Winds of the North blew cold with icy breath,
And parting seemed a sorrow like to death,
When fifty years ago our little band
Of British settlers left their native land.
They said farewell for ever! ah, farewell
The friends, the joys, the land, they loved so well.
We never more shall stand
On that dear English land,
Nor view our native skies;
Gone each familiar face
Of whose sweet loving grace
Dear memories rise.
Spring shall come back again,
Smiling on hill and plain,
We shall be gone;
Our old homes will be gay
With sunshine and the may,
From our hearts flown.
Farewell, dear land of birth!
Farewell our native earth—
Hill, plain, and river;
Farewell, each dearest friend,
May God all blessings send—
Farewell for ever!
Away they go, ’midst mist and sudden gale,
O’er stormy seas, through Biscay’s Bay they sail.
The sun is covered by dark lowering cloud,
And heaven seems hidden in a dusky shroud.
Hark! the huge vessel felt the thund’ring stroke,
While whelming waves in sudden deluge broke;
The seas around for horrid vengeance rave,
And every yawning gulf now seems a grave.
Again—the storm is o’er, with steady breeze
They glide in safety upon summer seas,
Whose azure surface as a mirror tries
To catch the sunny radiance of the skies.
Here gorgeous tinted sunsets come at even,
To show ten thousand gateways into Heaven—
While gentle zephyrs on the ocean play,
And balmy night succeeds the heat of day.
The twinkling beacons show how far they roam;
No longer the pale pole-star points our home;
The starry banners of the North are furled,—
The Southern Cross shines on a Southern world.
Now soon, with ecstasy, they hear the cry,
Land! land in sight! the land we can descry.
And now the longed-for shores before them rise,
With mountain peaks which fringe the azure skies;
Tall beetling crags frown o’er the breaker’s roar,
Whose white-tipped billows kiss a sandy shore;
’Tis Afric! land of mystery and fear,
Of burning climate, and of desert drear,
Where the fierce lion and fiercer savage roam;
Here is your bourne,—here is your future home.
Supplies obtained within a western bay,
Again they sally forth upon their way,
And round that Cape which, hid in misty forms,
Towered o’er the ocean’s verge “the Cape of Storms,”
Whose dangers Diaz did not fear to cope,
And proved it to the world Cape of Good Hope.
The oceans which this Cape for ever lave
While time shall last is that great sailor’s grave;
And Nature’s self proclaims his honours here,
By such a monument o’er such a bier.
Along the coast they sail. With pleasured eyes
They view new shores—new hills, new plains, arise,
The Cape St. Blaise and Longkloof Mountains past,
The hoped-for, longed-for haven comes at last;
Then, ’midst the glories of an April day,
They cast their anchor in Algoa Bay,
Whose outstretched arms receive in their embrace
Those dauntless settlers of a Northern race.
Here first brave Diaz stayed his vent’rous sail,
First here sought refuge from wild western gale,—
On a small isle, when tempests ceased to toss,
Planted Faith’s emblem there, “The Holy Cross.”
Religion’s banner thus was first unfurled,
First reared within this savage Southern world.
Bare sand-hills line a tract of barren coast,—
No town, or village, can the seaport boast;
The vacant beach and bleak hill-side show clear
The work that waits the hardy pioneer:
O’er walls of surf they reach the welcome strand,
And the first British settlers touch the land.
Upon this South-sea strand—
Unto this savage land—
Welcome, ye little band,
Fit to brave danger.
Losses and wars will be
Fires of adversity,
Tests which you cannot flee
Trials and sorrow.
Yours for success to fight;
Yours to defend the right;
Striving with all your might
For life and freedom.
Under benignant skies,
Fruits on the plains shall rise,
As labour’s sacrifice
To the Creator.