The Poetry of South Africa

by Unknown

For God has blest thee with a dower of wealth,
Of tree, of herb, of pasture, and of field:
Thy children laugh aloud in jocund health,
And all things men require thy plains can yield;
At faintest knock thy mountain portals ope,
Revealing treasure glimpses fair to see—
Rich diamonds, metals, aye, Imperial gold,
Are in the dower which God hath given thee.
Arise, ye Lotus-eaters of the South, and know
The plenteous blessings which from labour flow.

As men have reaped great Europe—pouring down
From Scandinavia and far Baltic’s wave,
So must our future too be reaped—now sown,
The crops will grow above this era’s grave.
South Afric calls aloud to Europe, filled
With overflowing energy and youth,
Come in your thousands—work as your fathers willed,
With strength, with power, with energy and truth.
Good Hope will turn to Hope at last fulfilled,
And Southern Africa be great—as God has willed.

Alex. Wilmot.

THE BEAUTFUL ISLAND OF DREAMS.

“They come, the shapes of joy and woe,
The airy crowds of long ago,
The dreams and fancies known of yore
That have been and shall be no more;
They change the cloisters of the night
Into a garden of delight.”—Golden Legend.

When sorrow’s dull clouds o’ershadow the soul,
And the sunshine of life is concealed,
When the waves of misfortune still over us roll,
There is sometimes a refuge and shield,
In a calm little harbour lit up by its sun,
With genial though transient beams,
’Tis hailed as a shelter whene’er it is won—
The Beautiful Island of Dreams.

When pursued by avenging demons of hate,
The wretched oft pause in their path,
And find a retreat and a respite from fate—
A brief lull in the tempest of wrath;
In the fair fairy bowers where in shadowy light,
Illusion reality seems,
Whose oceans are bridged by the visions of night—
The Beautiful Island of Dreams.

And still in this desert as onward we roam,
On a dull and a desolate track,
Fast journeying on to Eternity’s home,
We sometimes in Dreamland look back;
And in slumber behold the dear friends that have gone;
And the past or the future now seems
Rich with memory or hope to that oasis flown—
The Beautiful Island of Dreams.

Alex Wilmot.