# A Treasury of South African Poetry and Verse/W. E. Hunter

THE NIGHTINGALE.
Hearken! 'tis the Nightingale O'er the silence doth prevail, Ravishing the listening air With his solo rich and clear, With his exquisite delight Thrilling all the heart of night. Surely naught akin to pain Is the theme of such a strain: Only love's divinest treasure, Only love's unshadowed pleasure Can give birth to such a measure; Love, without its care and pain, Such as others seek in vain, Surely is this creature's gain! Love we dream of, pining, yearning, To be lost within its burning!
The mysterious music falls Now at wayward intervals: Now a rivulet of song, As from springs of Helicon, Through the darkness bubbles on— Bubbles through the breathless air In notes so full, so rich, so clear, Angels lean from heaven to hear, Lean until their listening faces Light the interstellar spaces, ​As they whisper their surmise: "'Tis a sister in disguise, Singing for the world's delight, The cantata she, by right, Should have sung in Heaven to-night."
Now the witching rhythm flows Softly to a perfect close, In severed notes that drowse and swoon, If for ever, ah, too soon! And we sigh the song should be So fugitive, when suddenly A swift, aerial round Of voluptuous, throbbing sound Flows again in wild delight Through the enamoured hush of night, On and on, as if to drain His heart of music in one strain The bird, if bird it be, were fain. 'Tis a bird, and nothing more, With one song, his only store, And he repeats it o'er and o'er To be more perfect than before. But that bird in heavenly spheres, Singing to angelic cars, That did never suffer wound From a false discordant sound, For his singing would be crowned.
A pause—and now the vale is full Of intermittent, musical Trills of rapture, beautiful! Rippling in the dreamy sky, How they flow, and ebb, and die! ​How they revel, toy and tarry, Falter with the bliss they carry! Tremble, with excess of gladness, On the narrow brink of sadness! Till the serenade appears But to bubble up through tears; And the music's tender stress Yields again to silentness: And the artful bird capricious, In a reverie delicious, Mute upon the star-lit spray, Meditates his winsome lay: Or, perchance, 'twere sooth to say, He pauses to rejoice, And marvel at his matchless voice, And so awhile forgets to sing For his own music listening: And hence the hush, while leaf and wing, Shadow, starlight, everything, In this mystical recess Amid the hills is motionless, Lest the timid creature hear, Rise and vanish into air; Nor thereafter dare nor deign, Here to fold his wings again.
Ah, their vigil is not vain! Hark ! the music falls like rain, When in heaven's bright abyss, One lone cloud and no wind is. So waywardly, so tenderly, Note by note the melody On th' absorbing silence falls ​At divinest intervals, Wherein bird and music seem The creation of some dream. Oh, but hearken! clear and strong Again the swift notes throb and throng, Rejoicing in a rush of song, Sweet and passionate above All that words can tell of love, Flowing on and on, as tho' It would never cease to flow, For the singer, in his gladness, Sings himself to very madness, And, to share his heart's delight With all around, would flood the night With music, as the perfect moon Floods it with her stintless boon Of splendour, when she hovers bright, Pure and naked in the height Of heaven's dome of crystallite. But not the minstrel's utmost art Can fully to the world impart The song he sings within his heart; And here, here too, the real Reaches not its dream-ideal; And the birth so long o'erwrought By incommunicable thought, Yearns, until his voice is fraught With sobs and tears and notes that wane, And the wild impassioned strain Dies away, nor wakes again.
W. E. Hunter.
WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS, 1906.
How dreamlike, strange, is this Reprieve to happiness And life! to sit at ease In comfort of green trees! And marvelling hear Thrush and blackbird piping near; Whilst, thro' every passive sense, Creeps a healing influence, That, baptizing heart and brain, Renews and makes me whole again!
No more, like one for whom There is nor light nor gloom, Silence nor sound, His sleep is so profound, I lie, in seeming rest, With hands prayer-folded on my breast, Silent, as slow nights and days Pass on undistinguished ways, Silent, tho' my heart made moan, Sadly to herself alone, Saying, "Now, dissolves the snow;" Saying, "Now, the violets blow;— Ah, when I am laid more low, They will blow more close to me, Closer still and I not see,
Not know."— But lo! I wile away Once again a summer's day, In this pleasant sylvan place, Where the alders interlace Their boughs above me, and the blue Bells and flowers of purple hue Make beautiful the lone recess With glamour of their loveliness.
—Nature for herself against All the world this valley fenced. For her own delight she wrought In sculpture her poetic thought: Then she breathed upon it, till It breathed to her again, and rill And herb and flower returned the smile Of love, that lit her face the while. How beautiful it is! How meet, For the solace of retreat! Guardian hills have charge to keep Watch around it, steep on steep, Save, to westward, where a space Opens in their green embrace, And, behind, the ocean paves The chasm with protecting waves.
Thro' the tranquil, sylvan valley Toys a streamlet musically; All too happy to haste on, Such sweet themes it dwells upon,
With a low and inward voice To itself it doth rejoice; And the little sedge-birds sit In the reeds and hark to it; And from banks of mossy green, Flowers that love it droop and lean, As it lingers, winds, and wanders Under willow trees and alders— As it lingers, winds and flows 'Neath the lilies' driven snows, And a yellow dragon-fly Crosses it incessantly. —Ever may the streamlet be Clear as snow, untainted, free! And the vale,—may no men win it From the blackbird and the linnet, And the thrush that harbour in it!
Now the song-birds throng the bushes, And the water-birds the rushes; And thro' golden haze, the bee Darting, seeks her treasury With what nectar she could win From the tired flowers folding in; And the landscape all alight With rose and amber, depth and height, Burns beneath the fiery sky; And the radiant waters vie With heaven's splendour, where the sun, Now his western goal is won, Stands upon the molten wave, Magician-like, as if he gave
A farewell blessing to the earth, And foretold to-morrow's birth, Ere lowlier, on the ocean's breast, He bows in worship, and to rest Sinks beyond our vision's quest. —How calm it is! Earth, sea and air, Hush with, him in silent prayer! So awhile,—then clear and strong A sweet gush of vesper song! All the heart of music throbbing In a bird's ecstatic sobbing, As the purple shadows close Over amber, over rose, And a chime from far away Rings the passing of the day.
—As a lover, tired of roaming, Who returneth in the gloaming; Who returneth home at last, After months and perils past, As with gentle hand he presses Back the loved one's silken tresses, Gazes earnestly a space, On her dear familiar face, Reads it fondly o'er and o'er, And finds it fairer than before. Nature, thus I gaze on thee, Gaze on earth and sky and sea, Gaze and gaze, until my sight Is tear-clouded by delight, To pain united, in the stress Of mystery and loveliness.
W. E. Hunter.
MARGARET.
Maidens, on this narrow bed, Drop the flowers, but do not tread; All that earth knew how to keep Of Margaret is fast asleep. Underneath the sod it lies, With death's darkness in those eyes That were wont to show at dawn, Blue depths where our light was born; For the radiant spirit flown, Still our hearts unceasing moan— For the radiant inmate dear, That for one elysian year Tarried on the earth, to see If it might fit dwelling be For a guest as pure as she,— Then affrighted (woe the day!) On swift wings, she fled away To that country lying far, Where the other angels are— Fled! and left us nothing, save To protect this little grave, Which we keep, for love of her, Ever unprofaned and fair. Softly on her sacred bed Scatter flowers, but do not tread.
W. E. Hunter.