# A Treasury of South African Poetry and Verse/Herbert Tucker

SUNRISE.
Fresh from a plunge in the sequestered pool,
This bosky hollow holds as in a cup,
And freed from lingering languors of the night,
By the delicious chill of dim-lit depths,
I stand awhile upon its reedy brink,
And with an eager and awakened gaze
Watch how the cloudless morn like some fair flower
Unfolds its splendours.
Autumn's lagging sun
Still lingers to o'ertop the wooded slope
Behind me, leaving undisturbed awhile
The slumb'rous dusk of the beshadowed pool;
But half the bush-grown hill that mounts beyond
Is mellowed with a mantling garb of gold,
And o'er its rock-strewn summit's soaring ridge
Expands the sunlit azure, pale and pure.
A breath of primal freshness seems to stir
In the soft eddies of the morning air,
As if old Earth in some awaking dream
Had won again the gladness of her youth.
Borne from the bush, the wood-dove's crooning note
Hints of a hidden peace surpassing speech,
And the gay pipe and thrill of many a bird
Lends utterance to the joyance of the hour!
O, miracle of morning! ever new,
As on the first sweet dawn in Paradise;
O glad tranquillity, whose healing thrill
No other hour in weary hearts can wake!
Soft steals the golden sunlight down the slope,
As it would catch the dark pool unaware.
Bush after bush its glowing kiss receives,
And grey old thorn-trees grasp it eagerly
In their rough arms, as though its warm embrace
Might bring back verdure to each withered bough.
And now the leader of the shining herd
Sets a shy foot upon the crumbling bank,
And straight the leaden water is bespread
With a swift dawn and flush of wavering light
That weaves a smile across its sullen front,
Like Hope surprising some despairing soul.
Spread, sunshine! o'er the gladdened waters spread,
Until each lurking shadow is displaced;
And take as thanks the incense offering
Of slowly drifting vapour-wreaths that smoke
From its sun-smitten surface.Come at last
Where I that sing of thee stand, and through my frame
Strike a quick ecstasy of sensuous bliss.
Strike through the flesh and reach my inmost soul,
And slay its shadows with thy glorious light!
Pure from the pool, anointed by thy beams,
And soul-fed with sweet visions of the morn.
The better shall I live and work this day,
Feeling through hours of toil remembered thrills
Of sunlight kisses, soft and warm as love's.
Herbert Tucker.
A PRAYER FOR RAIN.
O come, reluctant rain!
For whose approach parched veld and failing spring,
And every living thing,
How long have looked in vain.
The farmer, day by day,
With darker brow watches his dying crops;
The burnt and barren slopes
Where his starved cattle stray.
The maiden in her bower
Wishes the pity-laden tears that spring
From her soft heart might bring
Help to each pining flower.
And Spring is in the land!
Ah, ruthless rain! canst thou unmoved behold
The bronzéd bud unfold
A pale, beseeching hand?
By inward power impelled,
Must the young leaf to loveliest life be born
Only to die forlorn,
Thy gracious drops withheld?
The snowy-blossomed pear
Scatters a mimic shower at every gust;
Wilt thou to dew her dust
Naught from thy treasures spare?
And shall yon willow, fain At the stream's glass to deck her bending head, Droop o’er its empty bed Her budding boughs in vain?
The winds on circling wing Through the wide heaven seek for thine hidden track: Baffled they turn them back, And dust is all they bring.
Or should the southern gale From ocean's fields have filched a cloudy flock, With barren mist they mock The thirst of hill and vale.
Or if on fiery noons Some thund’rous pile a tragic front uprears, In a few blistering tears Its brief-lived passion swoons.
Art thou forever fled In wrath for gifts misspent by men of yore, Heedless to catch and store, Thy showers freely shed?
Nay then, too angry rain, With pity for earth’s blameless herbs be stirred: For sake of beast and bird Come back to us again!
Come back! and coming bring No scanty dole meted with miser hand, But to the beggared land A bounteous largess fling.
And ah! what rose could yield To my sick sense, surcharged with dust and heat, A fragrance half as sweet As smell of moistened field!
Rather mine ears had heard, Waking, the swish of rain like surging seas Sound through the swaying trees Than blithest song of bird;
And fairer to mine eyes Some frowning dawn, rain-drenched and tempest torn, Than this soft azure morn Breathing of Paradise!
Herbert Tucker.
A TWILIGHT POST.
Not in the noise and glare of day:
The clamour of the crowded way:
Comes any voice to me.
'Mid the harsh world's distracting hum
My heart is dull, my lips are dumb,
No dreams my soul may see.
But when afar from street and mart,
In eve's hushed hour I walk apart,
While in the paling west
The sunset fire's last smouldering brand
Sheds a faint lustre o'er the land,
To light it to its rest;
While in the zenith's deepening blue,
Some bold-eyed star has leapt to view,
First in the field of night;
Whose brightening beacon-flame inspires
A growing host of kindred fires
Soft stealing into sight;
When all the misty vale is still,
Save for the cricket's ceaseless trill,
The chorus of the vlei,
The watch-dog's bark, the low of kine,
And lesser sounds too faint and fine
For the coarse ear of day;
(O hallowed hour, unearthly fair!
O stainless deeps of purple air!
O silver stars on high,
Watching with all-compassionate gaze
Those who along earth's dusky ways
Wander alone, as I!)—
Then, floating down some starry beam,
A glorious thought, a golden dream,
Falls on my heart like dew;
And fancy's sun-besmitten flowers,
That languished through the noontide hours,
Lift their sweet heads anew!
And tones of earth's pathetic strain
Are wafted through my wakened brain;
And from the shadowy skies—
O hush! O hark! and thou shalt hear,
Echoed from shining sphere to sphere,
The Eternal Harmonies!
Herbert Tucker.
THE THREE KINGDOMS.
O moonlit land of Might-have-been!
Where long my 'trancéd feet have strayed,
Lured by rich vistas, vaguely seen
Through many a velvet-shadowed glade,
Of sheltered vales of virgin peace,
And dewy meadows of delight,
And flashing streams, and shimmering seas,
And summits soaring out of sight;
While wraith-like over hill and dell
A sighing wind for ever goes,
Whose music in its lull and swell
A note of witching sadness knows:
With steadfast will I turn my eyes
From all your silver mystery:
I list no more the breeze that sighs
Its sweet regret from tree to tree.
For there is poison in your breath,
And madness in your moaning breeze;
And hidden swamps invite to death,
And pale shapes lurk amid the trees:
And many a noble heart and brave,
Lured by your beauty's syren snare,
Has found a vain, inglorious grave,
Stricken by your miasmic air.
The Kingdom of What-is is mine,
Though all too narrow seems its bound.
The honest day doth round me shine:
My feet are set on solid ground.
And so, disdainful of regret,
I yield my sword and give parole
Not to o'erpass the limits set
By conquering fate for my control.
My little round erect I tread,
Or bend my back in humble toil,
Striving to win my spirit's bread
From out the stern, unfruitful soil.
Yet gracious hours my Kingdom hath,
When Love's warm sunlight o'er it lies,
And Beauty's blossoms fringe my path,
And Joy sheds music from the skies.
And hush! at moments rare and high
Some opal gleam of morning dew,
The glory of some sunset sky,
With secret gladness thrills me through.
Some cloudland temple up the blue
Lifting its dome of dazzling white,
Some wild bird's call, some wild-flower's hue
Surprises me with strange delight—
With whispers of some hidden bliss
Which Nature's earlier children know,
And to the dwellers in What-is
By hint and symbol darkly show.
And like the breeze that heralds morn
Hope through my heart anew doth sweep;
And to my quickened brain are borne
Strains sweet as music heard in sleep;
•••••And, rich with endless recompense
For Life's poor, stinted gifts, I see
In vision through the veil of sense
The mystic Kingdom of May-be!
Herbert Tucker.