While Dinah in terror clung close to my side.
“Her ebon eyelashes were moistened with tears,
As she shrank abashed from their venomous jeers:
But I bade her look up like a burgher’s wife—
Next day to be mine, if God granted life.
“At dawn brother Roelof came galloping home
From the pastures—his courser all covered with foam;
‘’Tis the Bushmen!’ he shouted; ‘haste friends to the spoor!
Bold Arend come help with your long-barrelled roer.’
“Far o’er Bruintjes-hoogtè we followed—in vain:
At length surly Roelof cried, ‘Slacken your rein;
We have quite lost the track’—Hans replied with a smile,
—Then my dark-boding spirit suspected their guile.
“I flew to our father’s. Brown Dinah was sold!
And they laughed at my rage as they counted the gold.
But I leaped on my horse, with my gun in my hand,
And sought my lost love in the far Bovenland.
“I found her; I bore her from Gauritz’ fair glen,
Through lone Zitzikamma, by forest and fen.
To these mountains at last like wild pigeons we flew,
Far, far from the cold hearts of proud Camdebóo.
“I’ve reared our rude shieling by Gola’s green wood,
Where the chase of the deer yields me pastime and food:
With my Dinah and children I dwell here alone,
Without other comrades—and wishing for none.
“I fear not the Bushman from Winterberg’s fell,
Nor dread I the Caffer from Kat River’s dell;
By justice and kindness I’ve conquered them both,
And the sons of the desert have pledged me their troth.
“I fear not the leopard that lurks in the wood,
The lion I dread not, though raging for blood;
My hand it is steady—my aim it is sure—
And the boldest must bend to my long-barrelled roer.
“The elephant’s buff-coat my bullet can pierce,
And the giant rhinoceros, headlong and fierce;
Gnu, eland, and buffalo furnish my board,
When I feast my allies like an African lord.
“And thus from my kindred and colour exiled,
I live like old Ismael lord of the wild—
And follow the chase with my hounds and my gun,
Nor ever repent the bold course I have run.
“But sometimes there sinks on my spirit a dread
Of what may befall when the turf’s on my head;
I fear for poor Dinah—for brown Rodomond
And dimple-faced Karel, the sons of the bond.
“Then tell me, dear Stranger, from England the free,
What good tidings bring’st thou for Arend Plessie?
Shall the Edict of Mercy be sent forth at last,
To break the harsh fetters of Colour and Caste?”
Thomas Pringle.
THE EMIGRANT’S CABIN AT THE CAPE. AN EPISTLE IN RHYME.
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