The Poetry of South Africa

by Unknown

The “weaver boy,” in youthful prime, had yearned
O’er Afric’s sons enslaved; for his own soul,
By “grace of God” emancipated, longed
To free from bondage “body, soul, and spirit”
Of those who were immortal as himself,
And co-redeemed, though dark in mind as hue.
He bore the Cross’s standard o’er the plains
Where wandering tribes by Moffat gathered dwelt;
And preached the Cross’s story in the tongues
Strange to his earlier years.—But as he stood,
And looked to “regions” yet “beyond,” where white man’s foot
Had never trod, fresh longings filled his soul.
—“Millions dwell yonder:—all unknown to us,
They live and die in darkness: and they groan
In bitter bondage, where no ray of hope
Shines through the gloom.—I go to find the way:—
Let others follow.”
And he went,—alone;
And braved the desert blast, the serpent’s folds,
The jungle’s ambush, and the lion’s fang:
He braved the fevered swamp, the tropic sun,
The mountain torrent, and the savage spear.
Barbarian wonder followed in his steps;
And treachery shrank before the magic power
Of Christian kindness, single and unarmed.
He vanished from our sight,—and time rolled on
While he was lost from view.
At length was heard
Rumour of strange discoveries: lakes unknown
Had spread their silver waters to his gaze;
And mighty streams, through vales all green and glorious
Poured their vast floods o’er thundering cataracts,
Where men had deemed were nought but deserts drear.
“From ocean through to ocean” tropic realms
Were traversed with unfaltering footsteps, till
Regions before unknown, with all their wonders
Rose into view, and hidden tribes disclosed
Their being and their need.
He rested then
Awhile, and told his countrymen the story
Of his lone wanderings over Afric’s wilds.
Men wondered while they listened, as they heard
Of grassy slopes, and waving woods, and sparkling waters;
Of birds of beauty, flowers of gorgeous hues;
And these where they had pictured a Sahara,
With ’whelming sandstorms, and the death-blast dire
Of red simoom.
He rested not for long:—
The spell was on him, and his work not done.
And now he led a band, who bore the light
Of truth divine, to chase away the darkness
That brooded over regions bright and fair,
Where “man alone is vile.”—’Twas there he laid
The partner of his bosom, who had shared
The joys and sorrows of his younger years.
A grave by Shire’s Waters, far away
From home and kindred, holds the precious dust.

And now his ties to earth are loosened:—now,
The beckoning Hand that calls him onwards still,
Is seen more plainly,—and he follows. He
Would lift the cloud from regions still unknown;
Heard of but through the victims of a vile
Traffic in human blood. His soul was fired
With ardent resolution to destroy,
(Or perish in the contest) the dire curse
That blighted nations when they might be blest.

A vision rose before him:—These fair realms
Yielding earth’s teeming increase in exchange
For varied handiwork of other lands;—
An open-handed commerce giving boons
To honest industry, while crushing down
The cursed manstealer’s trade:—The light of truth,
Of Christian truth, for mind, and heart, and life,
For family and nation, blending with
Prismatic rays by science shed around:
The darkness melting, heathen orgies vile
Yielding the place to worship bright and pure;
Songs of salvation where the savage yells;—
Slavery of mind and body killed together,
And Freedom smiling glad o’er all the land!
—This was his vision;—and it might be true;—
And he would labour that it might,—to death!

Again, yet once again, the word, “Farewell!”
A last farewell: we heard his voice no more.
The years rolled on,—and on: he came not back.
Tidings, indeed, there were; but “far between,
Like angel visits,” were those tidings brief,
That still he lived, and toiled,—the white man lone,
Who with such wondrous spell o’er savage minds,
And with charmed life, held pain and death at bay.
—And then came silence.——“Has he sunk at last?”
And then came other tidings;—“He is dead!
And dead by murderous hands!”—And hearts were chilled
With horror, and stood still.—But some said, “No!
Not thus will that brave spirit pass away.
Africa knows his errand:—’tis not so.”
Nor was it so. A kindred spirit sought,
And found him!—and with all the old fire burning;
But with the censer now well nigh consumed.
—“Come home with me, and rest: well hast thou earned
The right upon thy laurels to repose:—
The world is yearning o’er thee:—Come and rest!”

“Not yet! not yet! There is still work to do.
Let me but show the way to Afric’s heart:—
Leave me to trace the water-path by which
Old England’s white-wing’d sea-birds shall ascend,—
Bearing her light, and liberty, and peace,—
To roll away the dark reproach of ages;
And then,—My work is done.”
And Stanley left him.

And then, th’ enfeebled frame, once more essaying
To climb the mountain, pierce the forest’s gloom,
Stem the swift torrent, cross the lake’s broad breast,
And wade the sedgy marsh,—gave way at last!
But still the spirit, o’er the flesh triumphant,
Registered till the “hand had lost its cunning,”
The record precious of that life’s last task,
Which only death could end....
He died alone: none saw the spirit part.
Thus had he willed to die;—alone with God.
The morning greeting of his faithful band
No longer met the welcome, kind response.
The spirit had gone home; and gone in silence;—
And there knelt lifeless clay!
And none were nigh,
Save Afric’s swarthy sons. But these had learned
To love and reverence him whose life was given
A sacrifice for injured Afric’s weal;
And they would guard his relics, e’en in death.
They left his heart where fitly it should rest;
And bore, in reverent hands, the faded form,
Rudely, but lovingly embalmed; and after days,
And weeks, and months, of weary toil,
Gave to its kindred their last sacred trust;—
And there it lies!—and thousands stand around,
To do the martyr honour as he rests.

And now “his body” sinks from mortal sight,
Midst showers of amaranths, and fragrant flowers,
That, white and pure, fall fast from loving hands.
“Buried in peace,” it lies, ’mongst kindred heroes:
While white-robed choristers, and organ pealing,
Blend in the final, loud, triumphant strain,
And the high arches echo as they sing,—
“But his soul liveth! Liveth Evermore!”

Rev. H. H. Dugmore.

Stormberg, May 1874.