The Poetry of South Africa

by Unknown

And where are they now?—Ah! where?
There are homeless orphans weeping;
The widow’s wail
Is on the gale,
The sire in his gore lies sleeping.
. . . . . . . . . .
And are there dastard souls,
Whose homes these homes were shielding,
Who can coldly read
While their brothers bleed,
Nor aid nor pity yielding?

Brand “Coward” on his brow!
Write “Traitor” on his bearing,
Who views from afar
Our “homestead” war,
And basely shrinks from sharing!

To your arms! To your arms! Away!
What! cease from the strife?—No, never!
Till the neck of the foe,
To earth bent low,
We have conquered a peace FOR EVER!

Rev. H. H. Dugmore.

1851.

THE COLOURS OF THE FIRST 24^TH.
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE SURVIVING OFFICERS AND MEN OF THE REGIMENT.

“Preserve the colours, Melville! We stand here;
And—to the end.” ’Twas thus that Pulleine spoke,
On Isandlana’s dark and fatal day;
Firm and resolved his mien, and calm his words,
Though death was nigh him, and he saw it:—
The camp stormed
By overwhelming myriads, and the yells
Of savage victors ringing in his ears
Demon-like, while they drowned the dying groans
Of hundreds, sinking low beneath the stroke
Of the blood-reeking Zulu assegai;
O’erwhelmed, but not dishonoured.
They had fought
As British soldiers fight,—tens against thousands,—
Till the last charge was spent; and then,—“cold steel”
Grew hot in Zulu life-blood, and in heaps
Their dying foes lay round them.—’Twas in vain!
Hundreds had strewn the ground before their fire;
Yet, heedless of their fall, had thousands more
Recklessly trampled them in onward rush,
And wild contempt of death.
As the surf breaks
And strews with spray the shore, wave urging wave,
Blind to its leader’s fate,—the Zulu host
Rolls its dark waves,—its dead, as yet, unmissed,
With thousands in reserve to fill their place.
Man after man the British soldier falls,—
Falls where he stood,—his right arm’s strength exhausted,
And his dead foes hurled on his bayonet’s point,
To clear the way for others!
Pulleine saw
His own end near,—and gave his dying charge:—
“Preserve the COLOURS! Let no savage hands
Stain the old honour of ‘the 24th.’
Come death,—if come it must, but not disgrace!”
And Melville took the COLOUR,—sacred trust!
And bore it from the field. One farewell grasp,
One mutual gaze, and then they sadly part,
Comrades in arms, to meet on earth no more.
“Men of the 24th. I stay with you;—
We bide it to the end.”—A ringing cheer
Shows the old fire unquenched; and though no hope
Of succour nerves their arm, they face the foe,
Till men and their commander sink together,
And join in death their comrades gone before.
. . . . . . . . . .
The fight is done:—the cannon’s boom is stilled;
Stilled is the rocket’s rush,—the rifle’s ring.
The yell of onslaught,—the defying cheer,—
Wails of the wounded, and the dying groan
Rise on the breeze no longer; nor the shrieks
Of hapless followers of the camp, unarmed,
And slaughtered in their helplessness.—The spoils
In savage triumph proudly borne away
With battle song of victory, upraised
By myriad voices ’mongst the echoing hills,
Are passing from the scene. The hush of death
Has settled all around; and gloomy night
Spreads her dark pall o’er the now silent field.
But where is Melville? How shall he escape?
Leagues must he traverse of a hostile land
Ere he can safely place his sacred trust.
And, scattered far and wide in headlong flight,
“Native Contingents” from the field of death
Urge their fear-stricken way with failing strength;
While ruthless foes, red-handed, strike them down
On every side. “Where? where is he? the guardian
Of his dead regiment’s honour? Who shall say?
For, be it that he fights his way alone—
Horseman or footman, through the host of foes—
Or be it he evades their hot pursuit,
There crosses still his path, and bars his way,
The river boundary in summer flood,
The swirling waters as they rush and roar,
Mock at the wearied limbs that reach their banks,
And can no more, although the foe is on them!
Numbers die here; numbers plunge in—and drown.
Dies Melville too? Have any seen him fall?
Or has he dared the river with his charge?
Grasping the COLOUR, could he breast the flood?
Or is he swept away? Alas! none knows.
Explore the river! search its wooded banks;—
Men, horses, arms, caught ’midst entangling branches,
May yield some relic of the lost one,—
Ah!
Who lies here? Melville!—And who lies here?
Coghill with Melville, side by side in death!
Slain, though the raging flood was braved and conquered:
Slain, though escaped the hot pursuit beyond:
Slain in a mutual, last attempt to save
From the wild waters that—than LIFE more dear.
Hard, hard the fate—wrecked when the port was gained!
Shield we from vulture’s greed the sad remains,
By hasty cairn—and breathe a hurried prayer—
’Tis all we can—till worthier rites be paid—
But hark! that shout! “The Colour! lo! the Colour!”
Snatched from the turbid waters, drenched and torn,
But SAVED! by friendly branches caught and held.
Hark how the glen resounds! Cheer answers cheer;
And the wild rocks with rapturous echoes ring.
They are not “24th” men who have found
The prize and its dead guardians:—What of that?
They share a soldier’s sympathies, and feel
The joy of brother soldiers as their own.
Mark now the swift return, while, borne aloft,
The sacred emblem challenges from far
The eager outlook—Ha! ’tis seen! ’tis seen!
The quick-eyed sentinel has caught it, and
There bursts the shout exultant from his lips.
The spark electric sets the camp on fire;
“The Colour! lo! the Colour! Honour saved!”
Rush from all sides the eager throng to greet
And welcome—while with cheers the camp resounds.
And now once more in martial order stands
The remnant of the regiment, to receive
And place in its old shrine the rescued treasure.
A guard of honour from the reverent hands
Of those who bear it take the precious pledge—
More precious for its perils—and it rests—
Dearer than ever in the regiment’s heart.

Melville and Coghill! twins in death—your names
Belong to history! On Fame’s bright scroll
They stand already blazoned. Men from far
Shall visit as a shrine your hero grave;
And grey-haired veterans in after years
Shall tell their children how, long, long ago,
At Isandlana’s deadly, woe-fraught fight,
Ye saved the honour of “the 24th,”
And DIED IN SAVING IT!

Rev. H. H. Dugmore.