The Poetry of South Africa. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ Lay down to rise no more.

       Behind us, on the desert brown,

       We saw the vultures swooping down;

       And heard, as the grim night was falling,

       The wolf to his gorged comrade calling.

      “At length was heard a river sounding

       ’Midst that dry and dismal land,

       And, like a troop of wild deer bounding,

       We hurried to its strand—

       Among the maddened cattle rushing,

       The crowd behind still forward pushing,

       Till in the flood our limbs were drenched

       And the fierce rage of thirst was quenched.

      “Hoarse roaring, dark, the broad Gareep

       In turbid streams was sweeping fast,

       Huge sea-cows in its eddies deep

       Loud snorting as we passed;

       But that relentless robber clan

       Right through those waters wild and wan

       Drove on like sheep our wearied band:

       —Some never reached the farther strand.

      “All shivering from the foaming flood,

       We stood upon the strangers’ ground,

       When, with proud looks and gestures rude,

       The white men gathered round:

       And there, like cattle from the fold,

       By Christians we were bought and sold,

       ’Midst laughter loud and looks of scorn—

       And roughly from each other torn.

      “My mother’s scream, so long and shrill,

       My little sister’s wailing cry

       (In dreams I often hear them still!),

       Rose wildly to the sky.

       A tiger’s heart came to me then,

       And fiercely on those ruthless men

       I sprang—alas! dashed on the sand

       Bleeding, they bound me foot and hand.

      “Away, away on prancing steeds

       The stout man-stealers blithely go,

       Through long low valleys fringed with reeds,

       O’er mountains capped with snow

       Each with his captive, far and fast;

       Until yon rock-bound ridge we passed,

       And distant strips of cultured soil

       Bespoke the land of tears and toil.

      “And tears and toil have been my lot

       Since I the white-man’s thrall became,

       And sorer griefs I wish forgot—

       Harsh blows, and scorn, and shame!

       Oh, Englishman! thou ne’er canst know

       The injured bondman’s bitter woe,

       When round his breast, like scorpions, cling

       Black thoughts that madden while they sting!

      “Yet this hard fate I might have borne,

       And taught in time my soul to bend,

       Had my sad yearning heart forlorn

       But found a single friend:

       My race extinct or far removed,

       The Boer’s rough brood I could have loved;

       But each to whom my bosom turned

       Even like a hound the black boy spurned.

      “While, friendless, thus, my master’s flocks

       I tended on the upland waste,

       It chanced this fawn leapt from the rocks,

       By wolfish wild-dogs chased:

       I rescued it, though wounded sore

       And dabbled in its mother’s gore;

       And nursed it in a cavern wild,

       Until it loved me like a child.

      “Gently I nursed it; for I thought

       (Its hapless fate so like to mine)

       By good Utíko[2] it was brought To bid me not repine— Since in this world of wrong and ill One creature lived that loved me still, Although its dark and dazzling eye Beamed not with human sympathy.

      “Thus lived I, a lone orphan lad,

       My task the proud Boer’s flocks to tend;

       And this poor fawn was all I had

       To love or call my friend;

       When suddenly, with haughty look

       And taunting words, that tyrant took

       My playmate for his pampered boy,

       Who envied me my only joy.

      “High swelled my heart!—But when the star

       Of midnight gleamed, I softly led

       My bounding favourite forth, and far

       Into the desert fled.

       And here, from human kind exiled,

       Three moons on roots and berries wild

       I’ve fared; and braved the beasts of prey,

       To ’scape from spoilers worse than they.

      “But yester morn a Bushman brought

       The tidings that thy tents were near;

       And now with hasty foot I’ve sought

       Thy presence, void of fear;

       Because they say, O English chief,

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