# A Treasury of South African Poetry and Verse/William Rodger Thomson

GOOD HOPE.
"Good Hope" for this good land yet,
If we would but dare and do;
If we would but stand with ready hand
To grasp ere the blessings go.
"Good Hope" for this good land yet,
If we would but stay life-streams,
Which will past us flow while we, too slow,
Stand rapt on the bank in dreams.
"Good Hope" for this good land yet,
If we would but cease to hope
That the rain will drop and bring a crop
While we idly sit and mope.
"Good Hope" for this good land yet,
If we work, e'en while we wait
For the sun and rain to ripen grain
We have sown, then left to fate.
"Good Hope" for this good land yet,
If we use each heav'n-sent gift
As a means to an end, and do not spend
Our best without care and thrift.
"Good Hope" for this good land yet,
If we live and struggle still
To a better life, through toil and strife,
With a stout heart and strong will.
"Good Hope" for this good land yet,
If our faith be active trust,
And not blind belief, which, at each grief,
Still mourns that what must be must.
"Good Hope" for this good land yet,
If we would but trust in God,
And the Christ who came and took our name
To bless, not to turn the sod.
William Rodger Thomson.
THE POET.
The poet walks entranced o'er earth,
And, dreaming, touches Nature's string's,
And calls grand harmonies to birth;
Men listen wond'ring as he sings.
He goeth oft to wild retreats,
Where Nature broods in solitude;
There, in the Muses' haunted seats,
Enrapt he stands—as if he view'd
Strange visions on the face of heav'n.
His eye rolls o'er the boundless blue,
And then, as if his sight had giv'n
Wings to his soul, he soareth through
Th' empyrean vault, and upward flies
To scan deep mysteries, unseen
By common souls, whose earth-bound eyes
Are blinded with the dazzling sheen
Of glorious light, tow'rds which he soars.
Or, stretch'd upon the lap of earth,
When Spring breathes o'er the myriad pores
Which pierce the soil, and giveth birth
To Nature's buried loveliness—
To flowers and leaves, and all things fair;
When the bright sun looks down to bless
His fruitful bride; when throbbing air,
Warm with the sunshine, dances bright
O'er hill and dale, o'er land and wave;
When birds, long dumb through Winter's night,
Returning, hail the dawn, which gave
Life to the earth, to them new voice—
Then, too, the poet's soul renews
Her slumb'ring might; all things rejoice,
And flow'rs of thought bud as he views.
William Rodger Thomson.
CAPE OF GOOD HOPE.
There is a land unknown to fame,
A land whose heroes have no name
In the grey records of past age;
Unchronicled in hist'ry's page,
Untamed by art, yet wild and free.
That land lies in the southern sea,
It laughs to heav'n which smiles on it;
There midway in wild waters set,
With suns serene and balmier breeze
Than ever swept these northern seas,
Its beetling crags rise vast, and war
With oceans, meeting from afar,
To break their billows on its shore
With fearful, never-ending roar.
Bold mariners who sailed of old
Through unknown seas in search of gold,
Saw those dark rocks, those giant forms,
And, fear-quelled, named them "Cape of Storms!"
O land of storms, I pine to hear
That music which made others fear;
I long to see thy storm-fiend scowl,
I long to hear the fierce winds howl,
Hot with fell fires across thy plains.
Thou glorious land! where Nature reigns
Supreme in awful loveliness.
O shall thy exiled son not bless
Those hills and dales of thine, where first
He roamed a careless child; where burst
Thy tropic splendour on his eye;
Where days were spent, whose mem'ries lie
Deep 'neath all afterthought and care,
Yet rise more buoyant than the air,
And float o'er all his days? O home
Of beauty rare, where I did roam
In childhood's golden days, my prayer
For thee soars through this northern air.
Land of "Good Hope," thy future lies
Bright 'fore my vision as thy skies!
O Africa! long lost in night,
Upon the horizon gleams the light
Of breaking dawn. Thy star of fame
Shall rise and brightly gleam; thy name
Shall blaze on hist'ry's later page;
Thy birth-time is the last great age;
Thy name has been slave of the world;
But when thy banner is unfurled,
Triumphant Liberty shall wave
That standard o'er foul slav'ry's grave,
And earth, decaying earth, shall see
Her proudest, fairest child in thee!
William Rodger Thomson.
TO A SISTER.
Fanny, Fanny, dost remember
Days long gone, when we were young?
Dost remember how we sported,
How we laughed and how we sung?
Then we never dreamt of parting,
But each joyous, careless day
Fled; and no thought of to-morrow
Cross'd the sunshine of our way.
Dost remember that old garden,
'Twas so beautiful and fair,
With its wealth of tropic splendour,
With its balmy, perfum'd air?
Dost remember the dark alleys,
Arch'd with many rarest vines,
With their clusters hanging thickly
In long, many-coloured lines?
Dost remember that green arbour,
With its cool, refreshing shade,
With the passion-flowers shining
In the shadows which they made?
Dost remember the great willows
Weeping o'er their weight of years,
Dipping in the pond beneath them,
And then drying up their tears
As they trailed their snake-like branches
O'er the dried and withered grass,
With their heavy, woeful weeping,
Bringing life where they did pass?
Dost remember how we gather'd
Orange-blossoms 'neath the trees,
As they fell, like scented snowflakes,
In the balmy summer breeze?
Dost remember all those flow'r-beds
With their wild, wild finery,
Nought but colour, colour, colour,
Laughing 'neath the bright blue sky?
William Rodger Thomson.
AMAKEYA.
This ballad is founded on the following incident, which happened at the close of one of the Kaffir wars: Macomo, with all his people, was removed to the neighbourhood of Algoa Bay. He used every means to remain on his old location. His appeal was pathetic enough, but we have profited somewhat by our experience of the word of a Kaffir. "Here," said he, stretching his hand over the beautiful territory, "my father, a great chief, dwelt; these pastures were crowded with cattle; here I have lived to grow old; here my children have been born; let me die in peace where I have so long lived." These entreaties, however, could not be listened to for one moment, and as a last trial his daughter, Amakeya, the beauty of Kaffirland, made her way to the tent of Colonel Campbell, 91st Regiment, who, totally unprepared for her appearance, was yet more astonished at the sacrifice she offered if her father's sentence of banishment might be rescinded. She made her strange offer in all the consciousness and pride of beauty; and, with her finely-moulded arms folded before her, she spoke without hesitation, for she was guided by motives worthy a lofty cause. "If her father might remain on his own lands," she said, "she would be the sacrifice and guarantee for his future good faith towards the white man. She would leave her own people and follow Colonel Campbell, his home should be hers; she would forsake all and dwell with him. This was her last word, her final decision, and she would abide by it." Amakeya's motives were not unappreciated by her hearer, but the proposal was of course rejected, with every consideration for her position and the circumstances by which she had been actuated, and she departed with her father on his journey.—Mrs. H. Ward, The Cape and the Kaffirs.
Far in the Kaffir's glorious land,
Beside a burning heap
Of ruins, sits an aged man,
Who bitterly doth weep.
Through his clasp'd hands the tears fall fast,
And wet the earth, where stood
His humble home, in ashes laid,
Red with his kindred's blood.
And curses, struggling with his grief,
Die on his quiv'ring lips;
And tight he grasps the assegai,
Which still with life-blood drips.
Then, starting to his feet, he cast
An impious look on high:
"God of the whites," he cries, "who dwell'st
Beyond yon azure sky,
"Thy children are a cruel race
Of murderers and thieves.
Give back to me my warriors brave,
Fall'n thick as autumn leaves
"Before the hot blast of their guns,
Which, with its hailstorm, rode
O'er all our ranks, and made us fall
Like corn when it is mow'd.
"They say Thou art a God of peace— Thy rebel children lie;
They say Thou art a righteous judge:
For vengeance dread I cry!
"Avenge the wrongs we've suffered
For those who call on Thee;
If Thou art just, then root out those
Who live by treachery!"
The godless savage paused awhile— And, with a flashing eye,
Look'd round o'er all that beauteous land,
Far stretching 'neath the sky.
Where'er he turn'd his eyes he saw
War's desolating brand;
The smoke of burning villages
Arose on ev'ry hand.
The tow'ring mountains far away,
High heav'nward bore the blaze;
O'er all the fruitful valleys hung
A thick and lurid haze.
"There are the mountains where I track'd
The lions to their dens;
Oft have I coursed the flying deer
Across those burning glens.
"No more shall huntsman's shout be heard
On Mancazana's hills;
No more shall huntsman slake his thirst
In Mancazana's rills;
"No more shall young men dance at eve,
Around the peaceful kraal;
No more shall maidens wait to hear
Their brave young lovers call.
"No more shall children sport around
The reed huts of their sires;
Men, wives, and children—all are burn'd
Under the white man's fires!"
The old man paused, a choking sob
Burst from his heart of steel.
Ah! white men, do ye ever think
The black man too can feel
Those large emotions of the heart
Which home and kindred wake,
Which swell up in our panting breasts
As if our hearts would break?
While still he wept, a lovely maid
Crept from a wood hard by;
Poor Amakeya's skin was black,
But Love beamed from her eye
As brightly as it beameth forth
In lordly homes of ease,
In happier climes, where sound of war
Ne'er scared off love-born Peace.
She stole close to the sobbing chief,
And look'd up in his face
With all a woman's tenderness—
Eve's universal grace.
"My father, O my father! list,
Ah! weep not so, I pray;
But come with me, I'll comfort thee,
And all thy grief allay."
She took him gently by the hand,
And led him from that soil
Mark'd with the blood of those he loved
And all war's horrid toil.
And silently he follow'd her
Far up the mountain-brow;
Far from the white man's glitt'ring tents,
Down in the vale below.
At last they reach'd a tow'ring rock,
Which cast its cooling shade
Far down the rugged mountain's steep,
And there her pace she stay'd.
"Come, father, sit and rest thee now
From the fierce heat of strife;
I'll bring thee corn and milk to stay
The fainting spring of life."
She hurried to a neighb'ring cave
And brought thence milk and corn,
And, kneeling at his feet, she fed
The warrior war-worn.
The father look'd down on his child,
And smiled to see her care;
Long time he spoke not, silently
He stroked her shining hair.
"Sweet Amakeya! I am rich
Since thou art left to me—
The white man's Queen's not half so rich
As I, when I have thee.
"To-morrow, child, we'll leave this land,
Where thou wert born and bred;
To-morrow we must seek a home
Unknown to white man's tread.
"To-morrow's setting sun must find
Us resting far from here;
We can no more at eventide
Let fall the tribute tear
"Upon the mound where rests the dust
Of her who you me gave;
Ah! when we're gone, the white man's plough
Will tear your mother's grave!"
"My father, say not so," she cried;
"The white man may be moved;
To-morrow let us go to him— My pow'r 's not yet been proved.
"Perchance he'll listen to my tale,
Perchance I'll move his heart,
Perchance he may call back the word
Which made us hence depart."
"My daughter, hope not thus; 'tis vain;
The white man's stern command
Cannot be changed; we must go hence,
And leave our fatherland!
"My arms are gone! I must obey;
No safety more is here;
Too long we've fought! the strife is vain
Where victory's so dear!"
"My father, talk no more of war;
I know the white man's pow'r;
Love moves all hearts, let love be then
Our refuge in this hour.
"In this dark hour of deep despair,
Of sorrow and distress,
Love yet may conquer when the hands
Of war hang weaponless.
"To-morrow when the sun is up,
When day has dawn'd again,
When night has lull'd the passions wild
Which war could not restrain,
"We'll get us to the white chief's tent;
My tears will move his heart;
O say not nay! one trial more,
And then we can depart."
The father gave his slow consent
Unto her earnest pray'r;
When woman prays, a savage e'en
Must yield to words so fair.
When scarce the morrow's sun had risen,
The chieftain and his child
Went down unto the white men's tents;
He sad, she hopeful, smiled.
They pass'd through crowds of gaping men,
Who glared upon their foe
With sullen brow or scornful eye,
And pitied not his woe.
They came before the white chiefs tent;
He met them at the door,
And gazed in wonder at the maid,
Such graceful form she bore.
"O white man!" spake the Kaffir chief,
"We know that thou art brave;
And brave men have not hearts of steel,
But save when they can save.
"We come to crave one boon from thee:
Reverse thy stern command;
O bid us not depart from here;
This is our Fatherland!
"We love it, as the white man loves
His home beyond the sea;
Thou would'st not let a stranger take
That dear-loved land from thee.
"We'll live in peace, and do thy will;
We'll call thy Queen our Queen;
O let us die where we were born,
And let this waving green,
"Which waves above our fathers' dust,
Once wave above our head;
When white man's herds shall crop the grass
Where Kaffir cattle fed."
The white man's brow grew stern, he spake—
"No mercy shall be given
To black men who can break their oaths,
And fear no God in heav'n.
"Ten years ago you ask'd for peace;
The white man gave you peace;
He gave back lands he took from you;
From bonds he gave release.
"How have you kept your faith with him?
Where now the oaths you swore?
Dost think the white man now will deal
As kindly as before?
"Nay! you and yours have steeled his heart,
And driven pity thence;
Nay, savage foe! your wiles I know;
Depart! and get you hence.
"Upon the borders of the sea,
Your thieving band may roam,
And find some other pleasant land—
This is no more your home."
The savage chieftain heaved a sigh,
Then, turning to his child,
He laid his hand upon her head,
And said in accents mild,
"Poor Amakeya! dost thou hear?
In vain, in vain, we crave;
We have no home! come, let us go
And seek some unknown grave!"
But proudly stepp'd the maiden forth,
And conscious of her charms,
She folded o'er her swelling breast
Her beauteous ebon arms.
And in sad accents, soft and clear,
And sobbing while she spake;
She pray'd so earnestly, then wept,
As if her heart would break.
"O white man! pity those grey hairs
Which grace my father's head;
He'll fight no more, let him die here;
Ah! soon he must be dead!
"O grant my prayer, and gratefully
I'll yield myself to thee;
I'll go with thee where thou dost go,
E'en o'er the fearful sea.
"I'll be thy slave, and toil alway,
And never long to come
Unto this lovely land again:
This land which is my home.
"But willingly I'll give up all!
And leave my father's side,
And leave my tribe, and leave my land,
And all thy will abide.
"Let him but live to hunt the deer
On Mancazana's hills;
Let him but live to quench his thirst
In Mancazana's rills."
Amazed, the father heard such speech:
"My daughter, speak not so;
What! dost thou think thy father then
Would ever let thee go,
"And suffer slavery and shame,
That he might dwell in peace?
Thou'rt mad, my child; come, come, we'll go— This idle praying cease."
He fell upon her neck and wept,
And pressed her to his heart:
"My peerless Amakeya! come— We'll never, never part."
The white man's haughty look relaxed,
A tear roll'd down his face,
And, wond'ringly, he gazed upon
That form of matchless grace.
And then—with mien as if he spoke
To dame of high degree— He bow'd before that savage girl,
And answered soothingly:
"Thou noble creature! God has made
Thee beautiful and fair;
And given thee a soul as pure
As e'er breathed Christian pray'r.
"But go,—I dare not hear thee speak,
I dare not hear thee pray;
It grieves my heart, my noble maid,
But—I must answer "nay":
"The stern command I gave, does come
From higher pow'r than mine;
But go in peace, thy words have smoothed
Thy father's lot and thine."
Then mournfully the maiden look'd
Upon her aged sire,
Still weeping on her breast, as if
In tears he would expire.
"Come, father! far away we'll go!
I'll ever comfort thee;
We'll leave our home, and seek our graves
Far by the great blue sea!"
They left the white man's glitt'ring tents
And climb'd the mountain brow;
The father filled with sad despair,
The maiden hopeless now.
••••• Few weeks have pass'd; the Kaffir girl
Has left her native land,
And travell'd far o'er hill and dale,
And now sits by the strand.
She gazes on that mighty sea
She ne'er had seen before;
Half-pleased, half-awed, she hears the waves
Hoarse-moaning on the shore.
She loves to see the stately waves
Come rolling to the land,
And dash their foam-crests on the rocks,
And murmur o'er the sand.
She speaks no word, she moves no limb,
But sits as in a trance,
And ever looks out to the sea
With that same wond'ring glance.
Long years have pass'd—the Kaffir girl
Still loves to come at eve,
And sit upon some beetling crag,
And with the sad sea grieve.
Poor Amakeya! years shall pass,
And white men still shall come
Across that sea, and still press on,
And take thy new-found home!
But while one black man shall be found
Where thousands now do rove,
Shall still the touching tale be told
Of Amakeya's love.
William Rodger Thomson.