Herds, flocks, and trade shall be
Proof of your industry,
Making prosperity
Smile upon labour.
Sons of the great and free,
On! let your motto be,
“God and the right for me,
Forward for ever.”
Why come they here, amidst the desert’s gloom?
To raise a nation from a lifeless tomb;
To bid fair plains the fruits of labour yield;
To tend the flock; to plough the fertile field;
The wealth of commerce by success to gain;
To found a home where peace and plenty reign.
These are your tasks: but oh! with hardships drear,
With toils unnumbered you must labour here;
For blasted crops, and floods, and drought shall come,
And savage yells around your burning home.
On toilsome sand they wander up and down,
Through numb’rous tents which form a canvas town;
With curious eyes all view the motley throng,—
Huge waggons dragging their slow length along,—
The wily Bushman and the Bechu’an,
The Hottentot, the Boer, and Englishman.
Here strange plants bloom beneath this southern sky,
And graceful aloes raise their blossoms high,
While prickly cacti and the feathery reed
Grow rank and common as the worthless weed.
And now they strike their tents. All “Parties” go,
They leave the sandy beach in waggons slow,
And cross the bushy plain, and Zwartkrops’ stream,
Whose jungle-covered heights above them gleam;
O’er hills, o’er plains, they “trek”—and through the kloof,
Where the high rocky crags their paths o’er-roof,—
Where brilliant birds and gorgeous flowers are seen,
Screened by pavilions of perpetual green,—
Euphorbia raise their candelabra high,
And vivid bush o’er-curtains half the sky.
North, south, east, west, the settlers scatter wide,
By stream, by valley, and by mountain side.
They raise rough homesteads, and by labour’s strain
Soon see around them fields of smiling grain.
Alas, their labour’s vain! Too soon they view
The crops unhealthy, and of dusky hue;
Gaunt famine stalks upon the treach’rous soil,
And failures thrice renewed repay their toil.
Behold dark discontent with angry frown
Upon their hills and valleys settles down.
Again—dawn rises out of horrid night,
Relief has come and prospects are more bright;
They, now successful in the arts of peace,
Find, like the Argonauts, a golden fleece.
But trials still more hard have yet to come,
With Kafir yell and sight of blazing home.
The Kafirs long have angry passions nursed,
And now the flames from smouldering embers burst.
“Must we still retreat from the haunts of man
To the desert drear and the wild Bushman,
Where the lion and jackal are forced to flee,
With the wildebeeste and oribe?
Ah, no; in foray and vengesome fight,
We will dare the invader’s utmost might;
And from bushy ambush again shall fly
Our shaft of destruction, the assegai.”
The sky is lurid with a coming storm;
Against the white man common cause they form—
Their bands of hatred gather from afar,
And league together in a cruel war.
Fierce, treacherous, false, in untamed freedom bold,
The kloof or bush was still the Kafir’s hold;
They sought not battle in the open field,
But used the weapons cunning loves to wield:
To lie in wait, to strike a sudden blow
Of ambushed vengeance on a dreaded foe;
With poisonous lies to sue for speedy peace;
To plot more murder in a brief release;
To pause, to strike with double force the blow;—
The flaming homesteads light them to their foe;
And women’s screams for mercy, drowned in blood,
Cry out for vengeance to an angry God.
And foremost mingling in that awful strife,
The settlers fought for wife, for child, for life.
They see around them hideous signals rise,
The Kafir’s Fiery Cross illumes the midnight skies.
They rush from burning homes, or die, as brave men die,
With face unto the foe and hopes in God on high.
And then, ye swarthy warriors, then began
Unequal warfare with the strong white man.
The assegai is measured with the gun;
The gage once taken up, war is not done
Till Hintza’s death, and Gwanga’s gory tide,
And Waterkloof, and many a red hillside,
And burning huts, and savage screams of woe,
Have proved the prowess of your British foe.
Three dreadful wars have Kafir fierceness proved,
And thrice their vengeance sought the white man’s blood;
While thrice their warriors have been taught to know,
How vain their battle against such a foe.
Sir Harry Smith’s and Cathcart’s names rank high
With those renowned in English chivalry,
And many a nameless kloof’s mimosas wave
O’er the brave British soldier’s grave;
And Bowker’s, Southey’s, Currie’s names shall be,
With those of others, kept in memory.[16]
Queenstown and Cradock’s volunteers lay down
Their warlike weapons,—while King Williamstown
Rests on its arms by the Buffalo’s side,
And starts new commerce on East London’s tide.
The settler’s city in success has grown,
And busy commerce smiles on Grahamstown;
And Port Elizabeth, their landing-place,
Still striding onward in progressive race,
Makes commerce speed its sails from Algoa Bay,
And sends new products o’er the watery way;
And far and near the bustling towns arise,
Planted and nursed by settlers’ enterprise.
To God Almighty let us thanks upraise,
To Him all glory; to Him endless praise.
Now fifty years have passed. Here is the field
Of dauntless energy, and this the yield;
Their advent here we celebrate in days
Which well can speak the British settler’s praise,—
Their glory with their memory is blent,
The Eastern Province is their Monument.
Alex. Wilmot.
