PRECEPTS FOR YOUNG AND OLD.

Letgladness fill our British homes,All hearts rejoice! a victor comes:—Not like the conquerors of yoreWith laurels stained by human gore.Let earth a floral welcome yield,No devastation marks the fieldWhereon his victory was gained,His triumph’s peaceful and unstained.Let little children’s voices rise,For no discordant orphans criesShall mar their glee. His deeds, though great,And pregnant with the will of fate,Are heralds of a happier day,And pure and innocent as they.Let gentle ladies lend their cheers,His conquest’s free from widow’s tears;Let manly voices swell the strain,His course is not o’er brother’s slain;No soldiers scarred and maimed proclaimA bloody source of all his fame.His triumph is o’er ancient wrong,O’er prejudices old and strong,Time honoured; time dishonouring—Peace, Justice, Hope, ’tis his to bring.Children of loyal men! ’tis meetYour cherub voices fresh and sweetShould rise to heaven in welcome cheers;For when in your maturer yearsThe seed ’tis his blest work to sowShall spring up round you—with you grow,And cover like some sheltering treeYour future, happier destiny.Your voices then much deeper grown,Shall tell to children, then your own,How Wodehouse and his noble dame’Midst shouts of infant welcome came;How ranged like soldiers on the greenYou sang “God save our Gracious Queen.”He comes like meteor bright and bold,Scorning the track traversed of oldBy orbs whose fastly waning lightIs sinking in the realms of night.He seeks the cradle of the dawn,Where Freedom’s sun proclaims the morn—This day we’ll give to joy at least;This day the light dawns in the East,And soon beneath its genial rayNorth, South, East, West, shall feel ’tis day.H. W. Bidwell.Grahamstown,Feb. 1, 1864.

Let little children’s voices rise,For no discordant orphans criesShall mar their glee. His deeds, though great,And pregnant with the will of fate,Are heralds of a happier day,And pure and innocent as they.

Let gentle ladies lend their cheers,His conquest’s free from widow’s tears;Let manly voices swell the strain,His course is not o’er brother’s slain;No soldiers scarred and maimed proclaimA bloody source of all his fame.His triumph is o’er ancient wrong,O’er prejudices old and strong,Time honoured; time dishonouring—Peace, Justice, Hope, ’tis his to bring.

Children of loyal men! ’tis meetYour cherub voices fresh and sweetShould rise to heaven in welcome cheers;For when in your maturer yearsThe seed ’tis his blest work to sowShall spring up round you—with you grow,And cover like some sheltering treeYour future, happier destiny.Your voices then much deeper grown,Shall tell to children, then your own,How Wodehouse and his noble dame’Midst shouts of infant welcome came;How ranged like soldiers on the greenYou sang “God save our Gracious Queen.”

He comes like meteor bright and bold,Scorning the track traversed of oldBy orbs whose fastly waning lightIs sinking in the realms of night.He seeks the cradle of the dawn,Where Freedom’s sun proclaims the morn—This day we’ll give to joy at least;This day the light dawns in the East,And soon beneath its genial rayNorth, South, East, West, shall feel ’tis day.

H. W. Bidwell.

Grahamstown,Feb. 1, 1864.

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I’dlike to speak a word to you, my pretty, careless child!I’d learn the spell that daily lures you ’midst the blossoms wild,I’d join you and the butterflies with which you sport and play,As innocent, as beautiful, as fairy-like as they.I’d like to scan the purity that halos your fair brow,To fathom all the gentle thoughts that through your bosom flow—But oh! the wish is doubly vain, ’tis not for heart like mineTo enter that pure heaven which forms the fairy land of thine.I’d like to speak a word with you, my timid blushing maid—Pausing at every step you take as if you were afraid!As if by instinct you foresaw the weeds of woe and strife,That grow up in the pathway of your unseen future life.Oh! happy, ten times happy, were you could you shun the wildAnd rugged waste; and turning back for ever, be a child.You cannot! then I’d say to you, retain as best you mayThe pure and holy freshness of your childhood’s cloudless day!I’d like to speak a word with you, my bold and wayward youth!I’d counsel you to cherish in your heart the love of truth;I’d caution you ’gainst wantonness and arrogance and pride,And bid you fear your passions more than all the world beside.I’d have you honour age whose precepts now you hear with scorn,Remember! we were men, my boy, long, long ere you were born,Have trodden long ago the path which you have yet to tread,And now bequeath experience which may serve you when we’re dead.I’d like to speak a word with you, brave sir, in manhood’s prime!The world seems now your heritage, and ’tis so—for a time.Aspire! for ’tis your birthright, but remember while you mountYou’re but a steward and some day must yield up your account.You’re wealthy!—turn not from the poor! they share your right to live,Or God would not have made them:—as you’ve received, so give;Nor like the unjust creditor, seize all man’s laws allow,You will need mercy at the last, see that you mete it now!I’d speak to you, grey-headed man! now tottering at death’s door,Gazing on life’s red page, by sin and sorrow blotted o’er.How wistfully you eye that past you never may recall,And wish, since life must end like this, you’d never lived at all.Oh! look to Him whom you despised, while ’twas your lot to live;Remember! mercy is His will; His first wish to forgive.Haste! for that dark door opens! be saved while yet you may!Alas! that it should close again, and you should pass away.H. W. Bidwell.Grahamstown,October 1, 1863.

I’d like to speak a word with you, my timid blushing maid—Pausing at every step you take as if you were afraid!As if by instinct you foresaw the weeds of woe and strife,That grow up in the pathway of your unseen future life.Oh! happy, ten times happy, were you could you shun the wildAnd rugged waste; and turning back for ever, be a child.You cannot! then I’d say to you, retain as best you mayThe pure and holy freshness of your childhood’s cloudless day!

I’d like to speak a word with you, my bold and wayward youth!I’d counsel you to cherish in your heart the love of truth;I’d caution you ’gainst wantonness and arrogance and pride,And bid you fear your passions more than all the world beside.I’d have you honour age whose precepts now you hear with scorn,Remember! we were men, my boy, long, long ere you were born,Have trodden long ago the path which you have yet to tread,And now bequeath experience which may serve you when we’re dead.

I’d like to speak a word with you, brave sir, in manhood’s prime!The world seems now your heritage, and ’tis so—for a time.Aspire! for ’tis your birthright, but remember while you mountYou’re but a steward and some day must yield up your account.You’re wealthy!—turn not from the poor! they share your right to live,Or God would not have made them:—as you’ve received, so give;Nor like the unjust creditor, seize all man’s laws allow,You will need mercy at the last, see that you mete it now!

I’d speak to you, grey-headed man! now tottering at death’s door,Gazing on life’s red page, by sin and sorrow blotted o’er.How wistfully you eye that past you never may recall,And wish, since life must end like this, you’d never lived at all.Oh! look to Him whom you despised, while ’twas your lot to live;Remember! mercy is His will; His first wish to forgive.Haste! for that dark door opens! be saved while yet you may!Alas! that it should close again, and you should pass away.

H. W. Bidwell.

Grahamstown,October 1, 1863.

Bekind to one another!Th’ alchemist’s magic stoneThat turns to gold the dross of life,Is love and love alone.How many who now fret and weepAll minor griefs might smother,If they would but this mandate keep,—“Be kind to one another.”Be kind to one another!Sweet words and gentle looksSet free the love-streams of the soul,As springs unlock the brooks;But pride and coldness seal the heartsOf good men from each other.If thou wouldst learn men’s nobler partsBe kind to one another!—Be kind to one another!What though a churlish elfThy neighbour seem! Must thou retort,And be as bad thyself?Couldst thou the secret heart beholdOf any erring brother,Thou in the worst wouldst find some gold—Be kind to one another.Be kind to one another!Life is too short to wasteIn foolish enmity and strife,—Time flies with ruthless haste;—Soon death with an impartial handWill level foe and brother,Oh! prize the hours thou mayst command—Be kind to one another!H. W. Bidwell.

Be kind to one another!Sweet words and gentle looksSet free the love-streams of the soul,As springs unlock the brooks;But pride and coldness seal the heartsOf good men from each other.If thou wouldst learn men’s nobler partsBe kind to one another!—

Be kind to one another!What though a churlish elfThy neighbour seem! Must thou retort,And be as bad thyself?Couldst thou the secret heart beholdOf any erring brother,Thou in the worst wouldst find some gold—Be kind to one another.

Be kind to one another!Life is too short to wasteIn foolish enmity and strife,—Time flies with ruthless haste;—Soon death with an impartial handWill level foe and brother,Oh! prize the hours thou mayst command—Be kind to one another!

H. W. Bidwell.

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Oh! what have you done wid me, Daisy?You plump little rosy young witch!Sure my head and my heart’s so unaisyI scarcely can tell which is which.Whene’er I come in your sweet presenceIt’s telegraphed all o’er I feel;If I touch you, och! murther! it kills meJest like an electrified eel.Your eyes are like flashings of lightning,Glancing there, darting here, oh! so frisky;Your sweet breath’s more intoxicatingBy far than old Irish whisky!Each eye, each limb, and each action,Your garments, too, every stitchAre all bent on Patrick’s destruction,You plump little rosy young witch!I learned a long speech to say to youWhen I came to your house t’other day,But I sat there as dumb as mackerel,And that’s every word I could say.For my heart grew so awfully jealousTo think that my tongue should address you,That it jumped up and stuck in my throttleBefore I could gasp out “God bless you.”I told the good father confessorMy troubles, says he, “Pat! I’m sureYou’re bewitched by some wicked young fairy,And I only know one means of cure!”But he says that same cure is quite aisy,He’ll soon make all right, if I bringTo church, one fine morn, my sweet Daisy,And likewise a little gold ring.H. W. Bidwell.

Your eyes are like flashings of lightning,Glancing there, darting here, oh! so frisky;Your sweet breath’s more intoxicatingBy far than old Irish whisky!Each eye, each limb, and each action,Your garments, too, every stitchAre all bent on Patrick’s destruction,You plump little rosy young witch!

I learned a long speech to say to youWhen I came to your house t’other day,But I sat there as dumb as mackerel,And that’s every word I could say.For my heart grew so awfully jealousTo think that my tongue should address you,That it jumped up and stuck in my throttleBefore I could gasp out “God bless you.”

I told the good father confessorMy troubles, says he, “Pat! I’m sureYou’re bewitched by some wicked young fairy,And I only know one means of cure!”But he says that same cure is quite aisy,He’ll soon make all right, if I bringTo church, one fine morn, my sweet Daisy,And likewise a little gold ring.

H. W. Bidwell.

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Greatis the power of Humbug. Credulous, very, is Bunkum,—Bunkum that seeth things only as they are distorted by Humbug,—Humbug that useth poor Bunkum’s vanity, whims, and capricesAs medicines through which to show him the facts and the figures around him.Facts are reputed as stubborn; but not half so stubborn as asses,Asses who spurn out at facts and bray at the mention of figures,Figures that show that the West is the spot that aboundeth in asses.Great is the power of Humbug, credulous very are asses;Hast thou not heard of a quadruped, of this same genus—Jerusalem—Innocent slave of a needy but very ingenious carpenter?Carpenter, who the green spectacles fixed on the nose of his neddy,—Neddy, who straightway ate shavings, thinking them first-rate green forage?That was the triumph of Humbug over the weakness of Bunkum.Even thus Bunkum devoureth the rubbish presented by Humbug.True that the simile’s wooden; true that the metaphor’s donkeyfied!Asinine also and wooden the subject it seeketh to illustrate.Solomon’s famed for his wisdom,—Molteno’s Solomon’s prophet—Small is the profit that Solomon’s wisdom secureth his minions;He putteth green spectacles fast on the nose of poor Western neddies,—The poor mokes believe his chaff grass, and devour it all with much gusto.Figures are all topsy-turvable; may be read backwards or forwards;Sixes inverted are nines, and nines with their tails off are ciphers,—All Western donkeys are curtailed, thusthereisno endof asses.Dobson went forth from the East with his cranium crammed full of figures,Figures which made the inflated Westerns to let off their gasAnd collapse like mere bubbles of error when pierced by the arrows of truth.Dobson retired from the conquest to rest ’neath the shade of his laurels,Molteno purloined his figures and curtailed his nines and his sixes;And all this to show that the rotten old shank bone abounded in maggots.Dobson returned unsuspecting, to visit the scene of past glory,—Oh! how the poor neddies brayed when they fancied the trick had succeeded,Oh! what an asinine chorus greeted the hero’s returning!What wonder that Dobson retreated disgusted, nauseated, and bilious?The stomach, accustomed to good Christian beef and orthodox cabbage,Will turn against infidel snork, and rice is its abomination.Disgust they mistook for defeat, contempt they imagined was chagrin,—What bad living did for our hero, they fancied their wit had accomplished.Contempt and disgust are too dignified weapons for poor abject Bunkum,Still they bray o’er their own self-deception—while Dobson sits calm in his gardenSmoking his dudeen, the calumet of a sound head and clear conscience,—He knows, though his figures were stolen and mischievously mutilated,Like the sheep of Bo-peep they’ll come home and bring all their pendants behind.H. W. Bidwell.July 28, 1865.

H. W. Bidwell.

July 28, 1865.

Whereth’ Olympian cloth is spread,There thou’rt cradled, nursed, and bred;Bursting into life anew,Thirsting for celestial dew;Drinking from th’ ambrosial fountain,Sinking through the veinèd mountain;Moving;Roving;Gravitating;Sliding;Gliding;Percolating;Coursing on through channels hidden,Forcing passages unbidden;Winding into cave and cell,Finding out where Naiads dwell;Spirting out through crack and chink,Flirting on each flower-clad brink;Creeping over banks and bosses,Weeping with the moist-eyed mosses;Straying on midst foliage fair,Playing with sweet maiden hair;Rippling through enchanted grots;Tippling with forget-me-nots,Swelling into pools translucent,Welling over, wild, recusant!Dashing;Flushing;Splashing;Gushing;Whirling;Eddying;Swirling;Rushing;Spreading out upon the plain,Threading on thy course again;Flowing brook-like through the wood,Growing to a larger flood;Fertilising, fructifying,Man’s and Nature’s needs supplying;Gliding down time’s silent river;To the ocean of For Ever.B.

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The Pyramid which forms the subject of the following lines is the most prominent historical monument of Port Elizabeth. It stands on the brow of the hill overlooking Algoa Bay, in an open space known as the “Donkin Reserve.” It is built of rough stone and is about 35 feet in height, each side of the base being about 25 feet. On its western side a slate tablet is inserted exhibiting the following inscription:—“Elizabeth Frances, Lady Donkin, eldest daughter of Dr. George Markham, Dean of York, died at Merat, in Upper Hindostan, of a fever, after seven days’ illness, on the 21st August 1818, aged not quite 28 years. She left an infant in his seventh month, too young to know the unequalled loss he had sustained, and a husband whose heart is still wrung by undiminished grief, he erected this Pyramid, August 1820.”On its eastern side a similar tablet appears exhibiting the following:—“To the memory of one of the most perfect of human beings, who has given her name to the town below.”“Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”—Shakespeare.

“Elizabeth Frances, Lady Donkin, eldest daughter of Dr. George Markham, Dean of York, died at Merat, in Upper Hindostan, of a fever, after seven days’ illness, on the 21st August 1818, aged not quite 28 years. She left an infant in his seventh month, too young to know the unequalled loss he had sustained, and a husband whose heart is still wrung by undiminished grief, he erected this Pyramid, August 1820.”

On its eastern side a similar tablet appears exhibiting the following:—

“To the memory of one of the most perfect of human beings, who has given her name to the town below.”

“Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”—Shakespeare.

Iseeknot with a weak and untuned lyreTo sound the praise of Cheop’s mighty pile,Where toiling myriads, higher and still higher,In the dim past, beside the swirling Nile,Heaped up those giant masses to the sky,Upon whose hoary sides old Time’s grim teethHave spent their force in vain. From task so highMy muse with trembling shrinks. If e’er a wreathShould decorate her brow, ’twill twine ’mong themesOf lowly sort. Be hers the touch that thrillsHeart’s deepest chords. Be hers the light that beamsFrom Nature’s restful face,—the love that fillsThe Home with flowers of Eden’s chastened bloom.And surely this love-reared memorial pileTo sacred dust enshrined in Indian TombA theme congenial yields. The worldling’s smile,Incredulous, mayhap reveals the thoughtThat from rough stone no poet flowers can riseIn gladd’ning bloom, no wisdom’s lore be taught.Erected here perchance to tranquilliseThat “undiminished grief” whose darksome tideFor two long years had whelmed Sir Rufane’s heart,This Pyramid on Donkin’s Hill besideThe tow’ring light-house stands; and with rude artIts sculptured tablets tell that she whose lossThe stricken husband mourned, a babe had leftToo young to feel the orphan’s bitter cross;And earth in her recall had been bereftOf one pure gem whose ray reflected Heaven;In touching tones the simple record speaksThe fondness of a heart by anguish riven.Methinks hot tears bestream his haggard cheeksAs memory mirrors her loved form to view,And all her tender ministrations pourIn recollections soft as evening dew.The well-known voice, now hushed for evermore,Has left its echoes sighing through his heart;And as her faith and tranquil virtues roseTo vision clear, he sought but to impartA brief epitome, that should discloseAll that she was to him, when on her scrollThis record he inscribed, that all might knowThat she was one “most perfect human soul”Whose name in fragrance marks the “town below.”When gloomy night her sable mantle spreads,And storm-winds fill the seaman’s heart with fear,The light-house pours its placid ray and shedsA soft effulgence on this tribute dear.The keeper’s cottage, nestling low betweenThe light-house and the sombre monument,Shares the mild radiance that o’erspreads a sceneWhose light appears with mystic shadows blent.What sober thought may Faith’s clear eye perceiveWith Fancy’s pictures fair to interweave?Light from above reveals the rocks and shoalsWhose earth-born flashes shipwreck storm-tost souls;Light from above illumes the smiling home;Light from above irradiates the tomb;Light from above with sympathetic glowO’ergilds the memories of our deepest woe.William Selwyn.Port Elizabeth,30th November 1885.

William Selwyn.

Port Elizabeth,30th November 1885.

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Bywinding paths, amid the tangled woodsThat skirt the silent deep-kloofed Zuurberg hill,A lately wedded pair meandering, fillTheir cup of tender joy. The peace that broodsO’er Nature’s tranquil face reflected shinesFrom loving eyes, as they in converse sweetPlot out a rose-fringed path with prudence meet,And mark with glowing hearts its “pleasant lines.”Mysterious are Thy ways, great King of saintsIn sudden fear they vainly strive to threadTheir homeward track, when lo! the husband faints.Deaf to her voice, with agonizing dreadShe dares the maze, in search of human aid.In vain! The Teacher “sleepeth” in the shade.William Selwyn.Port Elizabeth,25th Jan. 1886.

William Selwyn.

Port Elizabeth,25th Jan. 1886.

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Pantingclimbers to some barren height;Eager chasers of some phantom light;Emmets piling wayside domes of clay,That, crushed to dust, the whirlwind sweeps away;Toilers vain, O Lord, are we.Fluttering night-birds dazzled by the day;Wayworn travellers who have lost their way;Miners groping slowly in the gloom;Children sobbing round a mother’s tomb;Blind and helpless, Lord, are we.Flow’rets drooping in the noon-tide sun;Autumn leaves descending one by one;Bubbles dancing on life’s foaming wave;Shadowy spirits hurrying to the grave;Frail and fleeting, Lord, are we.Trembling sparklets of immortal fire;Infant songsters ’mid an angel choir;Tiny parts of one complex machineGuided by an architect unseen.None unnoticed, Lord, by Thee.Dewdrops glistening in a radiant love;Diamond sand-grains registered above;Separate nurslings of a Father’s care,That gently numbers every silken hair,Weak and faithless though we be.William Selwyn.January 1886.

Pantingclimbers to some barren height;Eager chasers of some phantom light;Emmets piling wayside domes of clay,That, crushed to dust, the whirlwind sweeps away;Toilers vain, O Lord, are we.

Fluttering night-birds dazzled by the day;Wayworn travellers who have lost their way;Miners groping slowly in the gloom;Children sobbing round a mother’s tomb;Blind and helpless, Lord, are we.

Flow’rets drooping in the noon-tide sun;Autumn leaves descending one by one;Bubbles dancing on life’s foaming wave;Shadowy spirits hurrying to the grave;Frail and fleeting, Lord, are we.

Trembling sparklets of immortal fire;Infant songsters ’mid an angel choir;Tiny parts of one complex machineGuided by an architect unseen.None unnoticed, Lord, by Thee.

Dewdrops glistening in a radiant love;Diamond sand-grains registered above;Separate nurslings of a Father’s care,That gently numbers every silken hair,Weak and faithless though we be.

William Selwyn.

January 1886.

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Awaywith the cynic, who ceaselessly sighsFor some new-fangled bauble—some novel surpriseGive me the heart that with generous glowLights up the friendships of long long ago.Green be the mem’ries of pleasure gone by,When youth filled the cup, and no care breathed a sigh.Fain would I weave into light-tripping rhymeThe frolicsome joys of the good olden time,Ere our evergreen forests and still wilds were scaredBy the ear-piercing screech of the Railway DragonAnd a thousand long miles were triumphantly dared’Neath the cosy white tent of a good Ox-wagonHow jocund the shout of the old driver, Jan,With his grimy felt hat, and his jacket of tan.The crack of his whip waking echoes around,While the startled bush-buck clears the path with a bound.As the tall forest trees bend their heads ’neath the breeze,So our team breasts the steep with a labouring wheeze;Then down the long slope in a sinuous race,They scamper along at a bullock’s best pace;Wo-haa! shouts the driver. Wo-haa! for the sakeOf the small Tottie leader with scarcely a rag on,Who capers and hoots, gamely striving to breakThe headlong descent of the good Ox-wagon.How grateful the halt near the bush-margined stream,Where “uitspanned,” our hungry and sweltering teamLave their hot dusty hoofs, and with heads bending low,Drink the nectar that Adam imbibed long ago.Old Jan and the Tot gather sticks for a fire,To prepare the hot coffee (what liquor ranks higher?),And the lush “carbonatje,” whose tender delightTo the palate still clings, though you’ve dainties in sight;With biscuits and “biltong” we finish our feast—(Perhaps we may take a small sip from the flagon)—Then join in the chase of a runaway beastWho freedom prefers to the good Ox-wagon.The “inspanning” finished, Jack shoulders his rifle;His longing for venison all gentle thoughts stifle.Peeping Bob is intent upon catching things horrid;While Bill, who confesses to sympathies florid,Gathers trophies galore of old Cape’s blossomed splendour,While a grateful thought leaps to the bountiful Sender.Such our innocent joys while our caravan rumblesAt three miles an hour, to the trysting at “Bumble’s.”Fain would I tell of our jollity there,But time gently warns me to tackle the drag on,So I leave you to picture our sumptuous fareWhile we drank, “Happy days with a good Ox-wagon.”Well! what have we gained by oursteaminghot hurry,But time-tables, tariffs, debts, drivings, and worry?We’ve dropped half an hour by a trick that looks dirty:Old five o’clock reads as the modern “four-thirty.”On a “sliding scale” lately we’ve slid fast enough,Though the “ways” of that slide have been terribly rough.Dame Fortune has stripped many a home of its charms,Devoured our profits, and mortgaged our farms.Our wool, wine, and wisdom are not in “high feather;”But up with the whip-stick! Bend Hope’s sunny flag on;“Give a long pull, a strong pull, a pull altogether,”And cheers shall yet ring from the old Cape wagon.William Selwyn.Port Elizabeth,20th March 1886.

How grateful the halt near the bush-margined stream,Where “uitspanned,” our hungry and sweltering teamLave their hot dusty hoofs, and with heads bending low,Drink the nectar that Adam imbibed long ago.Old Jan and the Tot gather sticks for a fire,To prepare the hot coffee (what liquor ranks higher?),And the lush “carbonatje,” whose tender delightTo the palate still clings, though you’ve dainties in sight;With biscuits and “biltong” we finish our feast—(Perhaps we may take a small sip from the flagon)—Then join in the chase of a runaway beastWho freedom prefers to the good Ox-wagon.

The “inspanning” finished, Jack shoulders his rifle;His longing for venison all gentle thoughts stifle.Peeping Bob is intent upon catching things horrid;While Bill, who confesses to sympathies florid,Gathers trophies galore of old Cape’s blossomed splendour,While a grateful thought leaps to the bountiful Sender.Such our innocent joys while our caravan rumblesAt three miles an hour, to the trysting at “Bumble’s.”Fain would I tell of our jollity there,But time gently warns me to tackle the drag on,So I leave you to picture our sumptuous fareWhile we drank, “Happy days with a good Ox-wagon.”

Well! what have we gained by oursteaminghot hurry,But time-tables, tariffs, debts, drivings, and worry?We’ve dropped half an hour by a trick that looks dirty:Old five o’clock reads as the modern “four-thirty.”On a “sliding scale” lately we’ve slid fast enough,Though the “ways” of that slide have been terribly rough.Dame Fortune has stripped many a home of its charms,Devoured our profits, and mortgaged our farms.Our wool, wine, and wisdom are not in “high feather;”But up with the whip-stick! Bend Hope’s sunny flag on;“Give a long pull, a strong pull, a pull altogether,”And cheers shall yet ring from the old Cape wagon.

William Selwyn.

Port Elizabeth,20th March 1886.

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Landof serene and sunny skies,—Land of the lion and fleet gazelle;Land where the summer never dies,Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.Land where the birds, in gorgeous plume,Flit through the bush or their love song tell;Land where the flowers show Eden’s bloom,Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.Land where the hunter scours the plains,Free as a bird o’er the ocean’s swell;Land of kind nature’s soothing strains,Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.Land where the grape and the orange growDeep in yon cool sequestered dell;Land of the melon’s luscious flow,Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.Land where the fields of golden grain,Rich in their bounteous fruitage swell;Land of sleek herds in lengthened train,Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.Land of a stalwart yeoman race,—Stern, but with hearts as true as a bell;Homely, but full of a kindly grace,Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.Land of the dark Amakosa tall,Seeking release from the savage spell;Land where there’s room and to spare for all,Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.Land of Good Hope! our prayer we raise,—May peace and plenty with thee dwell;Filling our hearts with grateful praise,For this bright land we love so well.W. Selwyn.

Landof serene and sunny skies,—Land of the lion and fleet gazelle;Land where the summer never dies,Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.

Land where the birds, in gorgeous plume,Flit through the bush or their love song tell;Land where the flowers show Eden’s bloom,Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.

Land where the hunter scours the plains,Free as a bird o’er the ocean’s swell;Land of kind nature’s soothing strains,Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.

Land where the grape and the orange growDeep in yon cool sequestered dell;Land of the melon’s luscious flow,Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.

Land where the fields of golden grain,Rich in their bounteous fruitage swell;Land of sleek herds in lengthened train,Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.

Land of a stalwart yeoman race,—Stern, but with hearts as true as a bell;Homely, but full of a kindly grace,Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.

Land of the dark Amakosa tall,Seeking release from the savage spell;Land where there’s room and to spare for all,Cape of Good Hope, we love thee well.

Land of Good Hope! our prayer we raise,—May peace and plenty with thee dwell;Filling our hearts with grateful praise,For this bright land we love so well.

W. Selwyn.

Bright, glorious Erythrina tree,Queen of the forests near the sea,Herald of springtide wild and free,Thy scarlet blossoms reared on highAbove the woods in beauty lie,Tinted in russet-purple dye.While morning beams in laughing glancesAre quivering amongst thy branchesAnd glowing flow’rs as day advances.Bright, glorious Erythrina tree,Queen of the woods beside the sea,Haunt of the sun-bird and the bee.’Neath sunny skies they feast for hours,Quaffing sweet nectar from thy flow’rs,Whose scarlet petals fall in showers.On dark and amethystine wingFlitting from flower to flower they singTheir joyous songs to thee in spring.A shower of ringing notes on highApparently from out the sky,Descend to earth all merrily.While the Cicada’s ceaseless strainFrom day to day—again, again,Is heard through forest, dell, and lane,Thrilling the woods, a wild refrain.Bright, glorious Erythrina, howThy scarlet blossoms clothe each bough,The “Red man”[30]of the woods art thou,With thy broad banner floating free,Proclaiming “seed time” silently,To each dark aborigine.No written calendars have they,Thy early flow’rs brook no delay,The season due, for toil all day.When Kafir maids with hoe in hand,Off to the fields a cheerful band—They go to plant umboua[31]land,Singing a wild, wild roundelay,While o’er each pick[32]the sunbeams play,Working in time—the livelong day.Bright, glorious Erythrina tree!As time flies imperceptibly,The spring’s precursor thou shalt be.High o’er the forest dark and green,Thy crown of beauty will be seen,While sweeping seasons intervene,And many a field of golden cornSpread over sloping hill and lawnShall ripen on each jocund morn,And many a brilliant sun-bird’s songShall echo the lone woods among,While red-winged Lories pass along,And from the shadowy depths below,Their deep-toned notes in cadence flow,As sounding through the woods they go,Far from the busy world away,Where, singing, toils the bee all day’Mid the deep woods where sunbeams play.Bright, glorious Erythrina tree!Remote from cities—near the seaMy winged thoughts have flown to thee.Queen of the woods! I love thee well,Oh! for a home with thee to dwellFor ever in the forest dell.From life’s stern battle would I hideBy some bright sparkling fountain’s side,Regardless of all time or tide,Forgotten be the world’s wild roar,The turmoils of her care-worn shore—Oblivion shield me evermore,My canopy the sheltering trees,My dream—the song of birds and bees:Good-bye to all things—saving these.M. E. Barber.Grahamstown,March 9, 1884.

Bright, glorious Erythrina tree,Queen of the woods beside the sea,Haunt of the sun-bird and the bee.’Neath sunny skies they feast for hours,Quaffing sweet nectar from thy flow’rs,Whose scarlet petals fall in showers.On dark and amethystine wingFlitting from flower to flower they singTheir joyous songs to thee in spring.A shower of ringing notes on highApparently from out the sky,Descend to earth all merrily.While the Cicada’s ceaseless strainFrom day to day—again, again,Is heard through forest, dell, and lane,Thrilling the woods, a wild refrain.

Bright, glorious Erythrina, howThy scarlet blossoms clothe each bough,The “Red man”[30]of the woods art thou,With thy broad banner floating free,Proclaiming “seed time” silently,To each dark aborigine.No written calendars have they,Thy early flow’rs brook no delay,The season due, for toil all day.When Kafir maids with hoe in hand,Off to the fields a cheerful band—They go to plant umboua[31]land,Singing a wild, wild roundelay,While o’er each pick[32]the sunbeams play,Working in time—the livelong day.

Bright, glorious Erythrina tree!As time flies imperceptibly,The spring’s precursor thou shalt be.High o’er the forest dark and green,Thy crown of beauty will be seen,While sweeping seasons intervene,And many a field of golden cornSpread over sloping hill and lawnShall ripen on each jocund morn,And many a brilliant sun-bird’s songShall echo the lone woods among,While red-winged Lories pass along,And from the shadowy depths below,Their deep-toned notes in cadence flow,As sounding through the woods they go,Far from the busy world away,Where, singing, toils the bee all day’Mid the deep woods where sunbeams play.

Bright, glorious Erythrina tree!Remote from cities—near the seaMy winged thoughts have flown to thee.Queen of the woods! I love thee well,Oh! for a home with thee to dwellFor ever in the forest dell.From life’s stern battle would I hideBy some bright sparkling fountain’s side,Regardless of all time or tide,Forgotten be the world’s wild roar,The turmoils of her care-worn shore—Oblivion shield me evermore,My canopy the sheltering trees,My dream—the song of birds and bees:Good-bye to all things—saving these.

M. E. Barber.

Grahamstown,March 9, 1884.

PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.EDINBURGH AND LONDON.

FOOTNOTES:[1]Johannesberg.[2]Utíko,—Hottentot name for God.[3]A branch of the Kat River.[4]A musical instrument peculiar to the Hottentot tribes.[5]Stound—a sharp pang, a shooting pain.[6]The zebra is commonly termedWilde-Paard, or wild horse, by the Dutch African colonists.[7]The Bushmen consider the locusts a great luxury, consuming great quantities fresh, and drying abundance for future emergencies.[8]Caffer name for the yellow-wood tree.[9]Name given to the missionary, Van der Kemp, by the Caffers.[10]Mountain between the sources of the Kat and Koonap rivers.[11]Kraal or cattle-fold; also a native village or encampment.[12]“Sons of Umláo” is the Caffer name for the Colonial Hottentots.[13]Indódo or Indôda Intába,i.e., the Man Mountain, is a conical peaked hill, so called from some resemblance it is supposed to bear to the human figure. It is also known as “Slambie’s Kop.” It is in the King William’s Town District.[14]Katberg Mountain.[15]Burns.[16]Many brave colonists fought among the Burghers, and such names as those of White and Bailie (1835-6) will ever be remembered. Few survive of the early settlers who had to battle against the first difficulties and dangers. Such names as those of Godionton, Chase, Wood, Cock, and Cawood occur to every one.[17]See “Sartor Resartus”passim.[18]Query, on the “Banks”?—P. D.[19]’Tain’t nutmegs at all. Oh what ignorant covesThese authors is! Bishop’s port: lemon and cloves.Printer’s Devil.[20]Horn’s Neck, Magaliesberg.[21]“My uncle, here are small oranges” (or “Mandarin” oranges).[22]Born in Africa of European parentage (originally).[23]“Ah! yes, I thank you much.”[24]A “transport driver” or carrier.[25]A home-made sofa.[26]Estate.[27]“Nephew, you can take her.”[28]Speaker Brand.[29]I publish this piece at the request of several friends, but cannot suffer it to go forth with all its imperfections, without putting forward as an apology for them the fact that it was written when the author was very young, and ignorant of the rules of composition.[30]Amakosa Kafirs are called “Red men,” as they are coloured with red clay.[31]Indian corn.[32]Hoe.

FOOTNOTES:

[1]Johannesberg.

[2]Utíko,—Hottentot name for God.

[3]A branch of the Kat River.

[4]A musical instrument peculiar to the Hottentot tribes.

[5]Stound—a sharp pang, a shooting pain.

[6]The zebra is commonly termedWilde-Paard, or wild horse, by the Dutch African colonists.

[7]The Bushmen consider the locusts a great luxury, consuming great quantities fresh, and drying abundance for future emergencies.

[8]Caffer name for the yellow-wood tree.

[9]Name given to the missionary, Van der Kemp, by the Caffers.

[10]Mountain between the sources of the Kat and Koonap rivers.

[11]Kraal or cattle-fold; also a native village or encampment.

[12]“Sons of Umláo” is the Caffer name for the Colonial Hottentots.

[13]Indódo or Indôda Intába,i.e., the Man Mountain, is a conical peaked hill, so called from some resemblance it is supposed to bear to the human figure. It is also known as “Slambie’s Kop.” It is in the King William’s Town District.

[14]Katberg Mountain.

[15]Burns.

[16]Many brave colonists fought among the Burghers, and such names as those of White and Bailie (1835-6) will ever be remembered. Few survive of the early settlers who had to battle against the first difficulties and dangers. Such names as those of Godionton, Chase, Wood, Cock, and Cawood occur to every one.

[17]See “Sartor Resartus”passim.

[18]Query, on the “Banks”?—P. D.

[19]’Tain’t nutmegs at all. Oh what ignorant covesThese authors is! Bishop’s port: lemon and cloves.Printer’s Devil.

[19]

’Tain’t nutmegs at all. Oh what ignorant covesThese authors is! Bishop’s port: lemon and cloves.Printer’s Devil.

[20]Horn’s Neck, Magaliesberg.

[21]“My uncle, here are small oranges” (or “Mandarin” oranges).

[22]Born in Africa of European parentage (originally).

[23]“Ah! yes, I thank you much.”

[24]A “transport driver” or carrier.

[25]A home-made sofa.

[26]Estate.

[27]“Nephew, you can take her.”

[28]Speaker Brand.

[29]I publish this piece at the request of several friends, but cannot suffer it to go forth with all its imperfections, without putting forward as an apology for them the fact that it was written when the author was very young, and ignorant of the rules of composition.

[30]Amakosa Kafirs are called “Red men,” as they are coloured with red clay.

[31]Indian corn.

[32]Hoe.

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