THE VOLUNTEERS OF ENGLAND.BY A COLONIST.

(Enter Mrs. P. and her Sister, who welcome their Guest to Africa. The party take their seats round the table, and conversation proceeds.)

P.—First, here’s our broad-tailed mutton, small and fine,The dish on which nine days in ten we dine;Next, roasted springbok, spiced and larded well;A haunch of hartébeest from Hyndhope Fell;A paauw, which beats your Norfolk turkey hollow;Korhaan, and Guinea-fowl, and pheasant follow;Kid carbonadjes, à-la-Hottentot,Broiled on a forkèd twig; and, peppered hotWith Chili pods, a dish called Caffer-stew;Smoked ham of porcupine, and tongue of gnu.This fine white household bread (of Margaret’s baking)Comes from an oven, too, of my own making,Scooped from an ant-hill. Did I ask beforeIf you would taste this brawn of forest-boar?Our fruits, I must confess, make no great show:Trees, grafts, and layers must have time to grow.But there’s green roasted maize, and pumpkin pie,And wild asparagus. Or will you tryA slice of water-melon?—fine for drouth,Like sugared ices melting in the mouth.Here too are wild grapes from our forest-vine,Not void of flavour, though unfit for wine.And here comes dried fruit I had quite forgot,(From fair Glen-Avon, Margaret, is it not?)Figs, almonds, raisins, peaches. Witbooy SwartBrought this huge sackful from kind Mrs. Hart—Enough to load a Covent-Garden cart.But come, let’s crown the banquet with some wine,What will you drink? Champagne? Port? Claret? Stein?Well—not to tease you with a thirsty jest,Lo, there ouronlyvintage stands confest,In that half-aum upon the spigot-rack.And, certes, though it keeps the oldkaap smaak,The wine is light and racy; so we learn,In laughing mood, to call it Cape Sauterne.—Let’s pledge this cup “to all our friends,” Fairbairn!F.—Well, I admit, my friend, your dinner’s good.Springbok and porcupine are dainty food;That lordly paauw was roasted to a turn;And, in your country fruits, and Cape Sauterne,The wildish flavour’s really—not unpleasant;And I may say the same of gnu and pheasant.—But—Mrs. Pringle ... shall I have the pleasure ...?Miss Brown, ... some wine?—(These quaighs are quite a treasure)—What! leave us now? I’ve much to ask ofyou...But since youwillgo—for an hour adieu.[Exeunt Ladies.But, Pringle—“à nos moutons revenons”—Cui bono’sstill the burden of my song—Cut off, with these good ladies, from society,Of savage life you soon must feel satiety:TheMindrequires fit exercise and food,Not to be found ’mid Afric’s desert rude.And what avail the spoils of wood and field,The fruits or vines your fertile valleys yield,Without that higher zest to crown the whole—“The feast of Reason and the flow of Soul?”—Food, shelter, fire, suffice for savage men;But can the comforts of your wattled den,Your sylvan fare and rustic tasks sufficeFor one who once seemed finer joys to prize?—When, erst, like Virgil’s swains, we used to singOf streams and groves, and “all that sort of thing,”The spot we meant for our “poetic den”Was always within reach of books and men;By classic Esk, for instance, or Tweed-side,With gifted friends within an easy ride;Besides our college chum, the parish priest;And the said den with six good rooms at least.—Here!save for her who shares and soothes your lot,You might as well squat in a Caffer’s cot!Come, now, be candid: tell me, my dear friend,Of your aspiring aims isthisthe end?Was it for nature’s wants, fire, shelter, food,You sought this dreary, soulless solitude?Broke off your ties with men of cultured mind,Your native land, your early friends resigned?As if, believing with insane RousseauRefinement the chief cause of human woe,You meant to realise that raver’s plan,And be a philosophicBosjesman!—Be frank; confess the fact you cannot hide—You sought this den from disappointed pride.P.—You’ve missed the mark, Fairbairn: my breast is clear.Nor wild romance nor pride allured me here:Duty and destiny with equal voiceConstrained my steps: I had no other choice.The hermit “lodge in some vast wilderness,”Which sometimes poets sigh for, I confess,Were but a sorry lot. In real lifeOne needs a friend—the best of friends, a wife:But with a home thus cheered, however rude,There’s nought so very dull in solitude,—Even though that home should happen to be found,Like mine, in Africa’s remotest bound.—I have my farm and garden, tools and pen;My schemes for civilising savage men;Our Sunday service, till the Sabbath-bellShall wake its welcome chime in Lynden dell:Some duty or amusement, grave or light,To fill the active day from morn till night:And thus two years so lightsomely have flownThat still we wonder when the week is gone.—We have at times our troubles, it is true,Passing vexations and privations too;But were it not for woman’s tender frame,These are annoyances I scarce would name;For though perchance they plague us while they last,They only serve for jests when they are past.And then your notion that we’requiteexiledFrom social life amid these mountains wild,Accords not with the fact—as you will seeOn glancing o’er this district map with me.. . . . . . . . . .Thomas Pringle.

Our fruits, I must confess, make no great show:Trees, grafts, and layers must have time to grow.But there’s green roasted maize, and pumpkin pie,And wild asparagus. Or will you tryA slice of water-melon?—fine for drouth,Like sugared ices melting in the mouth.Here too are wild grapes from our forest-vine,Not void of flavour, though unfit for wine.And here comes dried fruit I had quite forgot,(From fair Glen-Avon, Margaret, is it not?)Figs, almonds, raisins, peaches. Witbooy SwartBrought this huge sackful from kind Mrs. Hart—Enough to load a Covent-Garden cart.

But come, let’s crown the banquet with some wine,What will you drink? Champagne? Port? Claret? Stein?Well—not to tease you with a thirsty jest,Lo, there ouronlyvintage stands confest,In that half-aum upon the spigot-rack.And, certes, though it keeps the oldkaap smaak,The wine is light and racy; so we learn,In laughing mood, to call it Cape Sauterne.—Let’s pledge this cup “to all our friends,” Fairbairn!

F.—Well, I admit, my friend, your dinner’s good.Springbok and porcupine are dainty food;That lordly paauw was roasted to a turn;And, in your country fruits, and Cape Sauterne,The wildish flavour’s really—not unpleasant;And I may say the same of gnu and pheasant.—But—Mrs. Pringle ... shall I have the pleasure ...?Miss Brown, ... some wine?—(These quaighs are quite a treasure)—What! leave us now? I’ve much to ask ofyou...But since youwillgo—for an hour adieu.[Exeunt Ladies.

But, Pringle—“à nos moutons revenons”—Cui bono’sstill the burden of my song—Cut off, with these good ladies, from society,Of savage life you soon must feel satiety:TheMindrequires fit exercise and food,Not to be found ’mid Afric’s desert rude.And what avail the spoils of wood and field,The fruits or vines your fertile valleys yield,Without that higher zest to crown the whole—“The feast of Reason and the flow of Soul?”—Food, shelter, fire, suffice for savage men;But can the comforts of your wattled den,Your sylvan fare and rustic tasks sufficeFor one who once seemed finer joys to prize?—When, erst, like Virgil’s swains, we used to singOf streams and groves, and “all that sort of thing,”The spot we meant for our “poetic den”Was always within reach of books and men;By classic Esk, for instance, or Tweed-side,With gifted friends within an easy ride;Besides our college chum, the parish priest;And the said den with six good rooms at least.—Here!save for her who shares and soothes your lot,You might as well squat in a Caffer’s cot!

Come, now, be candid: tell me, my dear friend,Of your aspiring aims isthisthe end?Was it for nature’s wants, fire, shelter, food,You sought this dreary, soulless solitude?Broke off your ties with men of cultured mind,Your native land, your early friends resigned?As if, believing with insane RousseauRefinement the chief cause of human woe,You meant to realise that raver’s plan,And be a philosophicBosjesman!—Be frank; confess the fact you cannot hide—You sought this den from disappointed pride.

P.—You’ve missed the mark, Fairbairn: my breast is clear.Nor wild romance nor pride allured me here:Duty and destiny with equal voiceConstrained my steps: I had no other choice.The hermit “lodge in some vast wilderness,”Which sometimes poets sigh for, I confess,Were but a sorry lot. In real lifeOne needs a friend—the best of friends, a wife:But with a home thus cheered, however rude,There’s nought so very dull in solitude,—Even though that home should happen to be found,Like mine, in Africa’s remotest bound.—I have my farm and garden, tools and pen;My schemes for civilising savage men;Our Sunday service, till the Sabbath-bellShall wake its welcome chime in Lynden dell:Some duty or amusement, grave or light,To fill the active day from morn till night:And thus two years so lightsomely have flownThat still we wonder when the week is gone.—We have at times our troubles, it is true,Passing vexations and privations too;But were it not for woman’s tender frame,These are annoyances I scarce would name;For though perchance they plague us while they last,They only serve for jests when they are past.

And then your notion that we’requiteexiledFrom social life amid these mountains wild,Accords not with the fact—as you will seeOn glancing o’er this district map with me.. . . . . . . . . .Thomas Pringle.

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Cælum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.

Atrumpetblast is pealing’Mongst Albion’s echoing hills,Arousing every feelingThat patriot’s bosom thrills:O’er hill and dale resounding,It sends its loud alarm;The Freeman’s war-cry sounding,—“For Hearths and Altars, arm!”A Despot’s monster legionsAre on their haughty way;A Despot’s warlike regionsSend forth their proud array,To raze the broad foundationsOf Freedom’s Temple shrine,And from among the nationsTo blot her name divine.From peasant’s lowly dwelling;From baron’s ancient hall,With bosoms proudly swelling,Rise! sons of England,ALL!From Cambria’s vales of beauty,“Britons” of Britain, come,Prompt at the call of duty,With strong right arm “strike home!”From every mist-clad mountain,Sons of the hardy North,From lake, and glen, and fountain,Come in your manhood forth.From Eastern fen and plainland,From Western tarn and fell,From islet, rock, and mainlandThe nation’s gathering swell.“We come!” in tones of thunder,Rings echoing round the land;“We come!” and scenes of wonderBurst forth on every hand.Workmen have sprung to warriors,Herdsmen to heroes grown,And rise, in living barriers,AroundVictoria’sthrone.Peasant and peer are joining,Yeoman with baron stands;Strength, wealth, and rank combining,And nerving hearts and hands.Loyal, if “horny-handed,”Industry’s thousands come;In brother’s compact bandedFor Altar, Throne, and Home.Hear it! to Heaven ascending,A nation’s solemn vow;While, at His altar bending,To Godalonethey bow.“No foreign Home invading,We strike no foreign throne;But,—God from Heaven aiding,Todeathwe guardOUR OWN.”Rev. H. H. Dugmore.July 2, 1861.

A Despot’s monster legionsAre on their haughty way;A Despot’s warlike regionsSend forth their proud array,To raze the broad foundationsOf Freedom’s Temple shrine,And from among the nationsTo blot her name divine.

From peasant’s lowly dwelling;From baron’s ancient hall,With bosoms proudly swelling,Rise! sons of England,ALL!From Cambria’s vales of beauty,“Britons” of Britain, come,Prompt at the call of duty,With strong right arm “strike home!”

From every mist-clad mountain,Sons of the hardy North,From lake, and glen, and fountain,Come in your manhood forth.From Eastern fen and plainland,From Western tarn and fell,From islet, rock, and mainlandThe nation’s gathering swell.

“We come!” in tones of thunder,Rings echoing round the land;“We come!” and scenes of wonderBurst forth on every hand.Workmen have sprung to warriors,Herdsmen to heroes grown,And rise, in living barriers,AroundVictoria’sthrone.

Peasant and peer are joining,Yeoman with baron stands;Strength, wealth, and rank combining,And nerving hearts and hands.Loyal, if “horny-handed,”Industry’s thousands come;In brother’s compact bandedFor Altar, Throne, and Home.

Hear it! to Heaven ascending,A nation’s solemn vow;While, at His altar bending,To Godalonethey bow.“No foreign Home invading,We strike no foreign throne;But,—God from Heaven aiding,Todeathwe guardOUR OWN.”

Rev. H. H. Dugmore.

July 2, 1861.

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Agloriousland is the “Dear Old Land,”Our fathers’ island home;Tho’ its moorlands are cold when the snow lies deep,And the mists round the sides of its mountains creep,And the waves are white when the March winds sweep,As they dash on its cliffs in foam.’Tis changed since the days when the Druid oldWas seen in the forest glades;When the wolf was tracked to his mountain den,And the wild boar roused in the gloomy glen,And the chase was a sport to test themenThat ranged through the leafy shades.Where the victim bled on the altar stone,Or died in a fiery grave;—Where wild woods sheltered the outlaw’s band,—Where the salt marsh mingled sea and land,Proud mansions rise, or cities stand,Or golden harvests wave.A story of fame has the “Dear Old Land,”And it dates from the days gone by;When Right with Might the strife began,And Freedom’s voice with the Fire-cross ran,And the wakened Serf rose up,—aMan,To conquer his rights, orDIE!There were hardy souls in the “Dear Old Land,”In the stern dark days of yore,When the arm coulddowhat the heart coulddare,And the threats of a tyrant were “empty air,”And they made him tremble in his lair,As they roused themselves in power.A story of fame has the “Dear Old Land,”And it is not ended yet.Wherever the sea’s wild waves have curledHer fleets proudly sail with flag unfurled,And many a lesson they’ve taught the world,Which the world will not forget.And tell me the land, o’er the earth’s broad face,Where her “braves” have not been found,From East to West, with the glorious sun,The sound of their drums when the day is done,From realm to realm goes rolling onUnceasing the wide world round!. . . . . . . . . .But the warrior’s fame has stains of blood,And it raises the widow’s wail;Look we then on the glories whose milder raysWill bring no tears to the eyes that gaze;Whose trophies of triumph, whose songs of praiseThe tenderest heart may hail.There are spirits ofmightin the “Dear Old Land,”That have seized on a giant grim,And the burdens which man and beast had borneWith sweat of brow, and frame hard wornFrom morn till night, and from night till morn,They have boldly laid onhim.He raises the load from the deep dark mine,He speeds the loom amain;He wields the ponderous hammer’s force,Gives the ship ’gainst wind and tide free course,And snorts in the breath of the iron horseThat nor weariness feels, nor pain.’Tis glorious to ride at his headlong pace’Mongst the crags of the forest glen,To skim o’er the moorlands bleak and wide,To pierce through the rock-ribbed mountain side,As heplayswith the work—in giant pride—Of twice ten thousand men.There are spirits ofpowerin the “Dear Old Land,”Who can bid the lightning speedFrom North to South, from East to West,—A courier swift that asks no rest,But instant writes command or questWhere the “ends of the world” may read.There are spirits oflightin the “Dear Old Land,”Who rejoice when “the Truth makes free;”Who shout when a nation wakes in might,And seizes its long denied birth-right,And prisonedsoulsburst forth to light;—O, glorious sight to see!There are spirits oflovein the “Dear Old Land,”Who weep for their kindred’s wrongs;And whoworkas they weep, in patient power,Through the livelong day,—through the midnight hourWhile rescued victims blessings showerFrom wondering, grateful tongues.Then hail! all hail! thou “Dear Old Land,”Where our fathers’ ashes lie;There are sunbeams bright on this far off shore,There are starlit skies when the day is o’er,—And we never shall tread thy greensward more,But we’ll love thee,—TILL WE DIE!Rev. H. H. Dugmore.

’Tis changed since the days when the Druid oldWas seen in the forest glades;When the wolf was tracked to his mountain den,And the wild boar roused in the gloomy glen,And the chase was a sport to test themenThat ranged through the leafy shades.

Where the victim bled on the altar stone,Or died in a fiery grave;—Where wild woods sheltered the outlaw’s band,—Where the salt marsh mingled sea and land,Proud mansions rise, or cities stand,Or golden harvests wave.

A story of fame has the “Dear Old Land,”And it dates from the days gone by;When Right with Might the strife began,And Freedom’s voice with the Fire-cross ran,And the wakened Serf rose up,—aMan,To conquer his rights, orDIE!

There were hardy souls in the “Dear Old Land,”In the stern dark days of yore,When the arm coulddowhat the heart coulddare,And the threats of a tyrant were “empty air,”And they made him tremble in his lair,As they roused themselves in power.

A story of fame has the “Dear Old Land,”And it is not ended yet.Wherever the sea’s wild waves have curledHer fleets proudly sail with flag unfurled,And many a lesson they’ve taught the world,Which the world will not forget.

And tell me the land, o’er the earth’s broad face,Where her “braves” have not been found,From East to West, with the glorious sun,The sound of their drums when the day is done,From realm to realm goes rolling onUnceasing the wide world round!. . . . . . . . . .But the warrior’s fame has stains of blood,And it raises the widow’s wail;Look we then on the glories whose milder raysWill bring no tears to the eyes that gaze;Whose trophies of triumph, whose songs of praiseThe tenderest heart may hail.

There are spirits ofmightin the “Dear Old Land,”That have seized on a giant grim,And the burdens which man and beast had borneWith sweat of brow, and frame hard wornFrom morn till night, and from night till morn,They have boldly laid onhim.

He raises the load from the deep dark mine,He speeds the loom amain;He wields the ponderous hammer’s force,Gives the ship ’gainst wind and tide free course,And snorts in the breath of the iron horseThat nor weariness feels, nor pain.

’Tis glorious to ride at his headlong pace’Mongst the crags of the forest glen,To skim o’er the moorlands bleak and wide,To pierce through the rock-ribbed mountain side,As heplayswith the work—in giant pride—Of twice ten thousand men.

There are spirits ofpowerin the “Dear Old Land,”Who can bid the lightning speedFrom North to South, from East to West,—A courier swift that asks no rest,But instant writes command or questWhere the “ends of the world” may read.

There are spirits oflightin the “Dear Old Land,”Who rejoice when “the Truth makes free;”Who shout when a nation wakes in might,And seizes its long denied birth-right,And prisonedsoulsburst forth to light;—O, glorious sight to see!

There are spirits oflovein the “Dear Old Land,”Who weep for their kindred’s wrongs;And whoworkas they weep, in patient power,Through the livelong day,—through the midnight hourWhile rescued victims blessings showerFrom wondering, grateful tongues.

Then hail! all hail! thou “Dear Old Land,”Where our fathers’ ashes lie;There are sunbeams bright on this far off shore,There are starlit skies when the day is o’er,—And we never shall tread thy greensward more,But we’ll love thee,—TILL WE DIE!

Rev. H. H. Dugmore.

List! there is music sounding!Not airy strains, that lead the mazy dance;Not trumpet tones, that stir the warrior’s soul;But soft, and slow, and solemn, as it swellsAnd rolls afar and dies, midst its own echoesFrom vaulted roof, and lofty aisle dim-lighted,Where clustering columns rise, and rainbow raysGleam in their varied glory o’er the scene.’Tis in the sacred fane where sleeps the dustOf those whom Britain loves to honour, whoShed living honour by their deeds onher,Challenging place upon the rolls of Fame.Sages, and saints, and sons of song lie there;Wresters of Nature’s secrets;—senators,Whose thund’rous eloquence could awe the world;Patriots whose lifeblood for their country flowed;War chiefs who led her armies on to glory;Statesmen with eye far-reaching, who could threadDiplomacy’s dark mazes, and, the helmWith firm hand grasping, steer the nation’s barkThrough storms of strife to honour and to peace.And royalty’s proud dust lies mouldering there,’Neath sculptured marbles, or midst gilded shrines:While high o’erhead the ancient banners droop.—Monarchs of other days,—of otherages,Successive generations of the great,Who ruled the realm of England asshegrewFrom isolate obscurity to greatnessThat with a fame undying fills the world.Lo!there,—an open grave! and heads are bare,And bent;—and bosoms heave, and tears are fallingFrom youthful womanhood,—from hoary age.Menweep, as slowly through the reverent throngIs borne what hides from view a shrivelled form,Wasted and featureless: yet round that bierStand silently the great of many lands.Britain’s high-born stand there; and kings of menOf other realms stand there by envoy. ThereThe sons of science gather, and the friendsOf light and liberty. The Churches’ messengersLook on in sadness there; and a vast throng,Crowding around, sigh forth anation’ssympathy.Tokens of reverent love,—azalea wreaths,Laurel and myrtle, with fair flowers entwined,Bright immortelles, branches of Afric’s palm,—(Symbol of triumph e’en in death) are there.And,—honour to the honour’d!—Britain’s QueenSign of “respect and admiration” sends,—Her own, and royal daughter’s funeral giftsTo deck the bier.Andwhois it that thusDraws to himself, indeath, the eyes of nations?Is it some warrior leader, who has diedIn the proud hour of victory; and, weptBy a whole people’s tears, lies down to rest?—Or is it one who, in a nation’s peril,Has earned a nation’s gratitude by wiseAnd warning counsels in her council halls?—Is it aPrincehas died? That royaltyShould sigh her grief, and nobles weep around?’TisLivingstone!—That name a thousand tonguesThrough years of hope and fear alternate, uttered;While he who bore it, deep in Afric’s wilds,Solving her mystery of ages, trodHer deserts, traced her streams,—a pioneerOf science, commerce, liberty, and mercy.—A “weaver boy” thus honoured!—Whereforenot?He wore, indeed, no ducal coronet;Nor dwelt in lordly hall. But “stamp” of “rank”[15]He needed not, while Nature’s “gold” of manhood,Solid, and pure, and bright, shone through his soul.The “weaver boy,” in youthful prime, had yearnedO’er Afric’s sons enslaved; for hisownsoul,By “grace of God” emancipated, longedTo free from bondage “body, soul, and spirit”Of those who were immortal as himself,And co-redeemed, though dark in mind as hue.He bore the Cross’s standard o’er the plainsWhere wandering tribes byMoffatgathered dwelt;And preached the Cross’s story in the tonguesStrange to his earlier years.—But as he stood,And looked to “regions” yet “beyond,” where white man’s footHad never trod,freshlongings filled his soul.—“Millions dwell yonder:—all unknown to us,They live and die in darkness: and they groanIn bitter bondage, where no ray of hopeShines through the gloom.—I go to find the way:—Let others follow.”And he went,—alone;And braved the desert blast, the serpent’s folds,The jungle’s ambush, and the lion’s fang:He braved the fevered swamp, the tropic sun,The mountain torrent, and the savage spear.Barbarian wonder followed in his steps;And treachery shrank before the magic powerOf Christian kindness, single and unarmed.He vanished from our sight,—and time rolled onWhile he was lost from view.At length was heardRumour of strange discoveries: lakes unknownHad spread their silver waters to his gaze;And mighty streams, through vales all green and gloriousPoured their vast floods o’er thundering cataracts,Where men had deemed were nought but deserts drear.“From ocean through to ocean” tropic realmsWere traversed with unfaltering footsteps, tillRegions before unknown, with all their wondersRose into view, and hidden tribes disclosedTheir being and their need.He rested thenAwhile, and told his countrymen the storyOf his lone wanderings over Afric’s wilds.Men wondered while they listened, as they heardOf grassy slopes, and waving woods, and sparkling waters;Of birds of beauty, flowers of gorgeous hues;And these where they had pictured a Sahara,With ’whelming sandstorms, and the death-blast direOf red simoom.He rested not for long:—The spell was on him, and his work not done.And now he led a band, who bore the lightOf truth divine, to chase away the darknessThat brooded over regions bright and fair,Where “man alone is vile.”—’Twas there he laidThe partner of his bosom, who had sharedThe joys and sorrows of his younger years.A grave by Shire’s Waters, far awayFrom home and kindred, holds the precious dust.And now his ties to earth are loosened:—now,The beckoning Hand that calls him onwards still,Is seen more plainly,—and he follows. HeWould lift the cloud from regions still unknown;Heard of but through the victims of a vileTraffic in human blood. His soul was firedWith ardent resolution to destroy,(Or perish in the contest) the dire curseThat blighted nations when they might be blest.A vision rose before him:—These fair realmsYielding earth’s teeming increase in exchangeFor varied handiwork of other lands;—An open-handed commerce giving boonsTo honest industry, whilecrushing downThe cursed manstealer’s trade:—The light of truth,OfChristiantruth, for mind, and heart, and life,For family and nation, blending withPrismatic rays by science shed around:The darkness melting, heathen orgies vileYielding the place to worship bright and pure;Songs of salvation where the savage yells;—Slavery of mind and body killed together,And Freedom smiling glad o’er all the land!—This was his vision;—and it might betrue;—And he wouldlabourthat it might,—todeath!Again, yet once again, the word, “Farewell!”Alastfarewell: we heard his voice no more.The years rolled on,—and on: he came not back.Tidings, indeed, there were; but “far between,Like angel visits,” were those tidings brief,That still he lived, and toiled,—the white man lone,Who with such wondrous spell o’er savage minds,And with charmed life, held pain and death at bay.—And then came silence.——“Has he sunkat last?”And then cameothertidings;—“He isdead!And dead by murderous hands!”—And hearts were chilledWith horror, and stood still.—But some said, “No!Notthuswill that brave spirit pass away.Africaknowshis errand:—’tisnotso.”Nor was it so. A kindred spirit sought,Andfoundhim!—and with all the old fire burning;But with thecensernow well nigh consumed.—“Come home with me, andrest: well hast thou earnedThe right upon thy laurels to repose:—Theworldis yearning o’er thee:—Come andrest!”“Not yet! not yet! There isstillwork to do.Let me but show the way to Afric’sheart:—Leave me to trace the water-path by whichOld England’s white-wing’d sea-birds shall ascend,—Bearing her light, and liberty, and peace,—To roll away the dark reproach of ages;Andthen,—My work is done.”AndStanleyleft him.And then, th’ enfeebled frame, once more essayingTo climb the mountain, pierce the forest’s gloom,Stem the swift torrent, cross the lake’s broad breast,And wade the sedgy marsh,—gave way at last!But still the spirit, o’er the flesh triumphant,Registered till the “hand had lost its cunning,”The record precious of that life’s last task,Which only death could end....He died alone: none saw the spirit part.Thus had he willed to die;—alone withGod.The morning greeting of his faithful bandNo longer met the welcome, kind response.The spirit had gonehome; and gone in silence;—And there knelt lifeless clay!And none were nigh,Save Afric’s swarthy sons. But these had learnedTo love and reverence him whoselifewas givenA sacrifice for injured Afric’s weal;And they would guard his relics, e’en in death.They left hisheartwherefitlyit should rest;And bore, in reverent hands, the faded form,Rudely, but lovingly embalmed; and after days,And weeks, andmonths, of weary toil,Gave to its kindred their last sacred trust;—Andthereit lies!—and thousands stand around,To do the martyr honour as he rests.And now “his body” sinks from mortal sight,Midst showers of amaranths, and fragrant flowers,That, white and pure, fall fast from loving hands.“Buried in peace,” it lies, ’mongst kindred heroes:While white-robed choristers, and organ pealing,Blend in the final, loud, triumphant strain,And the high arches echo as they sing,—“But his soulliveth!Liveth Evermore!”Rev. H. H. Dugmore.Stormberg,May 1874.

Lo!there,—an open grave! and heads are bare,And bent;—and bosoms heave, and tears are fallingFrom youthful womanhood,—from hoary age.Menweep, as slowly through the reverent throngIs borne what hides from view a shrivelled form,Wasted and featureless: yet round that bierStand silently the great of many lands.Britain’s high-born stand there; and kings of menOf other realms stand there by envoy. ThereThe sons of science gather, and the friendsOf light and liberty. The Churches’ messengersLook on in sadness there; and a vast throng,Crowding around, sigh forth anation’ssympathy.Tokens of reverent love,—azalea wreaths,Laurel and myrtle, with fair flowers entwined,Bright immortelles, branches of Afric’s palm,—(Symbol of triumph e’en in death) are there.And,—honour to the honour’d!—Britain’s QueenSign of “respect and admiration” sends,—Her own, and royal daughter’s funeral giftsTo deck the bier.Andwhois it that thusDraws to himself, indeath, the eyes of nations?Is it some warrior leader, who has diedIn the proud hour of victory; and, weptBy a whole people’s tears, lies down to rest?—Or is it one who, in a nation’s peril,Has earned a nation’s gratitude by wiseAnd warning counsels in her council halls?—Is it aPrincehas died? That royaltyShould sigh her grief, and nobles weep around?

’TisLivingstone!—That name a thousand tonguesThrough years of hope and fear alternate, uttered;While he who bore it, deep in Afric’s wilds,Solving her mystery of ages, trodHer deserts, traced her streams,—a pioneerOf science, commerce, liberty, and mercy.—A “weaver boy” thus honoured!—Whereforenot?He wore, indeed, no ducal coronet;Nor dwelt in lordly hall. But “stamp” of “rank”[15]He needed not, while Nature’s “gold” of manhood,Solid, and pure, and bright, shone through his soul.

The “weaver boy,” in youthful prime, had yearnedO’er Afric’s sons enslaved; for hisownsoul,By “grace of God” emancipated, longedTo free from bondage “body, soul, and spirit”Of those who were immortal as himself,And co-redeemed, though dark in mind as hue.He bore the Cross’s standard o’er the plainsWhere wandering tribes byMoffatgathered dwelt;And preached the Cross’s story in the tonguesStrange to his earlier years.—But as he stood,And looked to “regions” yet “beyond,” where white man’s footHad never trod,freshlongings filled his soul.—“Millions dwell yonder:—all unknown to us,They live and die in darkness: and they groanIn bitter bondage, where no ray of hopeShines through the gloom.—I go to find the way:—Let others follow.”And he went,—alone;And braved the desert blast, the serpent’s folds,The jungle’s ambush, and the lion’s fang:He braved the fevered swamp, the tropic sun,The mountain torrent, and the savage spear.Barbarian wonder followed in his steps;And treachery shrank before the magic powerOf Christian kindness, single and unarmed.He vanished from our sight,—and time rolled onWhile he was lost from view.At length was heardRumour of strange discoveries: lakes unknownHad spread their silver waters to his gaze;And mighty streams, through vales all green and gloriousPoured their vast floods o’er thundering cataracts,Where men had deemed were nought but deserts drear.“From ocean through to ocean” tropic realmsWere traversed with unfaltering footsteps, tillRegions before unknown, with all their wondersRose into view, and hidden tribes disclosedTheir being and their need.He rested thenAwhile, and told his countrymen the storyOf his lone wanderings over Afric’s wilds.Men wondered while they listened, as they heardOf grassy slopes, and waving woods, and sparkling waters;Of birds of beauty, flowers of gorgeous hues;And these where they had pictured a Sahara,With ’whelming sandstorms, and the death-blast direOf red simoom.He rested not for long:—The spell was on him, and his work not done.And now he led a band, who bore the lightOf truth divine, to chase away the darknessThat brooded over regions bright and fair,Where “man alone is vile.”—’Twas there he laidThe partner of his bosom, who had sharedThe joys and sorrows of his younger years.A grave by Shire’s Waters, far awayFrom home and kindred, holds the precious dust.

And now his ties to earth are loosened:—now,The beckoning Hand that calls him onwards still,Is seen more plainly,—and he follows. HeWould lift the cloud from regions still unknown;Heard of but through the victims of a vileTraffic in human blood. His soul was firedWith ardent resolution to destroy,(Or perish in the contest) the dire curseThat blighted nations when they might be blest.

A vision rose before him:—These fair realmsYielding earth’s teeming increase in exchangeFor varied handiwork of other lands;—An open-handed commerce giving boonsTo honest industry, whilecrushing downThe cursed manstealer’s trade:—The light of truth,OfChristiantruth, for mind, and heart, and life,For family and nation, blending withPrismatic rays by science shed around:The darkness melting, heathen orgies vileYielding the place to worship bright and pure;Songs of salvation where the savage yells;—Slavery of mind and body killed together,And Freedom smiling glad o’er all the land!—This was his vision;—and it might betrue;—And he wouldlabourthat it might,—todeath!

Again, yet once again, the word, “Farewell!”Alastfarewell: we heard his voice no more.The years rolled on,—and on: he came not back.Tidings, indeed, there were; but “far between,Like angel visits,” were those tidings brief,That still he lived, and toiled,—the white man lone,Who with such wondrous spell o’er savage minds,And with charmed life, held pain and death at bay.—And then came silence.——“Has he sunkat last?”And then cameothertidings;—“He isdead!And dead by murderous hands!”—And hearts were chilledWith horror, and stood still.—But some said, “No!Notthuswill that brave spirit pass away.Africaknowshis errand:—’tisnotso.”Nor was it so. A kindred spirit sought,Andfoundhim!—and with all the old fire burning;But with thecensernow well nigh consumed.—“Come home with me, andrest: well hast thou earnedThe right upon thy laurels to repose:—Theworldis yearning o’er thee:—Come andrest!”

“Not yet! not yet! There isstillwork to do.Let me but show the way to Afric’sheart:—Leave me to trace the water-path by whichOld England’s white-wing’d sea-birds shall ascend,—Bearing her light, and liberty, and peace,—To roll away the dark reproach of ages;Andthen,—My work is done.”AndStanleyleft him.

And then, th’ enfeebled frame, once more essayingTo climb the mountain, pierce the forest’s gloom,Stem the swift torrent, cross the lake’s broad breast,And wade the sedgy marsh,—gave way at last!But still the spirit, o’er the flesh triumphant,Registered till the “hand had lost its cunning,”The record precious of that life’s last task,Which only death could end....He died alone: none saw the spirit part.Thus had he willed to die;—alone withGod.The morning greeting of his faithful bandNo longer met the welcome, kind response.The spirit had gonehome; and gone in silence;—And there knelt lifeless clay!And none were nigh,Save Afric’s swarthy sons. But these had learnedTo love and reverence him whoselifewas givenA sacrifice for injured Afric’s weal;And they would guard his relics, e’en in death.They left hisheartwherefitlyit should rest;And bore, in reverent hands, the faded form,Rudely, but lovingly embalmed; and after days,And weeks, andmonths, of weary toil,Gave to its kindred their last sacred trust;—Andthereit lies!—and thousands stand around,To do the martyr honour as he rests.

And now “his body” sinks from mortal sight,Midst showers of amaranths, and fragrant flowers,That, white and pure, fall fast from loving hands.“Buried in peace,” it lies, ’mongst kindred heroes:While white-robed choristers, and organ pealing,Blend in the final, loud, triumphant strain,And the high arches echo as they sing,—“But his soulliveth!Liveth Evermore!”

Rev. H. H. Dugmore.

Stormberg,May 1874.

“Far, far away!”Simple, but sadly tender,These words unlock the heart’s deep springsAnd bid its fountains play.What thoughts upon the spirit rush!What feelings from the warm heart gush,While we pause to think on those we love,Now far, far away!Far, far away!We shall think on “happy England,”And many a “sunny memory” will shed its golden ray,And many a welcome and farewellFrom unforgotten lips will dwellLike music’s echoes in our mindsWhen far, far away.Far, far away!While our sails are proudly swelling,While the breezes bear us onward, and the wild waves round us play,Whileourprayers rise to heaven above,And ask its care for those we love,Think onus,—pray forus,The “Far, far away!”Far, far away!For “Afric’s sunny fountains”Our seabird spreads her snowy wingsMidst ocean’s sparkling spray;Old England’s shores are fading fast;One look! the fondest, and thelast;For we go toDIEin distant realmsFar, far away!

Far, far away!We shall think on “happy England,”And many a “sunny memory” will shed its golden ray,And many a welcome and farewellFrom unforgotten lips will dwellLike music’s echoes in our mindsWhen far, far away.

Far, far away!While our sails are proudly swelling,While the breezes bear us onward, and the wild waves round us play,Whileourprayers rise to heaven above,And ask its care for those we love,Think onus,—pray forus,The “Far, far away!”

Far, far away!For “Afric’s sunny fountains”Our seabird spreads her snowy wingsMidst ocean’s sparkling spray;Old England’s shores are fading fast;One look! the fondest, and thelast;For we go toDIEin distant realmsFar, far away!

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Landof my birth, farewell! Thy shores are fadingIn the dark distance, and the ocean’s wavesAre hiding thee from view; while, sadly aidingTo dim my vision of thy snowy cliffs,My tears unbidden start. O happy land!I did not know how much I loved thee, tillThe breezes bore me from thee, and I gazedA long last look.I left thee when a child;And Afric’s summer suns full forty yearsHave burned upon my head, since in thy grovesMy boyish footsteps wandered. But my heartWas yet unwithered, and could quiver stillWhen sounded on my ear thy name of glory.While oceans rolled between us, in my dreamsMy thoughts were of thee: but in waking hoursI scarcely dared to hope to see thee more.I lingered o’er the story of thy fame,And joyed to claim thee as my native isle;A day-star to the nations, that would fainFollow, though from afar, thy track of light,And in its beams find their own way to freedom.In the far solitudes of regions darkWith heathen gloom, my pensive soul has mused,And I have sighed to sun me in the lightWhich long has been thy halo; light from heaven,Amidst the brightness of whose gladdening raysThy temples, halls, and palaces have stoodIrradiate. But it might not, could not be.At length I saw thee once again! and thenHow thrilled my very heart-core as thy coastsLoomed through the mists of morning on my view,And thy proud vision of historic gloryMarched in its dioramic grandeur past!I leaped upon thy freeborn soil once more:Thy fields were laughing, glad with spring-tide flowers,Thy greenwoods waving in the fresh wind’s breath;Thy streams, bounding from winter’s cold embrace,Threaded the vales with silver; while I stoodAnd gazed with rapture, fresh and pure as boyhood’s,In ’wildering ecstasy. And then I sweptOn steam-wings o’er thy plains, and round thy hills,And down thy vales, ’mongst beauty ever changing:Now looking on the cornfield’s waving gladness;Now drinking fragrance from the hayfield’s breath;Now wondering like a child, as ivied towers,And slender church-spires, from their sheltering grovesPointing to heaven, and old baronial halls,Standing apart amidst their dark woods’ pride,And crumbling castle-keeps, that tell of timesWhen warders blew their horns, and mailèd knightsBroke spears and shattered helms in tournament,As these, and thousand more, went sailing by:Till plunged at last amidst the ’whelming tideOf thy great city’s life, I sank, a drop,Into its vast and restless ocean-whirl.. . . . . . . . . .But is it so? And I have really trodThy soil again? Or did I onlydream?Methought I mingled with thy multitudes,And saw the swarms of thy industrial hivesPlying their ceaseless task, and piling storesTo meet the wide world’s wants. Methought I sawThy quickened life-blood of commercial beingPour through its iron veins the vital stream,Infusing universal energy.Did not thy glorious structures rise before me—Houses of mercy, halls and kingly courts?Did not imperial Windsor glad my eyes,Where England’s banner, free and proud, was waving;Brother-like greeting the free winds of heaven?Did I not wander through the gorgeous hallsWhere England’s senators, in trumpet tones,Have poured forth eloquence that awed the world?Where, mildly ruling, sits a mother Queen,—Her real throne a nation’s loving heart.Have I not stood within thy sacred fanes,Listening entranced, as billowing music rolled,And distant, broke upon the sculptured stoneLike ocean’s waves upon their rocky bounds?And—tenderer, dearer recollection still—My mother’s and my childhood’s humble home,With childhood’s memories clustering thick around it:Did I not stand again upon its threshold,And greet my childhood’s playmates? Ah! how changed!Or was all this a dream? A happy dream,That rose in brightness, and then passed awayFor ever? No! It was not all a dream.The welcome of warm hearts wasreal, and thenThe glow of friendships formed was no illusion.Men great and good have spoken sacred truth;And I have listened with enraptured ears,As eloquence of Heaven’s own kindling burstIn burning power from consecrated lips.And I have seen the Church’s standard-bearers:Men, crowned in hoary age with silver glory,Have blessed me in the Master’s sacred name,And bidden me God-speed in God’s great service.And I have mingled with the throngs that sentUp to high heaven their swelling song of praise,That, as “the voice of many waters,” roseExultant from the lips and hearts of thousands,When the glad tidings came that “God was raisedUp from His holy habitation” andWas pouring forth His Spirit on the nations.I did not dream when I beheld the lightOf holy rapture beam from thousand eyes:I was not dreaming when I shared the glowOf wondering gratitude with thousand hearts.And when our “Hallelujah” rent the skies,And our rapt spirits felt the bliss of heavenDescend to meet us in the golden cloudOf God’s own presence, ’twas a glorious truth,A joy to feed the soul upon for ever!And yet ’tis like a dream: for, scarcely seen,Thy beauties fade from view; and the rich notes,That thrilled the soul to rapture, thrill no more.’Twas but a glimpse of glory,—and ’tis gone.’Twas but a taste of joy that left the soulHungering with keener appetite. I goJust as my spirit is awaking, quickWith new strange life and feeling; justAs awakens fresh the home-throb of my heart,Owning its English birth.Well, be it so!’Tis God that bids me go; ’tis duty callsBack to the land of darkness. Be it so!’Tis well that I should go, ere silken webs,Woven by Christian kindness round my heart,Become too strong to leave me power to rend them.I go, to look upon thee never more;I go, but breathing prayers and blessings on thee.O England, speck amidst the world of waters!Thou art the world’s great wonder. Realms afarHave heard thy voice, have seen thy light, have felt thy power.Some, jealous, envy thee; some bless thy name,The might of freedom, and the light of truth,—The freedom that can burst thespirit’sbonds,The light that leads that spirit up to heaven,—These are thy charge, and for the wide world’s weal,Be faithful to thy trust, thou honour’d Isle!Thou hast a glorious mission to the nations.Hold fast the truth of God with strong right hand,Cast forth the traitors that would “take thy crown.”Still send thy sons, as Mercy’s angels, forthTo sound in silver tones, to far-off lands,The trumpet of the everlasting gospel;So shall Heaven’s smile be thy perpetual light,And Heaven’s dread power, “a wall of fire,” thy guard.. . . . . . . . . .And now ’tis past! nor faintest trace remainsOf headland, cliff, or mountain in the lineOf the far off horizon; and in vainI strain my aching sight to catch one glimpse,But one glimpse more. England, farewell!Island of beauty, changing not with seasons;Island of glory, dimming not with years;Isle rich in blessings strewn by God’s own hand,—My native Isle! A fond long last farewell!Rev. H. H. Dugmore.English Channel,October 9, 1859.

While oceans rolled between us, in my dreamsMy thoughts were of thee: but in waking hoursI scarcely dared to hope to see thee more.I lingered o’er the story of thy fame,And joyed to claim thee as my native isle;A day-star to the nations, that would fainFollow, though from afar, thy track of light,And in its beams find their own way to freedom.In the far solitudes of regions darkWith heathen gloom, my pensive soul has mused,And I have sighed to sun me in the lightWhich long has been thy halo; light from heaven,Amidst the brightness of whose gladdening raysThy temples, halls, and palaces have stoodIrradiate. But it might not, could not be.

At length I saw thee once again! and thenHow thrilled my very heart-core as thy coastsLoomed through the mists of morning on my view,And thy proud vision of historic gloryMarched in its dioramic grandeur past!I leaped upon thy freeborn soil once more:Thy fields were laughing, glad with spring-tide flowers,Thy greenwoods waving in the fresh wind’s breath;Thy streams, bounding from winter’s cold embrace,Threaded the vales with silver; while I stoodAnd gazed with rapture, fresh and pure as boyhood’s,In ’wildering ecstasy. And then I sweptOn steam-wings o’er thy plains, and round thy hills,And down thy vales, ’mongst beauty ever changing:Now looking on the cornfield’s waving gladness;Now drinking fragrance from the hayfield’s breath;Now wondering like a child, as ivied towers,And slender church-spires, from their sheltering grovesPointing to heaven, and old baronial halls,Standing apart amidst their dark woods’ pride,And crumbling castle-keeps, that tell of timesWhen warders blew their horns, and mailèd knightsBroke spears and shattered helms in tournament,As these, and thousand more, went sailing by:Till plunged at last amidst the ’whelming tideOf thy great city’s life, I sank, a drop,Into its vast and restless ocean-whirl.. . . . . . . . . .But is it so? And I have really trodThy soil again? Or did I onlydream?Methought I mingled with thy multitudes,And saw the swarms of thy industrial hivesPlying their ceaseless task, and piling storesTo meet the wide world’s wants. Methought I sawThy quickened life-blood of commercial beingPour through its iron veins the vital stream,Infusing universal energy.Did not thy glorious structures rise before me—Houses of mercy, halls and kingly courts?Did not imperial Windsor glad my eyes,Where England’s banner, free and proud, was waving;Brother-like greeting the free winds of heaven?Did I not wander through the gorgeous hallsWhere England’s senators, in trumpet tones,Have poured forth eloquence that awed the world?Where, mildly ruling, sits a mother Queen,—Her real throne a nation’s loving heart.Have I not stood within thy sacred fanes,Listening entranced, as billowing music rolled,And distant, broke upon the sculptured stoneLike ocean’s waves upon their rocky bounds?And—tenderer, dearer recollection still—My mother’s and my childhood’s humble home,With childhood’s memories clustering thick around it:Did I not stand again upon its threshold,And greet my childhood’s playmates? Ah! how changed!Or was all this a dream? A happy dream,That rose in brightness, and then passed awayFor ever? No! It was not all a dream.The welcome of warm hearts wasreal, and thenThe glow of friendships formed was no illusion.Men great and good have spoken sacred truth;And I have listened with enraptured ears,As eloquence of Heaven’s own kindling burstIn burning power from consecrated lips.And I have seen the Church’s standard-bearers:Men, crowned in hoary age with silver glory,Have blessed me in the Master’s sacred name,And bidden me God-speed in God’s great service.And I have mingled with the throngs that sentUp to high heaven their swelling song of praise,That, as “the voice of many waters,” roseExultant from the lips and hearts of thousands,When the glad tidings came that “God was raisedUp from His holy habitation” andWas pouring forth His Spirit on the nations.

I did not dream when I beheld the lightOf holy rapture beam from thousand eyes:I was not dreaming when I shared the glowOf wondering gratitude with thousand hearts.And when our “Hallelujah” rent the skies,And our rapt spirits felt the bliss of heavenDescend to meet us in the golden cloudOf God’s own presence, ’twas a glorious truth,A joy to feed the soul upon for ever!

And yet ’tis like a dream: for, scarcely seen,Thy beauties fade from view; and the rich notes,That thrilled the soul to rapture, thrill no more.’Twas but a glimpse of glory,—and ’tis gone.’Twas but a taste of joy that left the soulHungering with keener appetite. I goJust as my spirit is awaking, quickWith new strange life and feeling; justAs awakens fresh the home-throb of my heart,Owning its English birth.Well, be it so!’Tis God that bids me go; ’tis duty callsBack to the land of darkness. Be it so!’Tis well that I should go, ere silken webs,Woven by Christian kindness round my heart,Become too strong to leave me power to rend them.I go, to look upon thee never more;I go, but breathing prayers and blessings on thee.

O England, speck amidst the world of waters!Thou art the world’s great wonder. Realms afarHave heard thy voice, have seen thy light, have felt thy power.Some, jealous, envy thee; some bless thy name,The might of freedom, and the light of truth,—The freedom that can burst thespirit’sbonds,The light that leads that spirit up to heaven,—These are thy charge, and for the wide world’s weal,Be faithful to thy trust, thou honour’d Isle!Thou hast a glorious mission to the nations.Hold fast the truth of God with strong right hand,Cast forth the traitors that would “take thy crown.”Still send thy sons, as Mercy’s angels, forthTo sound in silver tones, to far-off lands,The trumpet of the everlasting gospel;So shall Heaven’s smile be thy perpetual light,And Heaven’s dread power, “a wall of fire,” thy guard.. . . . . . . . . .And now ’tis past! nor faintest trace remainsOf headland, cliff, or mountain in the lineOf the far off horizon; and in vainI strain my aching sight to catch one glimpse,But one glimpse more. England, farewell!Island of beauty, changing not with seasons;Island of glory, dimming not with years;Isle rich in blessings strewn by God’s own hand,—My native Isle! A fond long last farewell!

Rev. H. H. Dugmore.

English Channel,October 9, 1859.

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