Thebreezes free of the great white seaHave filled us with strength and life;And the ocean gales have driven our sailsIn the midst of the billows’ strife.To the South from North have we oft gone forthTo sail o’er the bright sunny seas;We’ve been kissed by an air most pure and fair,And been lulled by the evening breeze.Full many a time, in a tropic clime,We’ve been wooed by the sun’s hot breath,And mid frozen hail we have felt the flailOf the Lord of the Ice and Death.Under stormy skies, amid Nature’s cries,We have struggled and fought for life,And then wearied and worn with work well borne,We have finished our early strife.Our labours had ceased, and we were releasedFrom the sun and the winds and the gales,Our voyages passed, we sank down at lastAs old, tattered, and worn-out sails.But we now rise again with glad refrain,We rise in a book of peace,Amid hymn and psalm, and words of balm,And a message which ne’er shall cease.And risen we find our sea is the mind,Our voyage is fair and free;Through brain and through soul, we pass to the goalOf God and Eternity.Marie.
Thebreezes free of the great white seaHave filled us with strength and life;And the ocean gales have driven our sailsIn the midst of the billows’ strife.To the South from North have we oft gone forthTo sail o’er the bright sunny seas;We’ve been kissed by an air most pure and fair,And been lulled by the evening breeze.Full many a time, in a tropic clime,We’ve been wooed by the sun’s hot breath,And mid frozen hail we have felt the flailOf the Lord of the Ice and Death.Under stormy skies, amid Nature’s cries,We have struggled and fought for life,And then wearied and worn with work well borne,We have finished our early strife.Our labours had ceased, and we were releasedFrom the sun and the winds and the gales,Our voyages passed, we sank down at lastAs old, tattered, and worn-out sails.But we now rise again with glad refrain,We rise in a book of peace,Amid hymn and psalm, and words of balm,And a message which ne’er shall cease.And risen we find our sea is the mind,Our voyage is fair and free;Through brain and through soul, we pass to the goalOf God and Eternity.Marie.
Thebreezes free of the great white seaHave filled us with strength and life;And the ocean gales have driven our sailsIn the midst of the billows’ strife.
To the South from North have we oft gone forthTo sail o’er the bright sunny seas;We’ve been kissed by an air most pure and fair,And been lulled by the evening breeze.
Full many a time, in a tropic clime,We’ve been wooed by the sun’s hot breath,And mid frozen hail we have felt the flailOf the Lord of the Ice and Death.
Under stormy skies, amid Nature’s cries,We have struggled and fought for life,And then wearied and worn with work well borne,We have finished our early strife.
Our labours had ceased, and we were releasedFrom the sun and the winds and the gales,Our voyages passed, we sank down at lastAs old, tattered, and worn-out sails.
But we now rise again with glad refrain,We rise in a book of peace,Amid hymn and psalm, and words of balm,And a message which ne’er shall cease.
And risen we find our sea is the mind,Our voyage is fair and free;Through brain and through soul, we pass to the goalOf God and Eternity.
Marie.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Thesails of the ships are lying,White on the floor of the mill,Scarr’d with the wounds of the weather,But sweet with the sea scent still.Fresh from the spray of the sunshine,And braving the tempest’s rage,To the whirr and the hum of the wheels they come,And the calm of the printed page.Aloft from the spreading yard-arms,They bent o’er the distant seas,To the blast of the frozen HornOr sigh of the tropic breeze.A message of might is tokenedOn the cloths of each tattered sail,For they bear the brand of the Storm King’s handIn the strain of the sea and gale.In a fairer form, and purer,They come from the mill at last,Transformed, as man hereafter,When the wondrous change is past.Between the boards of the BibleThe sails of the ships shall rest,While they speed again o’er the troubled mainWith the Master’s Word impressed.Adamastor.
Thesails of the ships are lying,White on the floor of the mill,Scarr’d with the wounds of the weather,But sweet with the sea scent still.Fresh from the spray of the sunshine,And braving the tempest’s rage,To the whirr and the hum of the wheels they come,And the calm of the printed page.Aloft from the spreading yard-arms,They bent o’er the distant seas,To the blast of the frozen HornOr sigh of the tropic breeze.A message of might is tokenedOn the cloths of each tattered sail,For they bear the brand of the Storm King’s handIn the strain of the sea and gale.In a fairer form, and purer,They come from the mill at last,Transformed, as man hereafter,When the wondrous change is past.Between the boards of the BibleThe sails of the ships shall rest,While they speed again o’er the troubled mainWith the Master’s Word impressed.Adamastor.
Thesails of the ships are lying,White on the floor of the mill,Scarr’d with the wounds of the weather,But sweet with the sea scent still.Fresh from the spray of the sunshine,And braving the tempest’s rage,To the whirr and the hum of the wheels they come,And the calm of the printed page.
Aloft from the spreading yard-arms,They bent o’er the distant seas,To the blast of the frozen HornOr sigh of the tropic breeze.A message of might is tokenedOn the cloths of each tattered sail,For they bear the brand of the Storm King’s handIn the strain of the sea and gale.
In a fairer form, and purer,They come from the mill at last,Transformed, as man hereafter,When the wondrous change is past.Between the boards of the BibleThe sails of the ships shall rest,While they speed again o’er the troubled mainWith the Master’s Word impressed.
Adamastor.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Takedown the sails, the worn and ragged sails,Let them no longer flutter in the breeze,And bear the gallant vessels to and froOver the seas, the blue and smiling seas.They are so old, and worn, and tattered now,Their work is done—shall they be cast awayAs worthless rubbish, only fit to lieAnd moulder in the dust-heaps, to decay?No; put them to a greater, nobler use,Give them a better purpose than before,When the sun shone upon them white and new,And when from shore to shore the ships they bore.Wash all their dust, and stains, and spots away,And fashion from them paper pure and fair,And then when this thou hast completed, inThe leaves let God’s own blessed word appear.Let the glad message of the Gospel shineUpon the unsullied whiteness of each page,The gentle words our blessèd Saviour spoke,And the grand thoughts of prophets old and sage.The worn-out sails, great service they have done,We will not let them perish and decay,This, their last work, the greatest and the best,It shall preserve them in our land for aye.The stately ships that sail the ocean wide,Can England guard from foe and hostile band;But God’s word in the people’s hearts, is stillThe secret of the greatness of our land.E. L. B.(Alice).
Takedown the sails, the worn and ragged sails,Let them no longer flutter in the breeze,And bear the gallant vessels to and froOver the seas, the blue and smiling seas.They are so old, and worn, and tattered now,Their work is done—shall they be cast awayAs worthless rubbish, only fit to lieAnd moulder in the dust-heaps, to decay?No; put them to a greater, nobler use,Give them a better purpose than before,When the sun shone upon them white and new,And when from shore to shore the ships they bore.Wash all their dust, and stains, and spots away,And fashion from them paper pure and fair,And then when this thou hast completed, inThe leaves let God’s own blessed word appear.Let the glad message of the Gospel shineUpon the unsullied whiteness of each page,The gentle words our blessèd Saviour spoke,And the grand thoughts of prophets old and sage.The worn-out sails, great service they have done,We will not let them perish and decay,This, their last work, the greatest and the best,It shall preserve them in our land for aye.The stately ships that sail the ocean wide,Can England guard from foe and hostile band;But God’s word in the people’s hearts, is stillThe secret of the greatness of our land.E. L. B.(Alice).
Takedown the sails, the worn and ragged sails,Let them no longer flutter in the breeze,And bear the gallant vessels to and froOver the seas, the blue and smiling seas.
They are so old, and worn, and tattered now,Their work is done—shall they be cast awayAs worthless rubbish, only fit to lieAnd moulder in the dust-heaps, to decay?
No; put them to a greater, nobler use,Give them a better purpose than before,When the sun shone upon them white and new,And when from shore to shore the ships they bore.
Wash all their dust, and stains, and spots away,And fashion from them paper pure and fair,And then when this thou hast completed, inThe leaves let God’s own blessed word appear.
Let the glad message of the Gospel shineUpon the unsullied whiteness of each page,The gentle words our blessèd Saviour spoke,And the grand thoughts of prophets old and sage.
The worn-out sails, great service they have done,We will not let them perish and decay,This, their last work, the greatest and the best,It shall preserve them in our land for aye.
The stately ships that sail the ocean wide,Can England guard from foe and hostile band;But God’s word in the people’s hearts, is stillThe secret of the greatness of our land.
E. L. B.(Alice).
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Gordonis dead: and lo! the unconscious wireCarries the mournful message on its way,Girdling the globe with news of direst truth,From Egypt’s minarets to broad Cathay.The Christian soldier, and the Christian man,Sleeps by the side of Nile’s historic wave,Rescued by Death, his freedom is secured,And now he wears the garments of the brave.In vain the stubborn fight of Abu Klea;In vain Metammeh’s more than brilliant charge;Gordon is dead; England is craped in black,And funeral echoes pall the world at large.’Twas treachery that struck the fatal blow;Traitors within the walls of far Khartoum,Laid the invincible for ever low,And sealed their own irrevocable doom.Vengeance is sometimes slow but always sure,The might of England rushes to the fray,Even now the Mahdi’s reign is almost o’er;Vengeance is England’s, and she will repay.Forward, Sir Garnet! even here our eyesAnd ears are strained for victory’s sights and sounds;We wait for tidings, for indeed we knowIn British armour bravery still abounds.Forward! and soon the victory shall be yours,Avenge the slaughtered dead about Khartoum,Nail to the colours England’s last commands,Stern and sincere, “Room for Sir Garnet, room!”Forward; and drive the Arab hordes beyondThe reach of Nile’s exhilarating flood,And teach fanaticism what it meansTo traffic heedlessly in Christian blood.Garret Brown.
Gordonis dead: and lo! the unconscious wireCarries the mournful message on its way,Girdling the globe with news of direst truth,From Egypt’s minarets to broad Cathay.The Christian soldier, and the Christian man,Sleeps by the side of Nile’s historic wave,Rescued by Death, his freedom is secured,And now he wears the garments of the brave.In vain the stubborn fight of Abu Klea;In vain Metammeh’s more than brilliant charge;Gordon is dead; England is craped in black,And funeral echoes pall the world at large.’Twas treachery that struck the fatal blow;Traitors within the walls of far Khartoum,Laid the invincible for ever low,And sealed their own irrevocable doom.Vengeance is sometimes slow but always sure,The might of England rushes to the fray,Even now the Mahdi’s reign is almost o’er;Vengeance is England’s, and she will repay.Forward, Sir Garnet! even here our eyesAnd ears are strained for victory’s sights and sounds;We wait for tidings, for indeed we knowIn British armour bravery still abounds.Forward! and soon the victory shall be yours,Avenge the slaughtered dead about Khartoum,Nail to the colours England’s last commands,Stern and sincere, “Room for Sir Garnet, room!”Forward; and drive the Arab hordes beyondThe reach of Nile’s exhilarating flood,And teach fanaticism what it meansTo traffic heedlessly in Christian blood.Garret Brown.
Gordonis dead: and lo! the unconscious wireCarries the mournful message on its way,Girdling the globe with news of direst truth,From Egypt’s minarets to broad Cathay.
The Christian soldier, and the Christian man,Sleeps by the side of Nile’s historic wave,Rescued by Death, his freedom is secured,And now he wears the garments of the brave.
In vain the stubborn fight of Abu Klea;In vain Metammeh’s more than brilliant charge;Gordon is dead; England is craped in black,And funeral echoes pall the world at large.
’Twas treachery that struck the fatal blow;Traitors within the walls of far Khartoum,Laid the invincible for ever low,And sealed their own irrevocable doom.
Vengeance is sometimes slow but always sure,The might of England rushes to the fray,Even now the Mahdi’s reign is almost o’er;Vengeance is England’s, and she will repay.
Forward, Sir Garnet! even here our eyesAnd ears are strained for victory’s sights and sounds;We wait for tidings, for indeed we knowIn British armour bravery still abounds.
Forward! and soon the victory shall be yours,Avenge the slaughtered dead about Khartoum,Nail to the colours England’s last commands,Stern and sincere, “Room for Sir Garnet, room!”
Forward; and drive the Arab hordes beyondThe reach of Nile’s exhilarating flood,And teach fanaticism what it meansTo traffic heedlessly in Christian blood.
Garret Brown.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Herelies a digger, all his chips departed—A splint of nature, bright, and ne’er down-hearted:He worked in many claims, but now (though stumped)He’s got a claim above that can’t be jumped.May he turn out a pure and spotless “wight,”When the Great Judge shall sift the wrong from right,And may his soul, released from this low Babel,Be found a gem on God’s great sorting table.A. Brodrick.Kimberley, 1875.
Herelies a digger, all his chips departed—A splint of nature, bright, and ne’er down-hearted:He worked in many claims, but now (though stumped)He’s got a claim above that can’t be jumped.May he turn out a pure and spotless “wight,”When the Great Judge shall sift the wrong from right,And may his soul, released from this low Babel,Be found a gem on God’s great sorting table.A. Brodrick.Kimberley, 1875.
Herelies a digger, all his chips departed—A splint of nature, bright, and ne’er down-hearted:He worked in many claims, but now (though stumped)He’s got a claim above that can’t be jumped.May he turn out a pure and spotless “wight,”When the Great Judge shall sift the wrong from right,And may his soul, released from this low Babel,Be found a gem on God’s great sorting table.
A. Brodrick.
Kimberley, 1875.
RoyalLady! O’er the oceanAfric’s greeting speeds to thee!Borne on sighs of fond emotion;Full of loyal, true devotion;Honest, candid, open, free,Just what Britons’ love should be.Fresh from every heart and hand;Warm as is our sunny land;Hopeful as the future lifeMust be, of our Albert’s wife;Full of frank and honest pride,As thy husband at thy sideMust be, owning thee as bride.Lady! o’er Britannia’s seaAfric’s greeting speeds to thee!Lady! though we are not near thee—Far by wave and storm exiled:—Twofold is the love we bear thee—Love of parent and of child.Parent’s love, for thy youth still hathClaim to parent’s anxious care;Child’s love, for when Heaven willethThou that honoured throne must share;Then, as now, our hearts will greet thee,Thoughfar distant be the day;For we love our peerless Sov’reignAnd would keep her while we may.That pure reign which comes before thee,Crowned by virtues erst unknown,Teaches thee a golden secretNe’er before to monarchs known.Teaches thee the golden secret,Won by virtue from above,How to rule a loyal peopleAnd retain their fervent love.Imitate it! Emulate it!Thus our hopes of thee fulfil;—Thus thy great and loyal peopleWill be great and loyal still.Thus, dear lady, o’er the seaAfric hopes and prays for thee!H. W. Bidwell.Grahamstown,May 1863.
RoyalLady! O’er the oceanAfric’s greeting speeds to thee!Borne on sighs of fond emotion;Full of loyal, true devotion;Honest, candid, open, free,Just what Britons’ love should be.Fresh from every heart and hand;Warm as is our sunny land;Hopeful as the future lifeMust be, of our Albert’s wife;Full of frank and honest pride,As thy husband at thy sideMust be, owning thee as bride.Lady! o’er Britannia’s seaAfric’s greeting speeds to thee!Lady! though we are not near thee—Far by wave and storm exiled:—Twofold is the love we bear thee—Love of parent and of child.Parent’s love, for thy youth still hathClaim to parent’s anxious care;Child’s love, for when Heaven willethThou that honoured throne must share;Then, as now, our hearts will greet thee,Thoughfar distant be the day;For we love our peerless Sov’reignAnd would keep her while we may.That pure reign which comes before thee,Crowned by virtues erst unknown,Teaches thee a golden secretNe’er before to monarchs known.Teaches thee the golden secret,Won by virtue from above,How to rule a loyal peopleAnd retain their fervent love.Imitate it! Emulate it!Thus our hopes of thee fulfil;—Thus thy great and loyal peopleWill be great and loyal still.Thus, dear lady, o’er the seaAfric hopes and prays for thee!H. W. Bidwell.Grahamstown,May 1863.
RoyalLady! O’er the oceanAfric’s greeting speeds to thee!Borne on sighs of fond emotion;Full of loyal, true devotion;Honest, candid, open, free,Just what Britons’ love should be.Fresh from every heart and hand;Warm as is our sunny land;Hopeful as the future lifeMust be, of our Albert’s wife;Full of frank and honest pride,As thy husband at thy sideMust be, owning thee as bride.Lady! o’er Britannia’s seaAfric’s greeting speeds to thee!
Lady! though we are not near thee—Far by wave and storm exiled:—Twofold is the love we bear thee—Love of parent and of child.Parent’s love, for thy youth still hathClaim to parent’s anxious care;Child’s love, for when Heaven willethThou that honoured throne must share;Then, as now, our hearts will greet thee,Thoughfar distant be the day;For we love our peerless Sov’reignAnd would keep her while we may.
That pure reign which comes before thee,Crowned by virtues erst unknown,Teaches thee a golden secretNe’er before to monarchs known.Teaches thee the golden secret,Won by virtue from above,How to rule a loyal peopleAnd retain their fervent love.Imitate it! Emulate it!Thus our hopes of thee fulfil;—Thus thy great and loyal peopleWill be great and loyal still.Thus, dear lady, o’er the seaAfric hopes and prays for thee!
H. W. Bidwell.
Grahamstown,May 1863.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Born in London, September 1794; died at Grahamstown, 30th May 1884.
Born in London, September 1794; died at Grahamstown, 30th May 1884.
Mourn, Africa! your oldest, noblest sageSleeps the long sleep. Your noblest? Aye! for heWhose name the roll of true nobilityNext heads, may well be proud. How bright a pageHis history fills. TheFranklinof our age,Who wrought for Truth, for Liberty, and Light.The aim of all his fourscore years and tenWas “Peace on earth and good will towards men;”Right for the wrongèd weak—for wronging rightConfusion. How he strove with sword, tongue, pen,As soldier, statesman, writer! giving allThe glorious dower of his heart and brainTo us and God: until He took againThe life, which could we, we would fain recall.The measure of his influence who can tell?—We know not whether from that distant homeTo which th’ All-Wise has ta’en him, he may comeIn spirit to the land he served so well.But this we know:—The good that he has wrought,Th’ examples set, the lessons he has taught,As scattered seed on Time’s e’er-rolling floodImmortal are, and can but work us good.H. W. Bidwell.
Mourn, Africa! your oldest, noblest sageSleeps the long sleep. Your noblest? Aye! for heWhose name the roll of true nobilityNext heads, may well be proud. How bright a pageHis history fills. TheFranklinof our age,Who wrought for Truth, for Liberty, and Light.The aim of all his fourscore years and tenWas “Peace on earth and good will towards men;”Right for the wrongèd weak—for wronging rightConfusion. How he strove with sword, tongue, pen,As soldier, statesman, writer! giving allThe glorious dower of his heart and brainTo us and God: until He took againThe life, which could we, we would fain recall.The measure of his influence who can tell?—We know not whether from that distant homeTo which th’ All-Wise has ta’en him, he may comeIn spirit to the land he served so well.But this we know:—The good that he has wrought,Th’ examples set, the lessons he has taught,As scattered seed on Time’s e’er-rolling floodImmortal are, and can but work us good.H. W. Bidwell.
Mourn, Africa! your oldest, noblest sageSleeps the long sleep. Your noblest? Aye! for heWhose name the roll of true nobilityNext heads, may well be proud. How bright a pageHis history fills. TheFranklinof our age,Who wrought for Truth, for Liberty, and Light.The aim of all his fourscore years and tenWas “Peace on earth and good will towards men;”Right for the wrongèd weak—for wronging rightConfusion. How he strove with sword, tongue, pen,As soldier, statesman, writer! giving allThe glorious dower of his heart and brainTo us and God: until He took againThe life, which could we, we would fain recall.The measure of his influence who can tell?—We know not whether from that distant homeTo which th’ All-Wise has ta’en him, he may comeIn spirit to the land he served so well.But this we know:—The good that he has wrought,Th’ examples set, the lessons he has taught,As scattered seed on Time’s e’er-rolling floodImmortal are, and can but work us good.
H. W. Bidwell.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Whatchange of luck! O Fortune! they have wellCompared thee to a woman;—ever flying,But luring on, when Hope-led we pursue;—And when we scorn thee, coming back, all smiles,O’erwhelming us with richest, choicest favours.(Looks at the diamond.) Can it be real?—Can I believe my eyes?A gem like thee would grace a monarch’s crown;Aye! and would buy his empire from him too.For smaller and less precious gems than theeHave monarchs been betrayed and empires sold.For less than thee, Beauties, whose hearts of steelNot all the worship of true love could move,Have given their charms to arms they else had loathed.But oh! thou glittering bauble! Canst thou buyOne sigh of pure affection! one small grainOf Truth?—Call back the loved ones gone?Give respite to the wretch condemned to die?Or win redemption for a soul that’s lost?Ah, no! Truth is the bright, pure gem!Compared with her thou’rt very dross indeed.Yet thou art mine! mine! mine! my own!Mine only! And as yet no other eyesBut mine have gazed upon thy dazzling splendour.How strange it seems that thou who hast lain hidDown in the very heart of Earth; and inThe very womb, as ’twere, of hoary Time,Cycles long, long ere History was born,Now comest forth, like some new-chos’n SultanaFrom the zenana’s gloom, where all her light,Her glory, and her beauty, blazed in vain!The fabled Sleeping Beauty sure thou wert!I the proud Prince whose vivifying touchCalled thee to light and gave thy splendour life;—The thought is overpowering; and the feelingWith which I call thee mine is not all joy.I’ve heard how gems like thee, which it has costThe owners years of patient toil to win,Have caused their death when won;—that woe, not bliss,Have followed their possession; and a thrillWhile now I clutch thee seemeth to forebodeSome coming evil. Were it known I goAbout with a king’s ransom in my pocket,My life would not be safe. No! I must hideThee as a thief would hide his stolen prize.H. W. Bidwell.
Whatchange of luck! O Fortune! they have wellCompared thee to a woman;—ever flying,But luring on, when Hope-led we pursue;—And when we scorn thee, coming back, all smiles,O’erwhelming us with richest, choicest favours.(Looks at the diamond.) Can it be real?—Can I believe my eyes?A gem like thee would grace a monarch’s crown;Aye! and would buy his empire from him too.For smaller and less precious gems than theeHave monarchs been betrayed and empires sold.For less than thee, Beauties, whose hearts of steelNot all the worship of true love could move,Have given their charms to arms they else had loathed.But oh! thou glittering bauble! Canst thou buyOne sigh of pure affection! one small grainOf Truth?—Call back the loved ones gone?Give respite to the wretch condemned to die?Or win redemption for a soul that’s lost?Ah, no! Truth is the bright, pure gem!Compared with her thou’rt very dross indeed.Yet thou art mine! mine! mine! my own!Mine only! And as yet no other eyesBut mine have gazed upon thy dazzling splendour.How strange it seems that thou who hast lain hidDown in the very heart of Earth; and inThe very womb, as ’twere, of hoary Time,Cycles long, long ere History was born,Now comest forth, like some new-chos’n SultanaFrom the zenana’s gloom, where all her light,Her glory, and her beauty, blazed in vain!The fabled Sleeping Beauty sure thou wert!I the proud Prince whose vivifying touchCalled thee to light and gave thy splendour life;—The thought is overpowering; and the feelingWith which I call thee mine is not all joy.I’ve heard how gems like thee, which it has costThe owners years of patient toil to win,Have caused their death when won;—that woe, not bliss,Have followed their possession; and a thrillWhile now I clutch thee seemeth to forebodeSome coming evil. Were it known I goAbout with a king’s ransom in my pocket,My life would not be safe. No! I must hideThee as a thief would hide his stolen prize.H. W. Bidwell.
Whatchange of luck! O Fortune! they have wellCompared thee to a woman;—ever flying,But luring on, when Hope-led we pursue;—And when we scorn thee, coming back, all smiles,O’erwhelming us with richest, choicest favours.(Looks at the diamond.) Can it be real?—Can I believe my eyes?A gem like thee would grace a monarch’s crown;Aye! and would buy his empire from him too.For smaller and less precious gems than theeHave monarchs been betrayed and empires sold.For less than thee, Beauties, whose hearts of steelNot all the worship of true love could move,Have given their charms to arms they else had loathed.But oh! thou glittering bauble! Canst thou buyOne sigh of pure affection! one small grainOf Truth?—Call back the loved ones gone?Give respite to the wretch condemned to die?Or win redemption for a soul that’s lost?Ah, no! Truth is the bright, pure gem!Compared with her thou’rt very dross indeed.Yet thou art mine! mine! mine! my own!Mine only! And as yet no other eyesBut mine have gazed upon thy dazzling splendour.How strange it seems that thou who hast lain hidDown in the very heart of Earth; and inThe very womb, as ’twere, of hoary Time,Cycles long, long ere History was born,Now comest forth, like some new-chos’n SultanaFrom the zenana’s gloom, where all her light,Her glory, and her beauty, blazed in vain!The fabled Sleeping Beauty sure thou wert!I the proud Prince whose vivifying touchCalled thee to light and gave thy splendour life;—The thought is overpowering; and the feelingWith which I call thee mine is not all joy.I’ve heard how gems like thee, which it has costThe owners years of patient toil to win,Have caused their death when won;—that woe, not bliss,Have followed their possession; and a thrillWhile now I clutch thee seemeth to forebodeSome coming evil. Were it known I goAbout with a king’s ransom in my pocket,My life would not be safe. No! I must hideThee as a thief would hide his stolen prize.
H. W. Bidwell.
Alas! Is it true that the great R. M. BowkerNo longer in Parliament covets a place?But follows his brethren—this gigantic joker?The greatest—the last of a very slow race.First Thomas the tartar; then William the wailer,Knocked under; they couldn’t keep pace with the age.Now the last of the trio, great Robert therailer,Has made hisBow curtly and gone from the stage.But oh! in the Senate thegap, will be shocking!Long, long will be missed that cantankerous face—He stood six feet three in his veldschoen and stocking.’Twill take a braw chiel, mon, tofill uphis place.Though his broadcloth was broadest, his humour was broader—Though his legs were the longest, the length of his jawOut-did them; yet he was ne’er once called to order,By the fierce little knight whose mere wig’s nod was law.[28]There may in the future be low jokes and high jokes;And good jokes and jokes good for nothing at all—But no more his sly jokes, his wry jokes and dry jokes—For thisflowerof all jokers is gone to thewall.But oh! on the road, as life’s journey we drag on,Whether main road or branch, Grief will turn onhermain,To think how that highly distinguished buck wagonWill ne’er take thatbuckof awag onagain.Yet, a paradox, trekking along on the mail road,He was, as I’ll prove, though ’twill nothing avail.Though he growled at the railroad and kept the old frail road,The whole of his journey he kepton the rail.But what of the “House” without one Bowker in it?Like a waggon deprived of its break, down ’twill go,And the whole span of Parliament into infiniteDisorder will rush, with theirAchter os flauw.Well, peace to themanesof these shaggy old lions!May the song of the steam-engine lull them to rest;May they, free from “obstruction,” “protest,” and “defiance”(But not in a buck-waggon) go to the blest.Be this their escutcheon:—A steam-engine rampant,A patriot floored on the floor of the “House,”A skinned nigger salient—sixteen oxen couchant,A waggon smashed up, and a broken-down smouse.H. W. Bidwell.Uitenhage,May 21.
Alas! Is it true that the great R. M. BowkerNo longer in Parliament covets a place?But follows his brethren—this gigantic joker?The greatest—the last of a very slow race.First Thomas the tartar; then William the wailer,Knocked under; they couldn’t keep pace with the age.Now the last of the trio, great Robert therailer,Has made hisBow curtly and gone from the stage.But oh! in the Senate thegap, will be shocking!Long, long will be missed that cantankerous face—He stood six feet three in his veldschoen and stocking.’Twill take a braw chiel, mon, tofill uphis place.Though his broadcloth was broadest, his humour was broader—Though his legs were the longest, the length of his jawOut-did them; yet he was ne’er once called to order,By the fierce little knight whose mere wig’s nod was law.[28]There may in the future be low jokes and high jokes;And good jokes and jokes good for nothing at all—But no more his sly jokes, his wry jokes and dry jokes—For thisflowerof all jokers is gone to thewall.But oh! on the road, as life’s journey we drag on,Whether main road or branch, Grief will turn onhermain,To think how that highly distinguished buck wagonWill ne’er take thatbuckof awag onagain.Yet, a paradox, trekking along on the mail road,He was, as I’ll prove, though ’twill nothing avail.Though he growled at the railroad and kept the old frail road,The whole of his journey he kepton the rail.But what of the “House” without one Bowker in it?Like a waggon deprived of its break, down ’twill go,And the whole span of Parliament into infiniteDisorder will rush, with theirAchter os flauw.Well, peace to themanesof these shaggy old lions!May the song of the steam-engine lull them to rest;May they, free from “obstruction,” “protest,” and “defiance”(But not in a buck-waggon) go to the blest.Be this their escutcheon:—A steam-engine rampant,A patriot floored on the floor of the “House,”A skinned nigger salient—sixteen oxen couchant,A waggon smashed up, and a broken-down smouse.H. W. Bidwell.Uitenhage,May 21.
Alas! Is it true that the great R. M. BowkerNo longer in Parliament covets a place?But follows his brethren—this gigantic joker?The greatest—the last of a very slow race.
First Thomas the tartar; then William the wailer,Knocked under; they couldn’t keep pace with the age.Now the last of the trio, great Robert therailer,Has made hisBow curtly and gone from the stage.
But oh! in the Senate thegap, will be shocking!Long, long will be missed that cantankerous face—He stood six feet three in his veldschoen and stocking.’Twill take a braw chiel, mon, tofill uphis place.
Though his broadcloth was broadest, his humour was broader—Though his legs were the longest, the length of his jawOut-did them; yet he was ne’er once called to order,By the fierce little knight whose mere wig’s nod was law.[28]
There may in the future be low jokes and high jokes;And good jokes and jokes good for nothing at all—But no more his sly jokes, his wry jokes and dry jokes—For thisflowerof all jokers is gone to thewall.
But oh! on the road, as life’s journey we drag on,Whether main road or branch, Grief will turn onhermain,To think how that highly distinguished buck wagonWill ne’er take thatbuckof awag onagain.
Yet, a paradox, trekking along on the mail road,He was, as I’ll prove, though ’twill nothing avail.Though he growled at the railroad and kept the old frail road,The whole of his journey he kepton the rail.
But what of the “House” without one Bowker in it?Like a waggon deprived of its break, down ’twill go,And the whole span of Parliament into infiniteDisorder will rush, with theirAchter os flauw.
Well, peace to themanesof these shaggy old lions!May the song of the steam-engine lull them to rest;May they, free from “obstruction,” “protest,” and “defiance”(But not in a buck-waggon) go to the blest.
Be this their escutcheon:—A steam-engine rampant,A patriot floored on the floor of the “House,”A skinned nigger salient—sixteen oxen couchant,A waggon smashed up, and a broken-down smouse.
H. W. Bidwell.
Uitenhage,May 21.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
“I cannot spare that book, papa—Take all I have beside;But that my poor, my dear mamma,Gave me the day she died,“And bade me keep it for her sake;—If all your money’s spentSell all my toys, but do not takeMy little Testament!“She told me that I there might readThe way to heaven above.I cannot part with it indeed!—Her last dear gift of love.”There stood beside that couch of straw,All haggard, wretched, wild,The drunkard father, staggering o’erHis sweet but dying child.And as she spoke, a father’s tearStole down his bloated cheek;And thus he cried, “Hush, Fanny dear!’Tis not your book I seek.“But oh! this cursed, burning thirst,Has made me mad, I think;I take your book!—I’d perish first—And yet I must have drink!—“Come, child! no more that sad pale look!—There—dry your weeping eye,I would not steal your little bookFor all the world—not I!”Her sighs and sobs are now at rest,For see! the maiden sleeps;—But closely to her little book,The Testament, she keeps.There bathed in beauteous tears she lay,Like some half drooping flower,Cropt ere the sun had kissed awayThe grief of evening’s hour.There stood the man; his burning tongueHalf cursing his intent,As stealthily from Fanny’s breastHe took the Testament.Not all a father’s love could breakThe dread, the cursed spellThat binds the drunkard to his glass,And drags his soul to hell.But deaf to sweet affection’s voice,Dead to the fear of sin,Away he bore the cherished pledgeAnd bartered it for gin.Now once again he dares besideThat wretched couch to stand;And gazes on his dying childThe bottle in his hand.—How shall he meet her dying face?He dare not, cannot think,But all reflection, all disgraceDrowns in absorbing drink,—But see! his little daughter wakes,And seeks her book in vain,Yet murmurs not—how calm she takesThe sickness and the pain.But though the ghastly hues of deathO’er her wan features roll,A beam of immortalityIs borrowed from the soul,That lightens up her waning eyeWith an unearthly light,That tells the spirit plumes its wingsFor an eternal flight.“Father,” she cried, “I’m dying now;Nay, father! do not weep!—I know you took my TestamentWhen I was fast asleep.“But I forgive you, father dear!Come!—sit down by my side!—Say! do you think I’ll get to heaven?You know how hard I’ve tried.“I think I shall—I know I shall—For in my book I read‘Let little children come to Me,’That’s what the Saviour said.“But, father, when I get to heavenAnd my poor dear mamma,And all those angels pure and brightShall speak of you, papa!“And ask me what you did with it,My mother’s darling book—What shall your Fanny say to them?—Father!—how ill you look!”—“Oh! mercy, child!” the father cries,“What hope is there for me,Oh! I have broken all the tiesOf loved humanity!—“See here!” and with a dreadful oathThe bottle down he cast—“Thus do I break the drunkard’s chains—I’ve freed myself at last.”“Nay! curse not, father dear, but pray.”—“How can I pray,” he cried.“I’ll teach you, father; come this way!—There—kneel down by my side!”—He knelt, and in response to her,Repeated word for word—“To me a sinner deep and blackBe merciful, O Lord!”She died—and as the angels boreHer little spirit home,They sang in joy o’er the drunkard’s soulThus rescued from its doom.[29]H. W. Bidwell.
“I cannot spare that book, papa—Take all I have beside;But that my poor, my dear mamma,Gave me the day she died,“And bade me keep it for her sake;—If all your money’s spentSell all my toys, but do not takeMy little Testament!“She told me that I there might readThe way to heaven above.I cannot part with it indeed!—Her last dear gift of love.”There stood beside that couch of straw,All haggard, wretched, wild,The drunkard father, staggering o’erHis sweet but dying child.And as she spoke, a father’s tearStole down his bloated cheek;And thus he cried, “Hush, Fanny dear!’Tis not your book I seek.“But oh! this cursed, burning thirst,Has made me mad, I think;I take your book!—I’d perish first—And yet I must have drink!—“Come, child! no more that sad pale look!—There—dry your weeping eye,I would not steal your little bookFor all the world—not I!”Her sighs and sobs are now at rest,For see! the maiden sleeps;—But closely to her little book,The Testament, she keeps.There bathed in beauteous tears she lay,Like some half drooping flower,Cropt ere the sun had kissed awayThe grief of evening’s hour.There stood the man; his burning tongueHalf cursing his intent,As stealthily from Fanny’s breastHe took the Testament.Not all a father’s love could breakThe dread, the cursed spellThat binds the drunkard to his glass,And drags his soul to hell.But deaf to sweet affection’s voice,Dead to the fear of sin,Away he bore the cherished pledgeAnd bartered it for gin.Now once again he dares besideThat wretched couch to stand;And gazes on his dying childThe bottle in his hand.—How shall he meet her dying face?He dare not, cannot think,But all reflection, all disgraceDrowns in absorbing drink,—But see! his little daughter wakes,And seeks her book in vain,Yet murmurs not—how calm she takesThe sickness and the pain.But though the ghastly hues of deathO’er her wan features roll,A beam of immortalityIs borrowed from the soul,That lightens up her waning eyeWith an unearthly light,That tells the spirit plumes its wingsFor an eternal flight.“Father,” she cried, “I’m dying now;Nay, father! do not weep!—I know you took my TestamentWhen I was fast asleep.“But I forgive you, father dear!Come!—sit down by my side!—Say! do you think I’ll get to heaven?You know how hard I’ve tried.“I think I shall—I know I shall—For in my book I read‘Let little children come to Me,’That’s what the Saviour said.“But, father, when I get to heavenAnd my poor dear mamma,And all those angels pure and brightShall speak of you, papa!“And ask me what you did with it,My mother’s darling book—What shall your Fanny say to them?—Father!—how ill you look!”—“Oh! mercy, child!” the father cries,“What hope is there for me,Oh! I have broken all the tiesOf loved humanity!—“See here!” and with a dreadful oathThe bottle down he cast—“Thus do I break the drunkard’s chains—I’ve freed myself at last.”“Nay! curse not, father dear, but pray.”—“How can I pray,” he cried.“I’ll teach you, father; come this way!—There—kneel down by my side!”—He knelt, and in response to her,Repeated word for word—“To me a sinner deep and blackBe merciful, O Lord!”She died—and as the angels boreHer little spirit home,They sang in joy o’er the drunkard’s soulThus rescued from its doom.[29]H. W. Bidwell.
“I cannot spare that book, papa—Take all I have beside;But that my poor, my dear mamma,Gave me the day she died,“And bade me keep it for her sake;—If all your money’s spentSell all my toys, but do not takeMy little Testament!
“She told me that I there might readThe way to heaven above.I cannot part with it indeed!—Her last dear gift of love.”
There stood beside that couch of straw,All haggard, wretched, wild,The drunkard father, staggering o’erHis sweet but dying child.
And as she spoke, a father’s tearStole down his bloated cheek;And thus he cried, “Hush, Fanny dear!’Tis not your book I seek.
“But oh! this cursed, burning thirst,Has made me mad, I think;I take your book!—I’d perish first—And yet I must have drink!—
“Come, child! no more that sad pale look!—There—dry your weeping eye,I would not steal your little bookFor all the world—not I!”
Her sighs and sobs are now at rest,For see! the maiden sleeps;—But closely to her little book,The Testament, she keeps.
There bathed in beauteous tears she lay,Like some half drooping flower,Cropt ere the sun had kissed awayThe grief of evening’s hour.
There stood the man; his burning tongueHalf cursing his intent,As stealthily from Fanny’s breastHe took the Testament.
Not all a father’s love could breakThe dread, the cursed spellThat binds the drunkard to his glass,And drags his soul to hell.
But deaf to sweet affection’s voice,Dead to the fear of sin,Away he bore the cherished pledgeAnd bartered it for gin.
Now once again he dares besideThat wretched couch to stand;And gazes on his dying childThe bottle in his hand.—
How shall he meet her dying face?He dare not, cannot think,But all reflection, all disgraceDrowns in absorbing drink,—
But see! his little daughter wakes,And seeks her book in vain,Yet murmurs not—how calm she takesThe sickness and the pain.
But though the ghastly hues of deathO’er her wan features roll,A beam of immortalityIs borrowed from the soul,
That lightens up her waning eyeWith an unearthly light,That tells the spirit plumes its wingsFor an eternal flight.
“Father,” she cried, “I’m dying now;Nay, father! do not weep!—I know you took my TestamentWhen I was fast asleep.
“But I forgive you, father dear!Come!—sit down by my side!—Say! do you think I’ll get to heaven?You know how hard I’ve tried.
“I think I shall—I know I shall—For in my book I read‘Let little children come to Me,’That’s what the Saviour said.
“But, father, when I get to heavenAnd my poor dear mamma,And all those angels pure and brightShall speak of you, papa!
“And ask me what you did with it,My mother’s darling book—What shall your Fanny say to them?—Father!—how ill you look!”—
“Oh! mercy, child!” the father cries,“What hope is there for me,Oh! I have broken all the tiesOf loved humanity!—
“See here!” and with a dreadful oathThe bottle down he cast—“Thus do I break the drunkard’s chains—I’ve freed myself at last.”
“Nay! curse not, father dear, but pray.”—“How can I pray,” he cried.“I’ll teach you, father; come this way!—There—kneel down by my side!”—
He knelt, and in response to her,Repeated word for word—“To me a sinner deep and blackBe merciful, O Lord!”
She died—and as the angels boreHer little spirit home,They sang in joy o’er the drunkard’s soulThus rescued from its doom.[29]
H. W. Bidwell.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
’Twas a beautiful evening:—towards the calm westThe god of the summer triumphantly rolled;As the glory gates oped to receive their bright guestThey let out a torrent of heaven’s own gold.It mellowed the lawn, where the poplar’s tall spireThrew a shade, which dissolved as it longer became.It lit up the hall like a temple of fireAs its old Norman windows reflected the flame.All was silent; for Philomel yet did not raiseHis song, which both sadness and rapture inspire:The thrush and finch ceased their vesper of praiseTo gaze on the glory: and mutely admire.The newly born zephyr, so gentle and mild,Strayed over the lawn to a chamber above,Where her sad mother sighed o’er her withering child,The frail blossom born of unsanctified love.Oh! the sigh from an innocent heart—like the breezeWhich distils from the flowers those essences rare,Too subtle for e’en the inquisitive bees—Is laden with sweetness that medicines care.But not so the breathings exhaled from the breastWhere guilt makes a sepulchre, shame finds a home;And the hope that with virtue alone deigns to rest,With its heavenly solace may never more come.Yet the scene was so tranquil, the grandeur so calm,That its influence e’en to that sad heart would steal;Like an angel of charity pouring its balmTo soothe the deep wound that it never might heal.And the mother sat watching that dear life, whose ebbWas so stealthy, that even love’s fears were beguiled,Till the spider-fay sleep spun its magical web’Twixt the frail one’s fond eyes and her innocent child.And the soft zephyrs played on each delicate brow,Like tender caresses of angels unseen;Now lifting a curl from a forehead of snow,Now kissing a cheek where a tear-pearl had been.They are dreaming—Hark!—Whence that mysterious sound?Like the wild harp of Æolus disturbed by the wingsOf some spirit that playfully hovers around,And fan into song the invisible strings;Or the hymn which the spirit of God’s universeSings unto the planets and suns, as they roll,Or the chorus celestial beings rehearseWhen they welcome to heaven an innocent soul.Lo! a ladder of sunbeams shoots down from the skiesTo the child, and a host of bright beings appear;And as they descend their sweet voices ariseMore loud and distinct on the mother’s rapt ear.Oh! ne’er has the tongue of a mortal expressedThe accents that fall on the ears of the soul,The thoughts to an atom of spirit addressedBy its infinite, mighty, mysterious whole.The silver-winged choristers press round the pair;The chorus has ceased; but a voice far more sweetIn its unaided melody, takes up the air,Which feebly the muse thus essays to repeat.“This is the dear sister our love longs to win,Soft!—bear her away to the home of the blest,Ere a pang of earth’s sorrow, or taint of its sin,Hath stricken or sullied her innocent breast.”They raise her; again in rich harmony blendThe sweet voices; a glance half of joy, half of painThey beam on the mother, then gracefully wendTheir ethereal pathway to heaven again.The chorus expires:—their images shownIn the dimness of distance like faint shadows seem;Till the gates now regained are wide open thrown,And each form stands revealed in the outrushing gleam.The child is upraised in a halo of lightMore radiant far than was e’er seen on this earth;It smiles an adieu!—then departs from the sight;The gates close:—it enters its heavenly birth!All was dark till a bright star appeared in the place,Shedding down like a beacon of hope its pure ray,And the mother awaking, rushed forth to embrace—Not her child—but the husk which its soul cast away.And oft, when the earliest shadows of nightVeil the earth, the bereaved one will gaze on that star;There is joy in its glory and hope in its light,For it seems like her child looking down from afar.H. W. Bidwell.Grahamstown, 1862.
’Twas a beautiful evening:—towards the calm westThe god of the summer triumphantly rolled;As the glory gates oped to receive their bright guestThey let out a torrent of heaven’s own gold.It mellowed the lawn, where the poplar’s tall spireThrew a shade, which dissolved as it longer became.It lit up the hall like a temple of fireAs its old Norman windows reflected the flame.All was silent; for Philomel yet did not raiseHis song, which both sadness and rapture inspire:The thrush and finch ceased their vesper of praiseTo gaze on the glory: and mutely admire.The newly born zephyr, so gentle and mild,Strayed over the lawn to a chamber above,Where her sad mother sighed o’er her withering child,The frail blossom born of unsanctified love.Oh! the sigh from an innocent heart—like the breezeWhich distils from the flowers those essences rare,Too subtle for e’en the inquisitive bees—Is laden with sweetness that medicines care.But not so the breathings exhaled from the breastWhere guilt makes a sepulchre, shame finds a home;And the hope that with virtue alone deigns to rest,With its heavenly solace may never more come.Yet the scene was so tranquil, the grandeur so calm,That its influence e’en to that sad heart would steal;Like an angel of charity pouring its balmTo soothe the deep wound that it never might heal.And the mother sat watching that dear life, whose ebbWas so stealthy, that even love’s fears were beguiled,Till the spider-fay sleep spun its magical web’Twixt the frail one’s fond eyes and her innocent child.And the soft zephyrs played on each delicate brow,Like tender caresses of angels unseen;Now lifting a curl from a forehead of snow,Now kissing a cheek where a tear-pearl had been.They are dreaming—Hark!—Whence that mysterious sound?Like the wild harp of Æolus disturbed by the wingsOf some spirit that playfully hovers around,And fan into song the invisible strings;Or the hymn which the spirit of God’s universeSings unto the planets and suns, as they roll,Or the chorus celestial beings rehearseWhen they welcome to heaven an innocent soul.Lo! a ladder of sunbeams shoots down from the skiesTo the child, and a host of bright beings appear;And as they descend their sweet voices ariseMore loud and distinct on the mother’s rapt ear.Oh! ne’er has the tongue of a mortal expressedThe accents that fall on the ears of the soul,The thoughts to an atom of spirit addressedBy its infinite, mighty, mysterious whole.The silver-winged choristers press round the pair;The chorus has ceased; but a voice far more sweetIn its unaided melody, takes up the air,Which feebly the muse thus essays to repeat.“This is the dear sister our love longs to win,Soft!—bear her away to the home of the blest,Ere a pang of earth’s sorrow, or taint of its sin,Hath stricken or sullied her innocent breast.”They raise her; again in rich harmony blendThe sweet voices; a glance half of joy, half of painThey beam on the mother, then gracefully wendTheir ethereal pathway to heaven again.The chorus expires:—their images shownIn the dimness of distance like faint shadows seem;Till the gates now regained are wide open thrown,And each form stands revealed in the outrushing gleam.The child is upraised in a halo of lightMore radiant far than was e’er seen on this earth;It smiles an adieu!—then departs from the sight;The gates close:—it enters its heavenly birth!All was dark till a bright star appeared in the place,Shedding down like a beacon of hope its pure ray,And the mother awaking, rushed forth to embrace—Not her child—but the husk which its soul cast away.And oft, when the earliest shadows of nightVeil the earth, the bereaved one will gaze on that star;There is joy in its glory and hope in its light,For it seems like her child looking down from afar.H. W. Bidwell.Grahamstown, 1862.
’Twas a beautiful evening:—towards the calm westThe god of the summer triumphantly rolled;As the glory gates oped to receive their bright guestThey let out a torrent of heaven’s own gold.
It mellowed the lawn, where the poplar’s tall spireThrew a shade, which dissolved as it longer became.It lit up the hall like a temple of fireAs its old Norman windows reflected the flame.
All was silent; for Philomel yet did not raiseHis song, which both sadness and rapture inspire:The thrush and finch ceased their vesper of praiseTo gaze on the glory: and mutely admire.
The newly born zephyr, so gentle and mild,Strayed over the lawn to a chamber above,Where her sad mother sighed o’er her withering child,The frail blossom born of unsanctified love.
Oh! the sigh from an innocent heart—like the breezeWhich distils from the flowers those essences rare,Too subtle for e’en the inquisitive bees—Is laden with sweetness that medicines care.
But not so the breathings exhaled from the breastWhere guilt makes a sepulchre, shame finds a home;And the hope that with virtue alone deigns to rest,With its heavenly solace may never more come.
Yet the scene was so tranquil, the grandeur so calm,That its influence e’en to that sad heart would steal;Like an angel of charity pouring its balmTo soothe the deep wound that it never might heal.
And the mother sat watching that dear life, whose ebbWas so stealthy, that even love’s fears were beguiled,Till the spider-fay sleep spun its magical web’Twixt the frail one’s fond eyes and her innocent child.
And the soft zephyrs played on each delicate brow,Like tender caresses of angels unseen;Now lifting a curl from a forehead of snow,Now kissing a cheek where a tear-pearl had been.
They are dreaming—Hark!—Whence that mysterious sound?Like the wild harp of Æolus disturbed by the wingsOf some spirit that playfully hovers around,And fan into song the invisible strings;
Or the hymn which the spirit of God’s universeSings unto the planets and suns, as they roll,Or the chorus celestial beings rehearseWhen they welcome to heaven an innocent soul.
Lo! a ladder of sunbeams shoots down from the skiesTo the child, and a host of bright beings appear;And as they descend their sweet voices ariseMore loud and distinct on the mother’s rapt ear.
Oh! ne’er has the tongue of a mortal expressedThe accents that fall on the ears of the soul,The thoughts to an atom of spirit addressedBy its infinite, mighty, mysterious whole.
The silver-winged choristers press round the pair;The chorus has ceased; but a voice far more sweetIn its unaided melody, takes up the air,Which feebly the muse thus essays to repeat.
“This is the dear sister our love longs to win,Soft!—bear her away to the home of the blest,Ere a pang of earth’s sorrow, or taint of its sin,Hath stricken or sullied her innocent breast.”
They raise her; again in rich harmony blendThe sweet voices; a glance half of joy, half of painThey beam on the mother, then gracefully wendTheir ethereal pathway to heaven again.
The chorus expires:—their images shownIn the dimness of distance like faint shadows seem;Till the gates now regained are wide open thrown,And each form stands revealed in the outrushing gleam.
The child is upraised in a halo of lightMore radiant far than was e’er seen on this earth;It smiles an adieu!—then departs from the sight;The gates close:—it enters its heavenly birth!
All was dark till a bright star appeared in the place,Shedding down like a beacon of hope its pure ray,And the mother awaking, rushed forth to embrace—Not her child—but the husk which its soul cast away.
And oft, when the earliest shadows of nightVeil the earth, the bereaved one will gaze on that star;There is joy in its glory and hope in its light,For it seems like her child looking down from afar.
H. W. Bidwell.
Grahamstown, 1862.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Wild, wild was the night on the wild, wild karoo—Confoundedly wild near the kraal called “Barroo”(Although after Kirkwood’s advertisement readin’,You’d think “Barroo Kraal” Hottentot-Dutch for Eden);Well, the storm monarchreignedin this wild wilderness,And a trav’ler whohailedfrom the port Little Bess,Reinedhis charger and then through the darkness did peer,Twigged somelightsand concluded aliverwas near;For helongedthat heshortlysome shelter might find,Did this travel-wornReed shakenby the wildwind.Thelightningwas blazing behind and before,So hethunderedaway at the house of the Boer.In acrackand hiscrackers, mynheer did appear,And exclaimed, “In de naam van de drommel, wie’s daar?”Said the stranger, “I’m shaking from toe-tip to crown,These roadsshakeme up, so I crave ashake-down!Barroo Kraal’s some distance,—my steed is so weary,He’dne’er crawltocarrymenearto friendCary.I don’tcare-a-buttonhow poor is your cheer,But in mercy I pray you to put me somewhere.”Mynheer gave a grunt, and he slammed to the door,And our friend was “left out in the cold” as before.Three months had passed by when quite early one dayThisintractableBoer madetracksto the Bay.He was met by our friend, who had now ceased to roam,And kindly invited to go with him home.So he went with our friend and entered his house,And was thus introduced to his genial spouse.“I’ve broughthomea queer kind ofhomo, my dear,Let nothome-opathycurtail your cheer,Get best things in season, in order to showHospitality’s here as well’s up by Barroo!”The table soon groaned ’neath the daintiest storeThat ever yet tickled the taste of a Boer—Mynheer guzzled coffee with Hennessy’s “stick” in,And stowed away no end of broiled ham and chicken;The crevices filling up well with poached eggs,Till, tight as a drum, he arose on his legs—His host arose also—and cried, “You old beast!You’ve sat at my table and gorged at my feast!And you’re welcome. You taught me some three months agoHowyoureceive trav’lers who can’t reach ‘Barroo;’I’ve returned you the compliment, old boy, to-day,For I’ve shown you how guests are received at the Bay—Lest the lesson be lost on so churlish a lout,Take that, sir!—and that!” and he kicked him bang out.
Wild, wild was the night on the wild, wild karoo—Confoundedly wild near the kraal called “Barroo”(Although after Kirkwood’s advertisement readin’,You’d think “Barroo Kraal” Hottentot-Dutch for Eden);Well, the storm monarchreignedin this wild wilderness,And a trav’ler whohailedfrom the port Little Bess,Reinedhis charger and then through the darkness did peer,Twigged somelightsand concluded aliverwas near;For helongedthat heshortlysome shelter might find,Did this travel-wornReed shakenby the wildwind.Thelightningwas blazing behind and before,So hethunderedaway at the house of the Boer.In acrackand hiscrackers, mynheer did appear,And exclaimed, “In de naam van de drommel, wie’s daar?”Said the stranger, “I’m shaking from toe-tip to crown,These roadsshakeme up, so I crave ashake-down!Barroo Kraal’s some distance,—my steed is so weary,He’dne’er crawltocarrymenearto friendCary.I don’tcare-a-buttonhow poor is your cheer,But in mercy I pray you to put me somewhere.”Mynheer gave a grunt, and he slammed to the door,And our friend was “left out in the cold” as before.Three months had passed by when quite early one dayThisintractableBoer madetracksto the Bay.He was met by our friend, who had now ceased to roam,And kindly invited to go with him home.So he went with our friend and entered his house,And was thus introduced to his genial spouse.“I’ve broughthomea queer kind ofhomo, my dear,Let nothome-opathycurtail your cheer,Get best things in season, in order to showHospitality’s here as well’s up by Barroo!”The table soon groaned ’neath the daintiest storeThat ever yet tickled the taste of a Boer—Mynheer guzzled coffee with Hennessy’s “stick” in,And stowed away no end of broiled ham and chicken;The crevices filling up well with poached eggs,Till, tight as a drum, he arose on his legs—His host arose also—and cried, “You old beast!You’ve sat at my table and gorged at my feast!And you’re welcome. You taught me some three months agoHowyoureceive trav’lers who can’t reach ‘Barroo;’I’ve returned you the compliment, old boy, to-day,For I’ve shown you how guests are received at the Bay—Lest the lesson be lost on so churlish a lout,Take that, sir!—and that!” and he kicked him bang out.
Wild, wild was the night on the wild, wild karoo—Confoundedly wild near the kraal called “Barroo”(Although after Kirkwood’s advertisement readin’,You’d think “Barroo Kraal” Hottentot-Dutch for Eden);Well, the storm monarchreignedin this wild wilderness,And a trav’ler whohailedfrom the port Little Bess,Reinedhis charger and then through the darkness did peer,Twigged somelightsand concluded aliverwas near;For helongedthat heshortlysome shelter might find,Did this travel-wornReed shakenby the wildwind.Thelightningwas blazing behind and before,So hethunderedaway at the house of the Boer.
In acrackand hiscrackers, mynheer did appear,And exclaimed, “In de naam van de drommel, wie’s daar?”Said the stranger, “I’m shaking from toe-tip to crown,These roadsshakeme up, so I crave ashake-down!Barroo Kraal’s some distance,—my steed is so weary,He’dne’er crawltocarrymenearto friendCary.I don’tcare-a-buttonhow poor is your cheer,But in mercy I pray you to put me somewhere.”Mynheer gave a grunt, and he slammed to the door,And our friend was “left out in the cold” as before.
Three months had passed by when quite early one dayThisintractableBoer madetracksto the Bay.He was met by our friend, who had now ceased to roam,And kindly invited to go with him home.So he went with our friend and entered his house,And was thus introduced to his genial spouse.“I’ve broughthomea queer kind ofhomo, my dear,Let nothome-opathycurtail your cheer,Get best things in season, in order to showHospitality’s here as well’s up by Barroo!”
The table soon groaned ’neath the daintiest storeThat ever yet tickled the taste of a Boer—Mynheer guzzled coffee with Hennessy’s “stick” in,And stowed away no end of broiled ham and chicken;The crevices filling up well with poached eggs,Till, tight as a drum, he arose on his legs—His host arose also—and cried, “You old beast!You’ve sat at my table and gorged at my feast!And you’re welcome. You taught me some three months agoHowyoureceive trav’lers who can’t reach ‘Barroo;’I’ve returned you the compliment, old boy, to-day,For I’ve shown you how guests are received at the Bay—Lest the lesson be lost on so churlish a lout,Take that, sir!—and that!” and he kicked him bang out.
AGovernorfelt it his duty to goTo arrange matters ’twixt one King John and his foe,Between whom had arisen bloodthirsty dissensions,But t’wards this Boer King he’d the kindest intentions.John couldn’t have treated him worse had he beenThe agent of Moshesh instead of the Queen.Not a single gun popped off a sensation louder—(Perhaps that’s because he was hard up for powder)—But, for all that was done by this potentate bold,Sir Philip too might have stopped “out in the cold,”For the welcome John gave him a name comes in handy,Thespirithe showed to his guest wasBoer-Brandy.Three months had passed by, and King John, now at peace,From work and for office obtained are-lease;So primed well with blue-blacks he thought he’d go downTo spendthemand his holidays there in Cape Town.When the Governor heard John was coming that way,He said, “’Tis my turn at ‘reception’ to play.Let those guns which since Duke Alfred came have been muteBechargedtodischargehim a royal salute,Cripps!lionKing John, like a realkingly brute;And soldiers! be sure you do the right thing,Let anorderlytend thisdisorderlyking!Get rolls of tobacco his pipe well to cram,And lay in a stock of Cape smoke and schiedam,And order some horse hides, first hand, from our knacker’s,To make him a pair of right regal Boer crackers—He’ll go to bed in them, but that doesn’t matter;Put him up in my bed, ’twill his vanity flatter,I can sleep on the sofa or hearthrug instead—We must heap coals of fire on King Johnny’s head.He has shown me howfriendsare received in theFreeState; I’ll show him howfoesare received here by me.
AGovernorfelt it his duty to goTo arrange matters ’twixt one King John and his foe,Between whom had arisen bloodthirsty dissensions,But t’wards this Boer King he’d the kindest intentions.John couldn’t have treated him worse had he beenThe agent of Moshesh instead of the Queen.Not a single gun popped off a sensation louder—(Perhaps that’s because he was hard up for powder)—But, for all that was done by this potentate bold,Sir Philip too might have stopped “out in the cold,”For the welcome John gave him a name comes in handy,Thespirithe showed to his guest wasBoer-Brandy.Three months had passed by, and King John, now at peace,From work and for office obtained are-lease;So primed well with blue-blacks he thought he’d go downTo spendthemand his holidays there in Cape Town.When the Governor heard John was coming that way,He said, “’Tis my turn at ‘reception’ to play.Let those guns which since Duke Alfred came have been muteBechargedtodischargehim a royal salute,Cripps!lionKing John, like a realkingly brute;And soldiers! be sure you do the right thing,Let anorderlytend thisdisorderlyking!Get rolls of tobacco his pipe well to cram,And lay in a stock of Cape smoke and schiedam,And order some horse hides, first hand, from our knacker’s,To make him a pair of right regal Boer crackers—He’ll go to bed in them, but that doesn’t matter;Put him up in my bed, ’twill his vanity flatter,I can sleep on the sofa or hearthrug instead—We must heap coals of fire on King Johnny’s head.He has shown me howfriendsare received in theFreeState; I’ll show him howfoesare received here by me.
AGovernorfelt it his duty to goTo arrange matters ’twixt one King John and his foe,Between whom had arisen bloodthirsty dissensions,But t’wards this Boer King he’d the kindest intentions.John couldn’t have treated him worse had he beenThe agent of Moshesh instead of the Queen.Not a single gun popped off a sensation louder—(Perhaps that’s because he was hard up for powder)—But, for all that was done by this potentate bold,Sir Philip too might have stopped “out in the cold,”For the welcome John gave him a name comes in handy,Thespirithe showed to his guest wasBoer-Brandy.Three months had passed by, and King John, now at peace,From work and for office obtained are-lease;So primed well with blue-blacks he thought he’d go downTo spendthemand his holidays there in Cape Town.When the Governor heard John was coming that way,He said, “’Tis my turn at ‘reception’ to play.Let those guns which since Duke Alfred came have been muteBechargedtodischargehim a royal salute,Cripps!lionKing John, like a realkingly brute;And soldiers! be sure you do the right thing,Let anorderlytend thisdisorderlyking!Get rolls of tobacco his pipe well to cram,And lay in a stock of Cape smoke and schiedam,And order some horse hides, first hand, from our knacker’s,To make him a pair of right regal Boer crackers—He’ll go to bed in them, but that doesn’t matter;Put him up in my bed, ’twill his vanity flatter,I can sleep on the sofa or hearthrug instead—We must heap coals of fire on King Johnny’s head.He has shown me howfriendsare received in theFreeState; I’ll show him howfoesare received here by me.
’Twill be strange now if all this “reception” and routShould end in John’s getting the “dirty kick out.”W. H. Bidwell.Uitenhage,24th June 1869.
’Twill be strange now if all this “reception” and routShould end in John’s getting the “dirty kick out.”W. H. Bidwell.Uitenhage,24th June 1869.
’Twill be strange now if all this “reception” and routShould end in John’s getting the “dirty kick out.”
W. H. Bidwell.
Uitenhage,24th June 1869.