The Poetry of South Africa. Various
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Название: The Poetry of South Africa

Автор: Various

Издательство: Bookwire

Жанр: Языкознание

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isbn: 4064066232900

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

       Table of Contents

      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.

       Table of Contents

      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 СКАЧАТЬ