# A Treasury of South African Poetry and Verse/Rev. H. H. Dugmore

THE FUNERAL OF LIVINGSTONE.
List! there is music sounding!
Not airy strains, that lead the mazy dance; Not trumpet tones that stir the warrior's soul; But soft, and slow, and solemn, as it swells And rolls afar and dies, midst its own echoes From vaulted roof, and lofty aisle dim-lighted, Where clustering columns rise, and rainbow rays Gleam in their varied glory o'er the scene. 'Tis in the sacred fane where sleeps the dust Of those whom Britain loves to honour, who Shed living honour by their deeds on her, Challenging place upon the rolls of fame. Sages, and saints, and sons of song lie there; Wresters of nature's secrets; senators, Whose thund'rous eloquence could awe the world; Patriots whose life-blood for their country flowed; War chiefs who led her armies on to glory; Statesmen with eye far-reaching, who could thread Diplomacy's dark mazes, and the helm With firm hand grasping, steer the nation's bark Through storms of strife to honour and to peace. And royalty's proud dust lies mouldering there, 'Neath sculptured marbles, or midst gilded shrines: While high o'erhead the ancient banners droop.— Monarchs of other days—of other ages, Successive generations of the great, Who ruled the realm of England as she grew From isolate obscurity to greatness That with a fame undying fills the world.
​Lo! there—an open grave! and heads are bare, And bent; and bosoms heave, and tears are falling From youthful womanhood,—from hoary age. Men weep, as slowly through the reverent throng Is borne what hides from view a shrivelled form, Wasted and featureless: yet round that bier Stand silently the great of many lands. Britain's high born stand there; and kings of men Of other realms stand there by envoy. There The sons of science gather, and the friends Of light and liberty. The Churches' messengers Look on in sadness there; and a vast throng, Crowding around, sigh forth a nation's sympathy. Tokens of reverent love-azalea wreaths, Laurel and myrtle, with fair flowers entwined, Bright immortelles, branches of Afric's palm— (Symbol of triumph e'en in death) are there, And, honour to the honoured!—Britain's Queen Sign of "respect and admiration" sends,— Her own, and royal daughter's funeral gifts To deck the bier.
And who is it that thus Draws to himself in death the eyes of nations? Is it some warrior leader, who has died In the proud hour of victory, and, wept By whole people's tears, lies down to rest? —Or is it one who, in a nation's peril, Has earned a nation's gratitude by wise And warning counsels in her council halls? —Is it a Prince has died? That royalty Should sigh her grief, and nobles weep around? ​'Tis Livingstone!—That name a thousand tongues, Through years of hope and fear alternate, uttered; While he who bore it, deep in Afric's wilds, Solving her mystery of ages, trod Her deserts, traced her streams—a pioneer Of science, commerce, liberty, and mercy. —A "weaver boy" thus honoured!—Wherefore not? He wore, indeed, no ducal coronet; Nor dwelt in lordly hall. But "stamp" of "rank" He needed not, while nature's "gold" of manhood, Solid, and pure, and bright, shone through his soul.
Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
ENGLAND.
O England, speck amidst the world of waters!
Thou art the world's great wonder. Realms afar
Have heard thy voice, have seen thy light, have felt thy power.
Some, jealous, envy thee; some bless thy name.
The might of freedom, and the light of truth,—
The freedom that can burst the spirit's bonds,
The light that leads that spirit up to heaven,— These are thy charge, and for the wide world's weal,
Be faithful to thy trust, thou honour'd Isle!
Thou hast a glorious mission to the nations.
Hold fast to the truth of God with strong right hand;
Cast forth the traitors that would take thy crown.
Still send thy sons, as Mercy's angels, forth
To sound in silver tones, to far-off lands,
The trumpet of the everlasting gospel;
So shall Heaven's smile be thy perpetual light,
And Heaven's dread power, "a wall of fire," thy guard.
Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
A SUNRISE THOUGHT AT "COVE ROCK," NEAR EAST LONDON.
King of the Golden Orient! Lo! He comes
And mounts, magnificent, his burning throne;
Smiling in glory o'er the world of waters,
Whose joyous waves leap welcome to his coming.
See how the streaming rays, his almoners,
Fling forth his largesses in flashing brilliants,
Which the waves catch, and toss from crest to crest
In dancing rapture! 'Tis a glorious sight
To see a king right welcome to his subjects;
To hear the voice of Gladness universal
Greeting his royal smile. Not sea alone,
But ocean, earth, and sky join look and voice
In smile and song. See there in the far west, Where little cloudlets cluster, as they hang
In modest diffidence upon the outskirts
Of the vast audience-throng! they, too, are flushing
Bright with the universal joy; and, hark!
Breezes are striking their Æolian harps
Among the woofs that wave along the hills;
While the deep voices of the surge, far pealing,
Thunder their ceaseless anthem to his praise.
Brief, as befitting, is the monarch's audience;
For who may look upon the King of light
With eye unblenching? Now in massy folds,
The darkening curtains of his cloud pavilion
Gather around him; and tho' dazzling still
Their broad gold fringes wave, the weak eye rests
From his transpiercing glance of unveiled glory.
Hail! glorious image of the King of Kings!
Seen or unseen, thou givest light, and life,
And joy, and beauty to revolving worlds
That circle round thy throne. Centre of Power!
Thy mystery of might upholds, sustains,
And governs as the Delegate of God,
Their measur'd harmony of ceaseless motion;
Reining their fleetness with an arm of strength
Felt and obeyed in the far depths of space,
Where roll remotest planets round their spheres
In twilight solitude unseen, unknown.
Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A LITTLE SHELL AT COVE ROCK.
Delicate, fragile, tiny shell,
Thou hast a wondrous tale to tell.
I find thee here on the ocean strand;
The billows have borne thee safe to land.
Yet those billows have proved the proud ship's grave,
And have mocked the power of man to save,
As its shattered fragments, far and wide,
Were strewn on the shore by the surging tide.
But thou art here, and all unharmed!
Say, how hast thou its fury charmed,
That its mighty waves, on their foaming breast,
Should bear thee safe to a place of rest?
The rock rears high his haughty form,
And challenges proud the ocean storm;
And he tosses the wild waves raging back,
As his challenge provokes their fierce attack.
But again, and again, and again they come,
And vainly the rock resists its doom;
The waves are mighty, and know their might.
"Never have we been vanquished in fight!
We kiss the sands of the yielding shore,
We rend the rock in his pride of power:
Be it soon, be it late, thy fate is sealed;
Be it soon, be it late, thou shalt surely yield!"
And it yields at last: with a headlong leap
It buries its shame in the foaming deep.
And the waves toss high their plumy spray,
As they dance triumphant around their prey.
And yet, little shell, I find thee here,
And nothing hath wrought thee harm or fear;
Though shattered rocks, and a rock-strewn shore,
Give tokens dire of the ocean's power.
Tell me, tiny, beautiful thing!
Filmy and frail as the butterfly's wing— An infant's finger could crush thee to dust—
What hast thou then wherein to trust?
And whence thy courage and power to brave
The surging might of the wild sea wave?
"I have not braved the ocean's might;
I reared no front with the waves to fight.
I yielded me meek to the billow's force,
As it swept me along in its onward course.
My weakness was strength in the tempest's hour,
And my safety I found in the ocean's power."
Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
PAST AND PRESENT.
Over the waters wild and deep,
Where the storm-waves roll, and the storm-winds sweep—
Over the waters see them come!
Breasting the billow's curling foam,
Fathers for children seeking a home— In Afric's Southern Wilds.
Wilderness lands of brake and glen,
The wolf's and the panther's gloomy den;
Wilderness plains where the springbok bounds,
And the lion's voice from the hills resounds;
And the vulture circles in airy rounds—
Are Afric's Southern Wilds.
"Hand to the labour! heart and hand!
Our sons shall inherit an altered land.
Harvests shall wave o'er the virgin soil,
Cottages stand, and gardens smile,
And the songs of our children the hours beguile— 'Mid Afric's Southern Wilds.
"Make we the pride of the forest yield;
Wrest from the wilderness field on field;
And to brighten our hope, and lighten our care,
And gain the aid of our Father there,
Raise we to heaven the voice of prayer—
From Afric's Southern Wilds."
The locust clouds have darkened heaven,
The "rusted" fields to the flame are given;
The war-cry is echoing wild and loud,
For the war of the savage, fierce and proud,
Has burst like the storm from the thunder-cloud— On Afric's Southern Wilds.
"Never despair, though the harvests fail;
Though the hosts of a savage foe assail;
Never despair, we shall conquer yet,
And the toils of our earlier years forget.
In hope's bright glory our sun shall set— 'Midst Afric's Southern Wilds."
•••••• Our toil-worn fathers are sinking to rest,
But their children inherit their hope's bequest.
Valleys are smiling in harvest pride;
There are fleecy flocks on the mountain side;
Cities are rising to stud the plains;
The life-blood of commerce is coursing the veins
Of a new-born Empire, that grows and reigns— Over Afric's Southern Wilds.
Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
THE OCEAN—STORM AND CALM.
I look upon the ocean. Far away,
A fleet of thunder-clouds is sailing by.
High in mid heaven the ærial canvas swells,
And proudly scorns the breeze's proffered aid;
Instinct with its own spirit's breath of life,
That bears it onward in its majesty;
While ever and anon the signal flash
From van, and rear, and centre, tells of might
Resistless, stern, and slow, and dark, and grand:
Its shadows sweep o'er ocean's heaving billows;
While avant-couriers, on the lightning's wing,
Herald its coming to the distant realms
Beyond the horizon's verge.
•••••• 'Tis sunset on the ocean! Let us gaze:
A Sabbath sunset; and all things combine
To give it peace and beauty; for the winds
Have folded their broad pinions, and have sunk
To peaceful slumber on the ocean's breast— The sportive waves, that tossed their spray erewhile,
Displume their crests in reverence for the hour,
And all is calm around.
The curtain cloud
That hung o'er all the west throws wide its folds,
And in the clear blue ether far away
Bright islands of the blest seem floating, free
From the rough cares that fret this lower world,
And radiant in a glory all divine.
Rev. H. H. Dugmore.