mounts, as the tyrant his throne,—And bawls to the young and the hoary,With a scowl and a gesture, a stamp and a toneWhich plainly belie his own story.Does he toil for a master and home in the skies,While in Mammon’s vile services flurried!Pray God that he may never “lift up his eyes”With the “rich man” who “died and was buried.”Stafford Cruikshanks.
’Tis of a rich man near an African hoek,Imported from some part of Britain;You’d say that account in the sixteenth of LukeFor him, in perspective, was written.
The purple, fine linen, and feasting in state,Are all quite in point to the letter;Save this, that no paupers are laid at his gate,Experience has taught them all better.
To lordling and swell, he is all “hand-in-glove,”With manners beseeming high station;Every female in silk has his greeting of love,And low bow—and hat salutation.
So much for the wealthy; alas for the poor!When one of that number approaches,Such welcome is found, as the comatose boorReserves for the foe who encroaches.
Our hero has those who describe him indeed,’Gainst Vice an unsparing declaimer;His name it is needless to write or to read,—What odds be it Dives or Damer!
You’ll stare! he is one who on topics divine,Has holiday phrases harmonious;Right Reverend! how many would fondly inclineTo think the description erroneous!
The pulpit he mounts, as the tyrant his throne,—And bawls to the young and the hoary,With a scowl and a gesture, a stamp and a toneWhich plainly belie his own story.
Does he toil for a master and home in the skies,While in Mammon’s vile services flurried!Pray God that he may never “lift up his eyes”With the “rich man” who “died and was buried.”
Stafford Cruikshanks.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
“Fathers, whose sons have bled!Sons, who have lost your sires,Brothers, for brothers dead!Arouse your martial fires.Hurl retribution on the foeThat laid your slaughtered kinsmen low.”Hark! ’tis your country’s callThat swells along the sky;Come forth, brave Burghers all,Responsive to the cry!I hear the trumpet from afar;It tells of strife and blood and war.See! from each vale and glenPour forth the patriot bands—A host of stalwart men,True hearts and steady hands.Let none be absent from that strifeFor home, and liberty, and life.Long has the combat raged,Its war-path marked with blood;Oft have the troops engagedThe foe, yet unsubdued,For yon brave men, it now remainsYon kloofs to clear,—to scour yon plains.Arise then in your might!Let friend encourage friend;God will maintain the right;To Him your cause commend.On Him in humble faith rely,And rush to certain victory.Burghers! to arms! to arms!Haste, mount each trusty steed!Heed not the Prophet’s charms,No hostile numbers heed!On you your country’s hopes repose,Her wrongs to avenge—to crush her foes.Wide, wide then to the skiesYour banner be unfurled!Your patriot enterpriseShall ring throughout the world.Where Britain’s standard waves, each landShall hear of your heroic band.Think of the widow’s wail,Think of the orphan’s moan!Think of each harrowing tale,Altars and hearths o’erthrown!The midnight prowl—the ambuscade—The traveller’s homeward path waylaid!And call to mind the cries,Fervent and numberless,That shall to Heaven ariseFor safety and success.Your country breathes one common prayer,And makes your weal its special care.And should it prove your lotTo fill a warrior’s grave,That consecrated spotWhere sleeps “the fallen brave,”Watered by grateful tears, shall beDear to your country’s memory.Fathers, whose sons have bled!Sons, who have lost your sires!Brothers, for brothers dead,Arouse your martial fires!Pour swift destruction on the foeThat laid your slaughtered kinsmen low.G. Impey.Graham’s Town,October 27th, 1851.
“Fathers, whose sons have bled!Sons, who have lost your sires,Brothers, for brothers dead!Arouse your martial fires.Hurl retribution on the foeThat laid your slaughtered kinsmen low.”Hark! ’tis your country’s callThat swells along the sky;Come forth, brave Burghers all,Responsive to the cry!I hear the trumpet from afar;It tells of strife and blood and war.See! from each vale and glenPour forth the patriot bands—A host of stalwart men,True hearts and steady hands.Let none be absent from that strifeFor home, and liberty, and life.Long has the combat raged,Its war-path marked with blood;Oft have the troops engagedThe foe, yet unsubdued,For yon brave men, it now remainsYon kloofs to clear,—to scour yon plains.Arise then in your might!Let friend encourage friend;God will maintain the right;To Him your cause commend.On Him in humble faith rely,And rush to certain victory.Burghers! to arms! to arms!Haste, mount each trusty steed!Heed not the Prophet’s charms,No hostile numbers heed!On you your country’s hopes repose,Her wrongs to avenge—to crush her foes.Wide, wide then to the skiesYour banner be unfurled!Your patriot enterpriseShall ring throughout the world.Where Britain’s standard waves, each landShall hear of your heroic band.Think of the widow’s wail,Think of the orphan’s moan!Think of each harrowing tale,Altars and hearths o’erthrown!The midnight prowl—the ambuscade—The traveller’s homeward path waylaid!And call to mind the cries,Fervent and numberless,That shall to Heaven ariseFor safety and success.Your country breathes one common prayer,And makes your weal its special care.And should it prove your lotTo fill a warrior’s grave,That consecrated spotWhere sleeps “the fallen brave,”Watered by grateful tears, shall beDear to your country’s memory.Fathers, whose sons have bled!Sons, who have lost your sires!Brothers, for brothers dead,Arouse your martial fires!Pour swift destruction on the foeThat laid your slaughtered kinsmen low.G. Impey.Graham’s Town,October 27th, 1851.
“Fathers, whose sons have bled!Sons, who have lost your sires,Brothers, for brothers dead!Arouse your martial fires.Hurl retribution on the foeThat laid your slaughtered kinsmen low.”
Hark! ’tis your country’s callThat swells along the sky;Come forth, brave Burghers all,Responsive to the cry!I hear the trumpet from afar;It tells of strife and blood and war.
See! from each vale and glenPour forth the patriot bands—A host of stalwart men,True hearts and steady hands.Let none be absent from that strifeFor home, and liberty, and life.
Long has the combat raged,Its war-path marked with blood;Oft have the troops engagedThe foe, yet unsubdued,For yon brave men, it now remainsYon kloofs to clear,—to scour yon plains.
Arise then in your might!Let friend encourage friend;God will maintain the right;To Him your cause commend.On Him in humble faith rely,And rush to certain victory.
Burghers! to arms! to arms!Haste, mount each trusty steed!Heed not the Prophet’s charms,No hostile numbers heed!On you your country’s hopes repose,Her wrongs to avenge—to crush her foes.
Wide, wide then to the skiesYour banner be unfurled!Your patriot enterpriseShall ring throughout the world.Where Britain’s standard waves, each landShall hear of your heroic band.
Think of the widow’s wail,Think of the orphan’s moan!Think of each harrowing tale,Altars and hearths o’erthrown!The midnight prowl—the ambuscade—The traveller’s homeward path waylaid!
And call to mind the cries,Fervent and numberless,That shall to Heaven ariseFor safety and success.Your country breathes one common prayer,And makes your weal its special care.
And should it prove your lotTo fill a warrior’s grave,That consecrated spotWhere sleeps “the fallen brave,”Watered by grateful tears, shall beDear to your country’s memory.
Fathers, whose sons have bled!Sons, who have lost your sires!Brothers, for brothers dead,Arouse your martial fires!Pour swift destruction on the foeThat laid your slaughtered kinsmen low.
G. Impey.
Graham’s Town,October 27th, 1851.