The Poetry of South Africa

by Unknown

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

There are spirits of light in 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 prisoned souls burst forth to light;—
O, glorious sight to see!

There are spirits of love in the “Dear Old Land,”
Who weep for their kindred’s wrongs;
And who work as they weep, in patient power,
Through the livelong day,—through the midnight hour
While rescued victims blessings shower
From 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.

THE FUNERAL IN THE ABBEY.

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 swells
And rolls afar and dies, midst its own echoes
From vaulted roof, and lofty aisle dim-lighted,
Where clustering columns rise, and rainbow rays
Gleam in their varied glory o’er the scene.
’Tis in the sacred fane where sleeps the dust
Of those whom Britain loves to honour, who
Shed living honour by their deeds on her,
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 thread
Diplomacy’s dark mazes, and, the helm
With firm hand grasping, steer the nation’s bark
Through 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 other ages,
Successive generations of the great,
Who ruled the realm of England as she grew
From isolate obscurity to greatness
That with a fame undying fills the world.

Lo! there,—an open grave! and heads are bare,
And bent;—and bosoms heave, and tears are falling
From youthful womanhood,—from hoary age.
Men weep, as slowly through the reverent throng
Is borne what hides from view a shrivelled form,
Wasted and featureless: yet round that bier
Stand silently the great of many lands.
Britain’s high-born stand there; and kings of men
Of other realms stand there by envoy. There
The sons of science gather, and the friends
Of light and liberty. The Churches’ messengers
Look on in sadness there; and a vast throng,
Crowding around, sigh forth a nation’s sympathy.
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 Queen
Sign of “respect and admiration” sends,—
Her own, and royal daughter’s funeral gifts
To deck the bier.
And who is it that thus
Draws to himself, in death, the eyes of nations?
Is it some warrior leader, who has died
In the proud hour of victory; and, wept
By 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 wise
And warning counsels in her council halls?
—Is it a Prince has died? That royalty
Should sigh her grief, and nobles weep around?

’Tis Livingstone!—That name a thousand tongues
Through years of hope and fear alternate, uttered;
While he who bore it, deep in Afric’s wilds,
Solving her mystery of ages, trod
Her deserts, traced her streams,—a pioneer
Of science, commerce, liberty, and mercy.
—A “weaver boy” thus honoured!—Wherefore not?
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.