Seated on high upon the steep,
Amid the moonlight glow,
I looked upon a valley deep,
And on a river’s flow.
Sudden, across the chasm wide
The heavy thunder growled,
While far below in sullen glide
The noble river rolled.
And now a thousand feet below,
Betwixt me and the stream,
The thunder-cloud, with lightning’s glow,
Obscures the river’s gleam.
Loud and more loud, and all about
The echoing hills among,
The spirits of the tempest shout
Their diapason song.
Full in the midst the cloud now parts,
And wars on different sides,
And through the gap the light moon darts,
Where bright the river glides.
——Moodie.
Tugela, 1868.
THE NATAL GOLD DIGGINGS.
TO GREENHORNS.
Herr Mauch’s all well I dare can tell—
But don’t you go a digging;
The tetse bites, the nigger fights,
And thieves are always prigging.