melancholy, and sedate, he stands,Tending another’s flock upon the fields,
His fathers’ once, where now the white man builds
His home, and issues forth his proud commands.
His dark eye flashes not; his listless hands
Lean on the shepherd’s staff; no more he wields
The Libyan bow—but to th’ oppressor yields
Submissively his freedom and his lands.
Has he no courage? Once he had—but, lo!
Harsh servitude hath worn him to the bone.
No enterprise? Alas! the brand, the blow,
Hath humbled him to dust—even hope is gone! “He’s a base-hearted hound—not worth his food”— His master cries; “he has no gratitude!”
Thomas Pringle.
THE CAFFER.
Lo! where he crouches by the Kloof’s dark side,
Eyeing the farmer’s lowing herds, afar;
Impatient watching till the evening star
Leads forth the twilight dim, that he may glide
Like panther to the prey. With freeborn pride
He scorns the herdsman, nor regards the scar
Of recent wound—but burnishes for war
His assegai and targe of buffalo hide.
He is a robber? True; it is a strife
Between the black skinned bandit and the white.
A savage?—Yes; though loth to aim at life,
Evil for evil fierce he doth requite.
A heathen?—Teach him, then, thy better creed,
Christian! if thou deserv’st that name indeed.
Thomas Pringle.
THE GHONA WIDOW’S LULLABY.
The storm hath ceased: yet still I hear
The distant thunder sounding,
And from the mountains, far and near,
The headlong torrents bounding.
The jackal shrieks upon the rocks,
The tiger wolf is howling,
The panther round the folded flocks
With stifled gurr is prowling. But lay thee down in peace, my child, God watcheth o’er us ’midst the wild.
I fear the Bushman is abroad—
He loves the midnight thunder;
The sheeted lightning shows the road
That leads his feet to plunder:
I’d rather meet the hooded snake
Than hear his rattling quiver,
When, like an adder, through the brake,
He glides along the river.
But, darling, hush thy heart to sleep—
The Lord our Shepherd watch doth keep.
The Kosa from Luhéri high
Looks down upon our dwelling,
And shakes the vengeful assegai—
Unto his clansmen telling
How he, for us, by grievous wrong, Hath lost these fertile valleys, And boasts that now his hand is strong To pay the debt of malice. But sleep, my child; a mightier Arm Shall shield thee (helpless one!) from harm.
The moon is up; a fleecy cloud
O’er heaven’s blue deep is sailing;
The stream, that lately raved so loud,
Makes now a gentle wailing.
From yonder crags, lit by the moon,
I hear a wild voice crying:
—’Tis but the harmless bear-baboon,
Unto his mates replying.
Hush—hush thy dreams, my moaning dove,
And slumber in the arms of love!
The wolf, scared by the watch-dog’s bay,
Is to the woods returning:
By his rock fortress, far away,
The Bushman’s fire is burning.
And hark! Sicána’s midnight hymn,
Along the valley swelling,
Calls us to stretch the wearied limb,
While kinsmen guard our dwelling:
Though vainly watchmen wake from sleep,
“Unless the Lord the city keep.”
At dawn we’ll seek, with songs of praise,
Our food on the savannah,
As Israel sought, in ancient days,
The heaven-descending manna;
With gladness from the fertile land
The veld-kost we will gather,
A harvest planted by the hand
Of the Almighty Father—
From thraldom who redeems our race,
To
