VELD VERSE AN1'» (n'HEIl LINES BY ■KINGSLEY '■ FAfRBRlDGE lok:i>on,. PAVH"> Nl'TT, 5'?': TO 59 LONG ACRlf, s-ite'aii^iite, iiiyi*is'». Snqlidh Collection THE GIFT OF 3i^me$ ^orsan Hart The date shows when this volume was taken HOME USE RULES. (iRecall. Bdf>k# if8t needed for instruction or re- searcli are returnable within 4 weeks. . Volumes of periodi- cals and of pamphlets are held in the library as much as possible. For special purposes they are given out for a limited time. Borrowers should not use their library privileges for the bene- fit of other persons Books not n ^d during recess pe.»jds should be returned to the library, or arrange- ments made for their return during borrow- er's absence, if wanted. Books needed by more than one person are held on the reserve list. Books of special value and gift booksr, when the giver wishes it, are not allowed to circulate. Marking books strictly for- bidden. Readers are asked to report all cases of hooks marked or muti- lated. Cornell University Library PR9897.F16V4 Veld verse, and other lines. 3 1924 013 256 031 Cornell University Library The original of tliis bool< is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013256031 VELD VERSE AND OTHER LINES VELD VERSE AND OTHER LINES BY KINGSLEY FAIRBRIDGE LONDON DAVID NUTT, 57 to 59 LONG ACRE 1909 A.^i-0|0|*V£ y-'iZ"^' DEDICATION TO R. S. F. TO J. S. M. AND TO ALL OTHERS OF THE EARLY DAYS WHOM I HAVE KNOWN CONTENTS VELD VERSE \ PAGE Africa ... 1 His Road ... 3 The Hunting of Shumba 5 BONGWI ..... 7 Yellow Eyes 9 Old Tika 12 The Puff-Adder .... 14 The Sniper ... 15 The Mason . . 16 The Pioneer ... .18 Song of the Africander Woman . 21 The Ploughman ... 23 Umfeti ... .25 The Smoker of Imbainje 29 The Song-Maker 33 The Bastard . . 35 Evening . 39 Midnight . . 41 Dawn 43 Fear 45 To R. St. C. T. 49 The First-Fruits . 50 Closed Down ... 52 To THE Grower of Mealies at Rusapi 54 viii CONTENTS PAGE Magwere . . . .56 The Red Cloud . . .59 Song of the South Africans ... 61 The Native Labour Bureau 63 Burial 66 Naming Song of Kusawa Afa .... 68 Love Song of Kusawa Afa 72 Death Song of Kusawa Afa .... 79 Roses at Inyanga 85 The Man possessed of Devils .... 87 OTHER LINES By the Good that went Before . 91 Sailing of Martin O'Brien 92 To 93 Dying in Spring 97 The Painting of a Picture 99 To V. F 102 Thine Eyes ... . . io4 Thy Heart . . 105 R. W. . . . . . 106 Faithful unto Death . . 112 Years Winterless .... 113 After Fever .... . . 114 This to Thee, Truest . H5 Amor atque Labor . II7 Spring . .118 VELD VERSE AFRICA April 1907 Africa ! Land of my birth — Land of a race to be (Yet in formation, of White alone,) Yield I a word to thy worth To me: To thy silence and vast serenity, To thy fertile land and thy rainless dearth. To the sweep of thy glorious unkempt earth, To thy wastes and thy grand monotony. Mother — Africa Dea, Wrapp'd were thy solemn limbs in sleep, And the child of the Goddess slept on the ground. When out of the deep A whisper stirr'd in the starlit sand — A whisper stirr'd, and he heard the sound And laid his hand in thy sleeping hand, His ear to thy heart. And he heard in part The deathless song of his Motherland — 2 AFRICA Only a word, where he lay on the ground : Only a word : but thy son had found. . . . Africa Mea, Men speak of thee And, when they speak, as now they do, God grant they speak with a voice that is true ! For men have come over the sea — From the nations over the sea — From East and West to the heart of the world Where the banners of England wave unfurl'd — Where the hearts of the English be. And now they speak, and they speak of you — Of the wealth and the strength of the Old and the New: God grant that their voice is as strong and as true As the soul of their lands is free ! Africa, Great is the Need, Though the word of thy son be poor. But thy sons await the Deed, And the song of their effort goes to the sky ; Africa, I — I, and a thousand more — Though our words be few and poor — Africa Mea ! Africa Dea ! Labour for thee as the years go by. And for thee are ready to do and to die. HIS ROAD HIS ROAD Behold, my son, the wheel-scarr'd road I Be shamed, and be afraid. For we, the first, were greater men Than those for whom we made. We wrought in death and hunger, We fought the veld — we few ! Behold, this effort of our hands. This road we built for you. . . . We struggled through the dongas. We strove against the height Until the further stars stoop'd down To mock us in the fight. The swinging axes drew us on. The ringing blasts broke through ; See here, — the powder staining still The road we built for you. We link'd the Known and Unknown, — The Known that did not care ! — Cared not, we knew, but labour'd on For spoils we should not bear. We sow'd, ye reap. We had our cake, We cannot eat it, too ; Yet, in the image of our hearts. We carved this road for you. b2 t HIS ROAD Out of great hope we plann'd the Road . . And with great toil we made • This rain-wash'd trail — ^this wooden bridge- So grass grown and decay'd. Whiles then the gods had envied us, When every length was new, Now who can blame them who despise This road we built for you ? This useless thing of sand and grass ! Unsightly bridge and frail ! — Dead stumps and riven stones speak not To those who use the Rail. But, son, no single mile we made Without long toil — we few ! Remember then those dauntless hands That built this road for you ! THE HUNTING OF SHUMBA THE HUNTING OF SHUMBA ' Now Cometh the old lion from the pool.' Stephen Phillips. The hairs about his muzzle tipp'd with wet ; The last sun glinting on his tawny mane, And burnishing his hide ; veil'd eyes that yet So slumbrous-solemn flash and slowly wane. Veil'd slumbrous-solemn eyes, that half-asleep Seem utter-careless of the wild around ; Soft seeming-careless steps that seek the deep Gloom'd bush, — but give no shadow of a sound. Loose-limb'd, he slouches shambling in the cool ; Head down, hide rippling over lazy might ; Thoughtful and terrible he leaves the pool — ■ Shumba the Lion, passing to the night. II A grass-blade breaking ! Swift, in awful calm. The mighty limbs at length along the ground ; Steel muscles tightening — A sense of harm, Intangible ... no shadow of a sound . . . 6 THE HUNTING OF SHUMBA But savage eyes unveil'd, Intense as death ; Purs'd lips and lower'd ears and bated breath, Dread vigour hail'd From every nerve and tissue — crouching there Blent with grass, — incarnate, awful FEAR ! A leap — a scream — a thud ; And it is done. Silence awhile, and the hot smell of blood. Silence, then slowly, with the sinking sun. The rend of flesh. . . . The crickets wake and sing. The frogs take up their song, the night-jars wing Weird in the azure dusk. As had been will'd. Chance brought him food ; and Fate has been fulflU'd. BONGWI BONGWI A haunted soul put under ban, A hunted beast that has to roam The voiceless image of a man With neither speech nor home — , Upon the summit of the height, Where only wind-swept lichens grow, Bongwi, lit by the dawning- light, Watches the plain below. Fierce eyes, low brow, protruding mouth, Short hands that twitch and twitch again. The hairy gargoyle of the South — A man without a brain ; Upon the highest krantz he waits Dim-lit by golden streak of dawn. Guarding the interests of his mates Who wreck the fields of corn. Far down the mealie-gardens lie. And he a patient sentinel. Shouts ■ Boor-hoom ! ' to th' offended sky To show that all is well. BONGWI A white fish-eagle sails along, His mighty pinions harping tunes Till dawn throbs with Aeolian song And, far below, the brown baboons Look up and note the paling East, The fading moon, the stars that wane And, gorg'd, they quit their stolen feast ■ And seek the open veld again. And Bongwi sees. But turns his view — Brown-eyed — ^towards the breaking morn. And gazes through the soundless blue The golden distance of the dawn. YELLOW EYES 9 YELLOW EYES Blended by fading moonlight with the grass — The long brown grass that bends beneath the dew — Supple, subtle, and silent : eyes of brass That rove in solemn fierceness o'er the view ; Seeking his living by the shadow'd walks Of sleeping man : Ingwi the Leopard stalks. Thing from the utter silence of the wild — Thing from the outer darkness of the night — Father of terror, of grey fear the child Ingwi, (in peace softer than silk ; in fight Harder than steel,) cringing in fear draws nigh To stay his hunger where the White Men lie. The chickens huddle in an abject dread — A dread no more than he, the Hunter, knows. Yet quenches and goes in to seek his bread Within the precincts of the wired close. Goes in . . . and sudden finds that he has bought His life to lose his life — that he is caught. The weighted door has -closed, and he is trapp'd . . . Gods of the Wilderness, what agony ! Dumbly he noses where the wires mapp'd Against the darkness show where all is free. Dumbly he strives to stretch a fore-paw through To touch the long grass, bending with the dew. 10 YELLOW EYES Dumbly he yearns toward the outer blg.ck, (His moon, that has sunk down for ever now,) He sees a rabbit loping down the track. And hears the chilly night-breeze lisp and sough. Lisp in the leaves that were his but this day And now seem leagues, and countless leagues, away. Far, far away the brooding mountains lie, The silver streams that croon among the ferns. The wide umsasas black against the sky. The dreaming valleys where the, glow- worm burns. The veld has vanish'd with the closing door — The veld that shall be Ingwi's never more. The flash of lights — ^the shouts of men awake ! And like a thunderbolt he strikes the wire, Struggling in fury for his life's own sake — Wrapp'd in a whirling madness of desire, Gathering his mighty power in his rage. With thrice-fold strength he tears away the cage. He fights, and he is free ; the door is down ; The great dogs are upon him in a breath — Great hunters — but the half-bred boar-hound brown Falls struggling in the sobbing throes of death ; And Flo, his mate, her neck ripp'd half away. Sinks dead before this Fury brought to bay. YELLOW EYES 11 Gods of the Wilderness, Ingwi is free ! The rabbit flies in ecstasy of fear, And Ingwi seeks that place where he would be — Where neither man nor animal shall peer. Coughing the choking life-blood as he goes He seeks a hidden death-bed that he knows. Blended by coming dawn-light with the ground That drinks his crimson pgwer as it drips ; Seeking his chosen hiding without sound. Though dry with suffering are his burning lips. Silent and savage 'neath the paling sky, Riddled with shot, Ingwi goes back to die. 12 OLD TIKA OLD TIKA ' And so, remembering Umtali, Tika came back to seek the dead trek-oxen.' Native Story. Staring at every shadow, starting at every sound ; Raising his nose to the chilly night, sinking it now to the ground ; Craning his head from side to side ; faltering, nervous and lame ; Back by a half-forgotten path, the old hyena came. The span-less wagons block'd the roads, New dead the cattle lay, When from the North the dread disease Swept down, Umtali way. The rinderpest swept down and past. And travell'd to the South — And Tika lived the life he loved. The fresh bone in his mouth. The vultures sat on every tree To watch a dying beast. At night the grey hyenas came And scrambled for the feast. But now green mealie-fields had grown Upon the quarantine — Nothing remain'd to Tika now To show what once had been. OLD TIKA 13 TiKA {loq.) ' Aha ! These fields are green and new, The smell of man is here ! The smell of bone and hide is gone : The breeze is fresh and clear ; The roads are new, I cannot find The tracks I used to tread In coming from the kloof above To seek the newly dead. Who-o-ee ! These hills are all too cold, And I'll go back again — Back to the warm dry- river beds, To the bush-veld and the plain. Tika is cold (too cold — too cold This bitter East wind blows ! ) And he'll go back to the warmer North Where the great Zambesi flows.' Gasping in fear at a passing mouse, grasping a a whiten'd bone ; Splashes of yellow on dirty grey ; evil and sullen and lone ; Craning his head from side to side ; drooping his nose to the scent ; Back by a half-forgotten path, the old hyena went. . . . (Published in the South African Magazine, December 1906.) 14 THE PUFF-ADDER THE PUFF-ADDER Here where the grey rhenoster clothes the hill, Drowsing beside a boulder in the sun, Slumbrous-inert, so gloomy and so still, On the warm steep where aimless sheep- paths run, A short thick length of chevron-pattern'd skin, A wide flat head so lazy on the sand. Unblinking eyes that warn of power within. Lies he, — ^the limbless terror of the land. He is the ablest specialist in death, — This gleam of living velvet — and in this He finds his pride ; yet, with presaging breath. He warns the unwary footstep with a hiss. Go, then, and live. Remain, and in a flash The fangs have found their victim, and the stark Strong hand of death with instant awful lash Hath struck thee, choking, to the utter dark. Sober and thoughtful, passionless he lies Dreaming strange dreams that are not ours to know. While the sun wanders though unclouded skies. And insects, chirping round him, come and go; Unmov'd, unvex'd by hatred or desire. Calm in resistless power he disdains The fury-blinded ringhals' insane ire, And rests impassive till the sunlight wanes. THE SNIPER 15 THE SNIPER A brown felt hat, a khaki rag, glint of a rusted gun; Rock of the rock It lay upon, blended by wind and sun. A thousand feet and more below upon the open plain The temple of Its heart had stood, the palace and the fane (The little white-wash'd homestead, the peach trees, and the well) Now black, alas ! and rooted up — dumb tongue that could but tell A thousand tents had grown thereby, eight thousand men had sworn It should no longer guard that home, the home where It was born. A brown felt hat, a khaki rag, glint of a rusted gun; Earth of the earth It lay upon, blended by wind and sun ; Now calm the eyes that once so fierce had scann'd that alien scene The calm-brow'd Dead looks up to God beneath the sky serene. {South African Magazine, August 1906.) 16 THE MASON THE MASON Rusapi Bridge, November 1898. (Clad in breeches of dungaree, and the wraith of an old blue shirt ; Plying his heavy hammer, careless of dust and dirt ; ' From the first pale silver of early dawn — no part of the day he shirks — Till the sun sinks down in a flare of gold, the Italian mason works.) Chip, chip. He works for England now, good gold the English pay For work well known, and work well done, and work done all the day ; They reck no price for road or rail, no weight in cost they feel, That hoop the staves of Empire with double hoops of steel. Chip, chip. The pillared cuttings, the dusty banks are made. And, coming from the Southward, the heavy lines are laid. E'en now the nosing rail-head creeps past and down the ridge To take the deviation that waits the finished bridge. THE MASON 17 Chip, chip. The mottled granite rings crisp and hard and keen ; Too long it slept, too long it kept the place where it had been (Back of a lone and shaggy kop where fig and buckhorn grow), And took no place in the reckless pace that the restless White Men go. Chip, chip. The block is finish'd, with sym- metry, size, and face. And the mason sees his handiwork pass to its destined place ; The singing Sennas sling the block, — his work on it is done . . . And he turns his thought and hammer to new and unshaped stone. (Published in the South African Magazine, January 1907.) 18 THE PIONEER THE PIONEER A little mound on the mountain, a little cross in the clay, And wheel-spoor filling with water where the wagons turn'd away ; A trampled break in the long grass where the cattle were inspann'd, And the Pioneer has wander'd to look for his newer land. The clouds still hung on the skyline, the grass still bent with the rain, When the crows came back to the outspan to peck for wasted grain. And a jackal tripp'd to the clearing to nuzzle, and tremble, and peer, And to scratch, 'tween whiles of waiting, the tomb of the Pioneer. Only a jackal anigh him in the bed where he is laid, And six lone feet of the highveld by the road that he had made For the feet of the coming peoples, far back and so long ago, — Yet they curs'd his road for an ape-track . . . Ah, brother, they did not know ! THE PIONEER 19 He was the bravest among them, he was the pick of the crowd, Dauntless, and frugal, and cunning; tireless, blooded, and proud. But he gave his pride to his people, and he spill'd his blood for the land, And he alter'd, and alter'd, and alter'd, — and they could not understand. . . . He was the first man to venture, he was the first man to find ! Trusting his life to his rifle, groping ahead in the blind ! Seeking new lands for his people ! — ^This is the end of the day, A little mound on the mountain, a little cross in the clay ; A hungry jackal above him, a sombre flock of grows, A trampled break on the highveld where the sour hill-grass grows. And six lone feet in the bleakness where the weeping hill-winds sough. For his work is done and accomplish'd, and — he is not wanted now. c 2 20 THE PIONEER This is the end of his labour, this is the end of his play : — Fresh wheel-spoor, filling with water, where the wagons turn'd away ; Cold sleep on the sodden upland that he was the first to find, And never a voice to mourn him, but the voice of the wet hill-wind. A little brown in the greenness, an empty tin by the trail, Smoke-wreaths sinking to leeward as the dying fires fail ; Pattering paws above him, and hungry eyes that peer, Is the end of a gallant venture ; the pay of the Pioneer. THE AFRIKANDER WOMAN ' 21 SONG OF THE AFRIKANDER WOMAN Why do you stand there at the gate, Out there where the roadway goes ? Is it me you watch under the rim of your hat, Me, or the rose ? There you stand by your cart. And you look at the rose, not me, For I am very old. But the bloom of the rose is the light of my eyes, And the root of the rose my he'art. Here died he by the threshold, (Piet, Piet, how young were we ! ) But they drank his blood with their assegais, And left the house so cold — And desolate unto me. . . . This homestead and the land Left desolate unto me. But his blood broke out in the sand In this rose that never dies ; This rose in the burning sand. 22 THE AFRIKANDER WOMAN The dew on the leaves of the rose ? — They are tears that never dry, The thorns on the stem of the rose ? — They are hate that waits that hand — The hand that slew my man, — God shall not pass it by ! Nothing shall hinder, nothing let ! God knows the road by which he goes, And God shall not forget ! God shall remember yet The tears that never dry, And the hundred men to one That knew the way to die. . . . I talk and I talk out here in the sun, Where the dusty roadway goes. With the stranger there with his cart. Who stops to see the rose — I, who have seen the assegais. . . . While the red rose burns with the light of my eyes, And the rose-roots grope in my heart. Why do you stand there at the gate, Out there where the roadway goes ? Is it me you watch under the rim of your hat ? Not so, but the rose. THE PLOUGHMAN 23 THE PLOUGHMAN Vat, jelle ; vat, alle ! Mak trek, yo ' schelms ! Kwaimann, Kleinbooi, Zwartpens — mak trek ! Ho, ho, yo ' skilpaats, will you sleep ? The chain is taut — mak trek ! The grass is dead on the brown veld, The leaves brown on the tree. But spring will come, and rain will come And bring green food for ye — Mak trek ! The good green grass for ye. Ho, ho, the share-blades love the earth. The earth smell in the wind ; The veld ahead, the sky ahead. And the plough'd lands behind — Mak trek ! The rich red land behind. The gang-plough loves the road we go, He knows the talking under soil ; You know above, the talk above That brings the rain to crown our toil— Mak trek, mak go ! To crown our toil. 24 THE PLOUGHMAN Your strength wet-drawn by blazing sky Ploughs under, as the shares go through ? Children, wherefore complain ? For I Have plough'd my heart in, too — Ja, Gott ! I plough my heart in, too. Vat, alle kerels — vat ! Mak go, you schelms, go ! Rooimann, Witbless, Zwartkop — mak trek ! Ho, ho, verdomdes, do you doze ? The chain is taut — mak trek ! UMFETI, THE WITCH DOCTOR 25 UMFETI, THE WITCH DOCTOR Here, where the gnona bask But fifty yards away, Under a wither'd palm Where children never play — Sacred to him alone. This strip of baking land — 'Feti, the Witch Doctor, Sits on the sand. Here where the lizards climb Over his shrunken limbs. Kindly the great sun shines, Kindly the great sun dims Thoughts of the sombre past, Thoughts of the horrors done ; 'Feti, the Witch Doctor, Nods in the sun. High in the depthless blue The circling vultures wheel, Over the burning sand Their silent shadows steal — Over the aged man Silent a shadow flits : ' Feti, the Witch Doctor, Sleeps where he sits. ' Gnona, ' crocodiles. 26 UMFETI, THE WITCH DOCTOR Utter the silence reigns, The lazy lizards sleep, Even the fishes doze Down in the river's deep. — Back to the wither'd palm, — Chin on his sunken chest : 'Feti the Witch Doctor, Dreams in his rest. The magic bones have slipp'd Out of the shrivell'd hand Down to the magic bag Propp'd in the shimmering sand ; But all his rest has gone, And all forgetting fled : 'Feti, the Witch Doctor, Speaks with the Dead. Out of the writhing void. Out of the creeping dark There comes the form of her . . That is he speaking — hark ! (Blacker the darkness grows. Thicker the shadows lie,) 'Umfeti, Witch Doctor, Jiwa must die.' UMFETI, THE WITCH DOCTOR 27 Jiwa ! His secret love, Child of the mighty King ! Never! Imambo! . . . but Grimly the echoes ring, Echo on echo wails Mockingly monotone, Mocking the Witch Doctor : ' King, it is done.' Down to the river's brink Go girls to fetch water, Stop they at sight of him The father of slaughter. Stop with averted eyes. Tremble and curtsey deep ; Tremble at sight of him Sitting asleep. He is the touch of death, He is the fear'd of all. Chiefs shake at sight of him. And the warriors tall Shuffle uneasily — Fearing the eyes that pierce, Fearing the Witch Docor, 'Feti the fierce. 28 UMFETI, THE WITCH DOCTOR Not so in days gone by : He was the healer then, A friend to the aihng, Belov'd of the children, Father of fatherless, And the hater of blood — 'Feti, the kind doctor, 'Feti, the good. Sudden the silence breaks, The waken'd lizards fly. For, gasping with terror. He awakes with a cry. Ha ! Have the spirits gone Back to the sombre past Leaving him living yet — Yet to this last ? Over the burning sand. Into the flaming white, Shaking with hoary age, Blinking before the light : Mutt'ring with trembling lips. And a blot on the day : 'Feti, the Witch Doctor, Shuffles away. THE SMOKER OF IMBAINJE 29 THE SMOKER OF IMBAINJE ' And Goro was his nephew. . . . Therefore Chibema Mbainje slew the maiden Kaseka, his wife.' I Dzua the Sun is dead, Mwoto the Flaitie burns low, The shadows come and go, And the rats fight overhead And shriek in the soot-hung thatch . . . The Hands are on the latch . . . Ha ! I am not alone . . . Outside the Dead are free— They squeak, the Dead ; and the Dead wait for me ; They whisper through the cracks, their sly hands scratch The daga ; and they moan ! Let them remain. And I will join them soon. Without, they have the moon ; Without, they have the rain — Ha ! But they hate the rain ! (I hate it too ;) — more that my days are few — Ha ! When my day is done I shall not see the sun Again. . . . ' Imbainje,' a weed smoked by natives of South Africa as a drug ; called ' daga ' in Cape Colony. ' Daga,' wall-clay, not to be confused with 'imbainje.' 30 THE SMOKER OF IMBAINJE II My calabash — ^the Pipe. My Pipe ! Where is my pipe of clay ? Magonda ! Have they stol'n . . . ? 'Tis here behind the ngoma — nay . . . 'Tis gone ! — Nephew, thy time is ripe — Goro, thou dog ! thy sun has shone And has sunk down for ever from the sky If thou hast hidden't away ! My stricken limbs are swoll'n With long disease, but, Nephew, thou shalt die If thou hast stol'n . . . Ha ! it is here — My Pipe ! My Child — thou knowest not Age, nor Fear . . . The kraal, night-hidden, sleeps ; The hill- rain weeps Along the sodden slopes. But, Pipe, we know Dry paths beyond the Distance ... Let us go As we have gone before. The ghost-hands cannot hold us any more . . . We go, Imbainje, thou and I — but hark ! How loud they chatter in the seething dark. . . . Horwe ! Horwe ! Horwe ! Ha, the Weed Catches the windpipe, wakes the cough, but stirs The blood within the vein, and blurs The Hunger and the Need. ' Ngoma,' native drum. THE SMOKER OF IMBAINJE 31 And here ... Be still, thou Goat ; art thou afraid of me ? Dost fear ? Saw'st thou Kaseka die ... ? I slew her swiftly ... as I may slay thee Unless thou stopp'st thy cry ! W'na haa inyi, Goat ? Thy eyes stare wide — Beware ! Hokoyo ! for I watch thy throat — Remember how she died ! Ill Mad ? Am I mad ? I care not ; but I see Askew. The light is bad. — Goro, the dog, my nephew, He— Chimbadi ! I would slay him if I knew. Kaseka, my wife, she knew . . . But the light of my life is dead. — Dzua the Sun is dead ; Mwoto the Flame sinks low ; The shadows stagger and go ; And the rats shriek overhead — Ha ! I am drunk with smoke Ha ! I have smash'd the Pipe 32 THE SMOKER OF IMBAINJE Nephew, thy time is ripe To deal thy waited stroke — To sheath thy hungry knife. Kaseka, I hear thee call — There with the ghosts by the wall . . . Kaseka ! My wife . . . Goro, the dog, howls out in the rain, But I hold thee, wife, in my arms again. THE SONG-MAKER 33 THE SONG-MAKER Now tell me where dwell all thy songs — beneath thy necklace fine ? Thy necklace with its four brave rows, or in that heart of thine ? — I answer — Here dwell all the songs, within this heart of mine. Helene Vacaresco. Alone in the hot sun, On the hot sand in the sun, Alone at the edge of the kraal, In the dust of the dance-ground Near the raised tobacco patch ; — The women have gone to the fields, The children have gone to play, And the blind Maker of Songs Sits here, alone, all day. The dogs sniff'd him and went. The kraal-rats peer and go, So very still he sits Day long, and moon to moon. His hands slack on the sand ; — And he was just the same, This maker of tribal songs. Before the White Men came. 34 THE SONG-MAKER His was the song that woke The war that brought their power ; The impi went with song — Came back with song by night, So many years ago, With plunder every one ; Leaving among the dead, Ganero, his only son. And here, all day, he sits. On the hot sand in the sun ; The children wonder if he sleeps, And the flies think him dead, The dogs smell him and go ; — But to him is bare the lore Of the Threshing and the Dancing Songs, And the Chant that leads to War. THE BASTARD 35 THE BASTARD Neither the one nor the other, neither the White nor the Black, By the side of the dusty wagon outspanned on the highveld track. Alone by the dung-fed fire where the sad-voiced night- jars wheel, Goliat Witbooi the half-caste partakes of his evening meal. Not clear is the path of the Black man, not easy the road of the White, But the trail of the man who is neither is wanting all glimmer of light, — The man who is both, but is neither ; the sport of sudden fire Of a woman who saw not the meaning and a man who was dull'd by desire. At odds with God in His heaven, at sixes and sevens with man, The colour showing beneath the white, the white beneath the tan, Despised and distrusted by White and by Black ; wifeless, childless, and lone — Father, how could you have done it ! O Mother, you might have known .... d2 36 THE BASTARD Not blind to the aching pity, but dumb for the hot excuse, He would hide the shame of his being in a passion of wild abuse From those whose stare is an insult, from those who will slam the door On the shame that is his and yet is not, for the wrong of the Two Before. Embitter'd, unletter'd, unloving ; homeless, nameless, forlorn ; Doomed by a fact that he cannot mend — by the fact that he was born — Drinking his beaker of coffee, and eating his dole of bread, Well might he pray for the end to be near and wish that he were dead. * But no. For hope is still present, and hope is a father to all. And the long road stretches to Northward — and he hears the long road call — And the Veld is a kindly mother, the bullocks doze at the chain, Umfaan will return by morning, and he will trek on again. THE BASTARD 37 Yea, good is the road to the Northward, and good is the light of the sun, And good is a pipe in the evening when the long day's trek is done — When the bullocks browse in the valley and the moon comes over the kop, And the voorlooper makes the cookies, and Witbooi drinks his dop ; And the fire lights up the wagon, and the smoke goes by with the breeze, And he dreams of the good North hunting — old camps beneath the trees In the timber'd low-veld country where the game is as thick as stock. With never a White Man to scorn him and never a Black Man to mock. Yea, good is the road to the Northward through the sun-warmed winter days When the fine dust blows to leeward and the track leads round the vleis, To sit on the fore-part locker and to drone to the warm spent wind The chant of the New before one and the dirge of the Old, behind. 38 THE BASTARD Song of the home that is moving past kopje and valley and plain — Song of the very simple things : the sun and the wind and the rain And the warm brown earth beneath one and the sky where the vultures soar — With only the Bad behind one and only the Good before. Neither the one nor the other, neither the White nor the Black, By the side of the dusty wagon outspann'd on the highveld track, Wrapp'd in a coloured blanket, and dreaming of his desire Lies Goliat Witbooi, the half-caste, asleep before the fire. EVENING 39 EVENING Draw in, draw in ! 'Tis time to camp once more. Pumura, boys, and get the axe to work ; Throw down the loads ; we 've many miles to win, And many lie behind us— many score ! Build high the scarem ; in the darkness lurk Lions and leopards that the night sets free — Come, tshetcha ! pile the guns against the tree. II The red sun sinks — Blood-red the sun goes down ; And slowly from the East the cloth of day Is roll'd to Westward ; and ail-palely winks A weak-eyed constellation ; and the gown — Night's purple gown star-spangled — hides away Blue-swamp'd, all detail on the distant peak And shadows reign — deep shades that almost speak. ' Pumura,' put down the loads. ' Scarem,' circle of tree-trunks to keep out lions. ' Tshetcha,' be quick. 40 EVENING III But in the West Great lights are still alive ; Vast bars of gold spread fan-like to the sky, And gold and crimson islands float at rest On azure seas ; a trail of wild-ducks dive Dark-fading to the sky-line ; and the eye Glorying a minute that the soul may feed, Again turns earthward to the moment's need. IV The camp is made Water and fuel sought ; Cheerly the fires blaze, the billy boils, And skoff is soon prepared, the blankets laid On fragrant grass whose warmth and scent is caught From sun and veld. At peace are we ; our toils Are unremembered. Pipe of Briar- Wood, Yield thy delight ; thou and all things are good. MIDNIGHT 41 MIDNIGHT Ha, it is dark ! How silent is the night ; How icy, huge, and distant is the sky, But hark . . . No organ knows a thunder like the flight Of blood, heart-driven, roaring, surging by When utter silence reigns, and boundless Space, Mocking the finite systems, holds its place. II Ha, it is cold ! The camp is wrapp'd in sleep : I am as though no life had ever been — A formless fragment, on a planet roU'd Though trackless void, and whirling to the deep Of unguess'd distance where no God is seen Nor aught but hurtling chaos, and grey fear Waits, laughing with the blankness of despair. 42 MIDNIGHT III What are they all — These systems and these suns ? Are they but molecules of which the whole Makes one small atom ? But— do sparrows fall And catch their Maker's eye ? The last dust runs But thinly through the Glass — ^the aeons roll And grind the stars to vapour — and shall we — Atoms that clothe an atom ! — live to Be ... . IV A poor jest, God ; A zestless jest indeed ! ... To make, abandon, and to mock a brain With its own vigour, that the hiding sod Shall end the power : that the fruitless weed Shall drink the glory : and the beating rain Wash into clay the mind (nigh clean of sin) That made a ' Heaven,' placing ' God ' therein ! V I can say more . . . What, Vickie, you awake ? And cold ? Come, dog, and sit beside the blaze ; I, too, am cold — colder for barren lore And aimless dreams. Sit here, and we will make Us warm against the night-time and the gaze Of million icy stars^Why brood in vain ? — And presently to bed, and sleep, again. DAWN 43 DAWN Dark-shadow'd Dawn ; Grey fingers in the East ; Pale hands that brush the webs of night away. Burnt blades of grass by faintest breeze are borne Across the clearing. Over on the vlei The beast Night-known, the jackal, greets the approaching day. II The fires burn low ; The Kaffirs, still asleep. Lie huddled close together ; through the trees Two reed buck whistle, and like shadows go Silent and swift ; a pair of night- jars sweep Above the camp on soundless wings ; the breeze, Born of the morning, wafts the white ash free And spills the night-dew from the laden tree. 44 DAWN III The dawn-wind dies ; A shivering Senna wakes ; The stars, still bright, are paling in the blue — A depthless violet blue. The waking skies Beyond Urungwi Peak in hundred flakes Of crimson silver-tipped make clear the view Of purple distant ranges and brown plain : The dark is gone and light has come again. IV I will arise ; The wearied night is spent, The golden morning sings along the world — Sing thou, my soul, and greet the roseate skies ; Thou art undaunted though thy strength is blent With utter weakness, and thy wings are furl'd. — Though thou art bonded to a shell of clay, Awake, my soul, and hail the glorious day ! FEAR 45 FEAR Deep-bosomed night, and all-pervading dark, Long distances immeasurably lone, Still waters glancing starlight, and the stone White face of mountains blindly to the blue Up-yearning grimly ... as the valleys hark. Fear-centred, mighty-shadow'd, drear and deep Between the timber'd ranges, where they keep The corners of the grass-flats, wet with dew. 11 No sleep for you, dark ranges, nor for me ; No rest, O valleys, for your teeming heart ; From out tumultuous dreamings do we start Fear-gasping to the coldness of the night ; (We are as one,) — waiting for what Will Be . . . We are as one in terror ; while the bright White stars stare mocking, though they cannot light The vast unknpwledge of Eternity. 46 FEAR III Wet waiting plains that are but half-awake, (Asleep with weariness, awake with fear,) The weight of thousands on your breast you bear. Fear-haunted, silent thousands, dumb and shy. Soft-footed, stealing under bush and brake, Wide-nostrill'd, nervous, staring in the gloom Where food and life await them, or where loom The yellow muzzles by the which they die ; IV (The crouching muscle blended with the shades. Intangible and terrible, alive, And irresistible . . . ) Brown plains, you strive To keep your horror hidden, as I do ; Your night-dews wash the blood drops from the blades Of broken grass imperfectly ; the stains Are there ; the fear, though hidden, yet remains. Yea, though we laugh, we are the same, we two. Through outer emptiness the planets roll Weaving a threadless pattern in the skies — That cloth of measureless infinities. Whose utter hugeness baffles all desire To probe beyond sight's limit, though the soul Should soar beyond the systems to a shore Where neither fear nor sorrow evermore Shall rob the spirit of its glorious fire. FEAR 47 VI Beyond all comprehension swing the suns, (Mere needle-points by distance) — but the tale Renews its dull monotony : we wail ' Ah God, ah God, show us what Will Befall ! The darkness and the mystery that stuns, Cold-handed, holds us terror-bound ; we writhe At moments, horror-conquer'd — rise and strive. Sob- choked, to curse the riddle of it all ! ' VII Happy is he who fears but Death alone ; His path is plain with power, for he goes Guarded and carefully by ways he knows, With certain footsteps — easy to be brave ! But there are others who may not atone — Not find fulfilment, peace nor any hope, But only further terror, by the slope That drags dumb tongues beyond the restless grave. VIII Cold whispering night; and shrouding velvet dark ; Great distances unmeasured and alone ; Deep waters, splash'd with starlight ; and the stone 48 FEAR Gray face of krantzes staring at the blue In half derision . . . while the valleys hark Awe-silenced, soaked in shadows, where they keep »■ Ill-hid the ranges' horror ; whiles they weep Dank hill-streams to the grass'd plains, wet with dew. IX Th' umsasas trace a network on the sky. The cold stars glitter in the icy air From out unclouded deepness ; and the drear Hyena howls his load of savage shame To th' uncaring wilderness ; — while I, Sitting upon my blankets by the fire. Rake, like the ashes of my lost desire. The dying embers of the perish'd flame. 1st August 1907. TO R. St. C. T. 49 TO R. St. C. T. O valiant-hearted in an alien land ! Stubborn, sincere, and frugal as thou art ; Earning thy living with thy brain and hand, Yet finding time to share thy dauntless heart With all who need. Thy culture with the uncultured ; Sowing seed Whereof the harvest is not thine. Thy works Are winged, and travel land and brine A light where darkness lurks : — Thy strength, (Which, thou wouldst say, is given from above,) Go forth in sober gladness, till at length It bring the measure of thy faith and love ! 50 THE FIRST-FRUITS THE FIRST-FRUITS A few stones in the grass, A few shards in the green, And broken chips of glass, And rusted iron seen All cover'd by creeper and shrouded in sand. Where the home of man has been. Soon to the hiding waste, Swift to the utter wild. Sudden in shamed haste Like a shy maid beguil'd. The work of the years fades back, as fades to the sea The work of a little child. The thatch goes whence it came, The bricks melt to the soil. And, in the winter flame. The woodwork flares like oil ; And the jealous Veld- Mother draws back to her breast This babe of the years of toil. THE FIRST-FRUITS 51 Roof, foundation, and wall Give to the beating rain ; Cornlands, garden, and kraal Yield, where the fight is vain ; And man's effort, man's hope, and the mark of his hand Goes back to the veld again. Only the veld remains ; The weaving grasses span Green, where the green contains The ruin'd work of man ; Scarce a torrent-wash'd rut on the hillside to show Where the year-worn roadways ran. E2 52 CLOSED DOWN CLOSED DOWN Hiding and brooding; half-asleep in a break in the timber'd range ; Dreaming and dreaming the live-long day ; silent, forgotten, and strange ; Drawing a mantle of weeds and grass, and of creepers from the wood ; Slowly returning to Mother Earth, the rusting battery stood. The flaming suns pass'd overhead. The icy nights went by ; Timber and steel and dump and drain Had braved the open sky ; And, in the endless silences. The battery, sore afraid, Yearn'd for the friendly white men And the master, who had made. The daga peeled from the unused walls. The thatch drew from the laths ; Week by week the stealthy wild Stole and re-cover'd the paths. The roads were closed by tangled scrub. The sheds by matted weed, And the master's house lean'd all awry And the master took no heed. ' Daga,' clay used for walls. CLOSED DOWN 53 No more the singing Shangaan boys Gripp'd the ant-eaten hafts Of mining hammers, but loosen'd earth Slipp'd thundering down the shafts. Where — ^where,are ye, my masters, where? The^silent battery yearn'd ; The nesting mice are housing now Where once the furnace burn'd ! They have forgotten — gone and forgotten, The sighing breeze replied ; O, turn thou then to the friendly veld, — Turn thou, forget, and hide .... Breathless and brooding ; half asleep in a break in the dreaming grove ; Almost forgetting the older days when the strenuous White Men strove ; Borrowing mantle of fern and moss, and of creeper from the wood, Slowly returning to Mother Earth, the rusting battery stood. (South African Magazine, July 1906.) 54 TO THE GROWER OF MEALIES TO THE GROWER OF MEALIES AT RUSAPI Beyond the orbit of the outmost star, Beyond the dreams of prophet and of priest, Beyond the gateway of the golden East, And higher yet than God and angels are — Into the place where gods and worlds are born. Through starless space and lightless distance went My heart's desire. And now I find content A cup of water and an ear of corn. Through pathless void and waste of formless fears, Through seething nothing and through voiceless sound I sought my vision, but I ever found No gleam of sunshine in the rain of tears. I passed beyond the limit of desire. Where echoes of the whirling systems cease ; I found my sign, and I went back in peace And cook'd a mealie by the evening fire ; TO THE GROWER OF MEALIES 55 I drew refreshment from the rock-rimm'd stream, I built my bed of grass upon the sand, And turn'd to earth the labour of my hand. And spent in toil the outcome of my dream. The mealies rustle as the breeze goes West, The goats come homeward and the flat-tail 'd sheep Red-wash'd by sunset ; I shall eat and sleep. The flesh is weary, but the soul at rest. 56 MAGWERE MAGWERE, WHO WAITS WONDERING Among the smooth hills of Manika, Near the edge of the big swamp where cane rats live, Grew Magwere the mealie. The crows who nest on the Peak, And the striped field-mice from underground, And the thin-nosed shrew that dies on footpaths, Had miss'd Magwere when she was sown. Therefore the mealie grew In the moist earth on the swamp edge With many of her sisters ; And threw up gay leaves, yellow-green, That glitter'd brightly in the sunshine. And always laugh 'd when the wind blew, And hsp'd, day long, in the ears of her sisters. And Madongwe, the red locusts. Found not the green leaves of Magwere, Who flourish'd on the swamp edge. MAGWERE 57 Kwagudu, the old wife, with her hoe That was worn blunt-nosed with use, Weeded all day the fields of her husband, And hoed the weeds from the roots of Magwere. And Wanaka, the young mother. Left her baby in the shade of Magwere, While she pick'd mowa for the pot. And the fat baby laugh'd greatly At the green leaves that waved so, — So gaily in the cool wind That set all the mealies a-rustling. II But Dzua the Sun, who lives beyond the sky line, Laugh'd in the sky, and sent words by the wind. And the Wind whisper'd in the ear of Magwere. ' O Magwere,' the Wind said, 'thus says the Sun : — " Ha, ha, Magwere, by the swamp edge ! Smile now, Magwere, while you can, For the time of harvest is very close. " Then will your flowers die, Magwere, Your brown leaves sing only of death. And your shiny beard will wither and turn brown. ' Mowa, ' a wild spinach of Rhodesia. 58 MAGWERE " Madzua Nipi, or some other maiden, Hot and hard-handed, from the kraal. Will pluck you from your stalk, and tear your sheath -That hides the softness of your golden grain. " What will Madzua Nipi do with you ? Roast you upon the coals, and shred your grains Into her hand, and throw them in her mouth ! " Or will Marumi come, the husbandman. Saying, ' This cob is good,' — and put you by To sleep awhile and wake again in Spring, To blossom gloriously an hundred-fold ? " ' III Magwere answer'd nothing, standing still And very rigid in the mocking sun ; And knew not any answer for the wind. And very dry her leaves grew in the sun. And very brown her stalk, her sheath, and beard ; And all her joy drew back into her heart That swell'd so sorrowful beneath its sheath. THE RED CLOUD 59 THE RED CLOUD Know ye the Red Cloud — Red Cloud of Afric — Endless, unfathom'd, unceasing, borne on the warm wind ; Whelming the corn and fruit-land, farm and rick. With the green veld before it, and the brown veld behind. Green are the mealies, green the fields of corn, Pink hangs the peach-blossom, and white the bloom of the plum. And the garden whispers with things new-born. When swift through the Spring air the scouts of the Red Cloud come. Bright is the day, and rich the wind with flowers — Roses and grenadillas, and woodbine on the wall, And strange wild scent of the mimosa bowers. When, shimm'ring in the sunshine, the flakes of the Red Cloud fall. Millions untold the flakes sink on the green ; Whirring and ever whirring the great Red Cloud goes by Shaking the heavens ; fades the sun unseen And all red fades the smother'd earth, and red the moving sky. 60 THE RED CLOUD Daylong the lisp and whisper of the Cloud ; The whirr, and click, and rustle where the Red Locusts mow ; Shadow'd the earth, and shimmer'd in a shroud Which lifts at length, and all too slowly, as the wing'd flakes go. Behold, the dead ! The blind eye of the land ; The bare earth in the sunshine; the grey stones on the hill ; No leaf on the tree, no bloom on the sand — All brown is the greenness where the Red Cloud had its will. SONG OF THE SOUTH AFRICANS 61 SONG OF THE SOUTH AFRICANS Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us The sweet grey northern lights, where those we love Forget us — or remember us as men Half-savage — but the naked burning sun That hides no fault. Bleached hair, and sun-tanned skin, and wind- swept eyes. We, children of the dustless English fields. Gaze out through dust to Northward, as our ploughs Rip the unmoisten'd earth — The clinging rains, Wherewith the tender shoot may climb to life In lush, deep meadows, here, from awful skies Abysmal and tremendous and withdrawn. Rush shouting down with hail and crash and flame. And sweep our utter effort to sea. Glad in our lot, though poor in heritage. Do we desire full wealth as other men. We shall attain thereto not easily But only by good knowledge, doubly proved. And only by endeavour, thrice put forth, And only by our lives, which we shall give. 62 SONG OF THE SOUTH AFRICANS Not unto us the sweet grey northern lights — The soft north sun that kisses and goes by — But glare, and dust, and turmoil, and the rains That wash the drought-survivors to the sea. Not unto us a fertile heritage. Not any wealth nor comfort idly won. But only this : — A land of toil and stress. Where utter need calls utter effort forth — Until of babe and stripling comes the Man. September 1908. THE NATIVE LABOUR BUREAU 63 THE NATIVE LABOUR BUREAU, UMTALI Dusty with travel they return, And silent with long journeying. In spring, When the first thunderstorms are in the air. And the hot roadways burn, Up the Main Street they come, Bandawi, Tshangaan, Senna ; The labourers, going home. Back from the Rand are they. Much alter'd in their dress ; The dignity of labour leaves its mark. And contact with the world has knock'd away A deal of tribal corners ; — strangely less The signs by which we knew them. But the spark Of old-time recognition, glowing weak, Flares up full brightly when they speak. I The Mabandawi Master, we have return'd. Hard was the work, the food was very bad ; Our masters were unkind, and would not hear Our hymns and psalms. 64 THE NATIVE LABOUR BUREAU From Bulawayo came we by the paths, Hoping to save some money by the same ; But food was very dear. Christo has brought His children pretty safely here — but yet Aaron and Matthew died upon the way. Here is their wealth ; master, make note of it. That we may show their brethren in Blantyre Lest that they say we murder'd them to steal. Now stamp our passes, master, let us go. Johannisber will never see us more. And we will turn our weary footsteps North. II The Matshangaana Inkoos ! Inkoos, we have come back. By train we came, and very swift the route. I-jonnisiberg is very full of wealth ; Wilhelm and Winkel drew five pounds apiece. And every month they drew it. In those mines They drill deep holes ; dumblain, where it is hot. Good were the captains, and the food was good ; Next year we come again, if thou wilt send. Now let us seek Matshanga, and the South. Inkoos ! ' Dumblain,' corruption of ' down below ' in the min THE NATIVE LABOUR BUREAU 65 III The Masenna Sawona, Senhor ! We have come again ; From Jonnisberi and the mines we come. Wa! we have work'd, and made much money, we. Above the mines we work'd — not down below ! Shitofo is our labour, not those holes They blast with dynamite ! Some have not come ? We left them sleeping in the sand and mud ; The doctors gave them milk when they were ill — Antonio, Rapoza, and the rest — That kill'd them. Had they come with us again They might have died of drink, ha ! ha ! Or died chifebi-mad. Their time was come — Mayhap, Machalimann have eaten them ! But what care we — ha ! ha ! Kwa mudzi kwango would we go, Senhor, Home to the East — but hold, there is a man Who works down-street that owes me two and six. At playing cards he lost it ; — May we have A pass for seven days ? Not so ? Senhor, adio. With winter we return. ' Shitofo,' a corruption of ' stuff,' i.e. loose earth, ' Machalimann,' a corruption of Chinamen. ' Kwa mudzi kwango,' to our home. 66 BURIAL BURIAL Among the Manyika, a dead infant is buried by its Mother without a ceremony. Yowe, yowe, mwanango duku ! I bury you here by the edge of the lands. Under the scrub and the weeds I bury you, Here in the clay where the bracken grows. Here on the hill the wind blows cold, And the creepers are wet with the driving mist. The grain- huts stand like ghosts in the mist, And the water drips from their sodden thatch. And the rain-drops drip in the forest yonder When the hill-wind shakes the heavy boughs. Alas ! I am old, and you are the last — Mwanango, the last of me, here on the hillside. The dust where you play'd by the edge of the kraal Is sodden with rain, and is trodden to mud. BURIAL 67 The hoe that I use to fashion your dweUing Is caked with the earth that is taking you from me. Where now is Dzua who ripes the rukweza ? And where now are you, O mwanango kaduku ? Alas ! Alas ! My little child ! I bury you here by the edge of the lands. F 2 68 NAMING SONG OF KUSAWA AFA NAMING SONG OF KUSAWA AFA Shlanza ! Shknza ! — Thus was I named, Inkoos. ' Shlanza, ' they shouted, the men of Matshanga. Swift rose my mother and fled to the reed-door — Tore at the reeds, and behold ! she was slaughter'd — Swiftly she died And they shouted with laughter. Then rose my father, — Grey Guru, my father. And stumbled, wide-eyed, in the time of his waking ; Yea, stumbled and swore. But the corpse of my mother lay still by the doorway, And the blood of my mother was staining the Hntel. Then shouted grey Guru, old Guru, my father : ' You dogs of Matshanga ! You slay not grey Guru — He dies by his hand ! ' He tore at the thatch : with a brand from the fire He kindled the roofing; and thick were the smoke- wreaths. ' Shlanza,' stab, a war-cry of the Matshangaana. NAMING SONG OF KUSAWA AFA 69 But over the shouting — The shrieks of the slaughter'd — The cries of the Nvomen — The songs of the slayers — Makumbo Rashumba, who waited without, Heard Guru ; and thunder'd : — ' Wait, filth, for thy slaying ! ' And broke the wood-door with the blows of his kerrie. I saw the hide shield and the head of the Tshangaan — White were the plumes of the ostrich that deck'd it. Makumbo Rashumba came cursing and choking ; For thick was the smoke, and the whirl of the fire Lick'd red at the plumes on the head of the Slit- ear. But Guru was dead. In the flare of the fire I saw the red blood on the throat of my father. I scream'd in my horror, and hurl'd at the Tshangaan A beer-pot that lay on the ridge of the clay-shelf. ' Makumbo Rusbumba, ' limbs of a lion. 70 NAMING SONG OF KUSAWA AFA Makumbo Rashumba loud-laugh'd as he seiz'd me : ' Wnasawa kuafa, heh ? Mwana ka Swina !' And dragg'd me outside — and the flare of the village Went red to the sky, and the flame of the village Glared white on the timber, and white in the darkness The smoke of the kaias whirl'd out on the night- wind. And huddled together the women were moaning, The cattle were lowing with fear of the fires And fear of the shouting, and groans of the dying, And hot was the reek of the dead who were assegaied, (Thickly they lay in the light of the fires ! ) And down at the dance-ground the huts of Majaha Were burning ; and out on the dance-ground the Slit-ears Had dragg'd the big drums and the best of the maidens ; And, beating the war-drums, the youth of the impi Were starting a dance and a chant of Matshanga ; And seeing Rashumba they shouted with laughter — ' Wnasawa knafa, &c.,' you are afraid to die, eh ? Child of the Swina. NAMING SONG OF KUSAWA AFA 71 For 'Kumbo Rashumba was greatest among them — (A man of great strength, with the voice of a Hon) ' Kazi feni ! ' they shouted, ' Makumbo Makuru ! Rashumba ya ishla imwana ka Swina ! ' But 'Kumbo Rashumba said : — ' Weajry of women j I live for the blood-smell ; and now for my hunting I take me a boy from the kraal of the Swina — A boy who is frighten'd to die by the kerrie — A boy who will cook for Makumbo Rashumba. ' And thus was I named By the men of Matshanga, Who called me Kusawa — Kusawa the Frighten'd. But out of the dust and the blood of their hunting I came on the soul of my father, grey Guru, And learnt at the hand of Makumbo Rashumba, Till I was a captain — As brave as the bravest — And ravaged Manika and slew the Maswina, And looted Makoni — a land full of women — Till out of the South, in the strength of their rifles. The White Men advanc'd, and their peace was establish 'd. 72 LOVE SONG OF KUSAWA AFA LOVE SONG OF KUSAWA AFA Only one wife, Inkoos ? Ha, it is strange. But Kusawa has known it ; he also had one. Makumbo Rashumba went trading for cattle To the kraal of Mudzingwa ; And I, too, went with him. Mudzingwa the Bastard — The blood of Wazulu Was hot in his veins, and we traded with money ; For Makumbo, my father, had been to the mines. To the kraal of Mudzingwa, Four days from Matshanga, We came, and we slept, and we talked with Mudzingwa ; On the morrow we talk'd ; but I wearied of barter And left the old men with their beer at the fig tree. I left the old men, .And I went to the river ; And there in the river the maidens were bathing. For hot was the day, and the rains were approaching. LOVE SONG OF KUSAWA AFA 73 I laugh'd to myself, And I stalk'd the young damsels ; With shield and with assegai, laughing I stalk'd them Through reed-beds and rushes, By boulder and ant-heap, Until I had come to the edge of the pool. Ha ! Ha ! They were frighten'd — The maidens were frighten'd. And fled from the shield and the spear of Kusawa, And fled from his shout and the toss of his feathers ; But one of the maidens sat down by the pool-edge. Too frighten'd to fly — On the sand by the margin — The sand that was hot with the sun of the morning. And buried her face in her hands — and Kusawa Said, ' Damsel, you fear not the spears of Matshanga ? ' But Dapuwa said nothing — Said nothing, too frighten'd To speak or to look ; And her shoulders were shining — Were shining with water ; With water that dripp'd to the sand in the sunshine. 74 LOVE SONG OF KUSAWA AFA Her skin was aglow Like the copper of bangles ; Her hair was agleam with the wet of the river, And sparkled and shone as the sun fell upon it ; And lo ! I was moved with a love for this damsel. And lo, I was mad ! For I went to Rashumba That night, and I said : ' O my father, this morning I came on the best of the maids of Mudzingwa — The best and the only of all that Kusawa Has seen and desired of daughters of Wanu.' On the morrow, Rashumba Said : ' Which is she, boy ? ' And I show'd him Dapuwa The child of Mudzingwa — Dapuwa the best of the children of Wanu. Makumbo Rashumba then shouted with laughter, ' Bah, boy, she 's a baby ! ' he said ; ' Be you careful, The food of Mudzingwa is poison'd ; the baby Is thin and unform'd ; let us back to Matshanga And we will discover a damsel of substance.' And thus we returned ; But the rains were not over When two of the cattle that came from Mudzingwa Were dead of disease ; and Makumbo Rashumba Was wroth at their loss. LOVE SONG OF KUSAWA AFA 75 And Makumbo Rashumba went down to the Sabi To Tshakayengeni, the chief on the river. They held an indaba — Much talk and much drinking ; Two moons did they talk, till the plumes of an impi Were gather'd together ; and Tshakayengeni, The chief with one eye, and Makumbo Rashumba, The greatest of fighters, and Wariwangani, The half-bred Maswina, commanded the impi ; And North did we go, till we came, in the darkness. Three days from Matshanga — for swiftly we travell'd — To the hills and the kraal of Mudzingwa the Bastard. At night did we come ; And I fear'd, in the darkness, Dapuwa might die by the spears of Matshanga ; Might die, and the heart of Kusawa die with her : For Kusawa was sick for the arms of Dapuwa ; And the love of Dapuwa was more to Kusawa Than drinking or dancing, or looting or hunting — Was more than the lives of a thousand Maswina — Was more than the life of himself, or Rashumba — Of Tshakayengeni, or Wariwangani — For Afa it was who had poison'd the cattle. Those cows of Rashumba That died of disease. ' Maswina, ' the name given by the Matshangaana and Matabele to the non-fighting or agricultural tribes, meaning ' Filth.' 76 LOVE SONG OF KUSAWA AFA And Afa it was Who had whisper'd, ' My father, Mudzingwa, the Bastard, is wealthy in muti — Mudzingwa with magic Has poison'd the cows.' But now, in the darkness, the soldiers were gather'd Surrounding the huts, and alust for the slaughter, With coals hid in bark, and dry grass and dead branches To lighten their slaying and heighten the terror ; And I at the hut of Dapuwa was waiting — Till Tshakayengeni cried, ' Shlanza ! ' And sudden The grass was ablaze, and the roofs of Mudzingwa Aflare in the darkness. Inkoos, it is good — it is good to be fighting ! With blood on the kerries and blood on the assegais — Sobs of the stabb'd and the cries of the wounded — With shouting of Shlanza and roaring of fires The souls of the slaughter'd with songs of Matshanga Go white to the sky in the columns of smoke. On the morrow they told me That Wariwangani, The half-bred Maswina, was slain by Mudzingwa ; ' Muti,' medicine, poison. LOVE SONG OF KUSAWA AFA 11 For he was a man whom the blood of the Slit- ears Had tutor'd in war ; but Makumbo Rashumba Came seeking Mudzingwa Who stood by his hut in a circle of corpses ; And found him, and smote him, and cast on the fire The corpse of Mudzingwa, for killing the cows. But I had not seen it, Nor aught of the fighting ; For I had gone into the hut of Dapuwa. And there I had found her with two of her sisters, And out to the night I had taken the maiden — To the night and the woods on the slope of the ridges. Dapuwa was mine ; She was fairest of maidens, And softest was she of the children of Wanu ; And warm — she was warm — and the winds of the night time Were naught to Kusawa, who slept in her arms ; The darkness was naught when the eyes of Dapuwa Were close to my eyes — but the morning was with us Too soon, and we went to the kraal of Mudzingwa — 78 LOVE SONG OF KUSAWA AFA To the ash that was once call'd the kraal of Mudzingwa — And saw the stiff dead as they smiled in the sunshine, And pass'd to the river and greeted the impi, And camp'd for six days, and return'd to Matshanga. Only one wife, Inkoos ? Ha, it is strange. But Kusawa has known it ; he also had- one. He also had one ; But that one was too few, and the spirit of Afa Forgot the dead past when Dapuwa was younger. Dapuwa is good in the gardens and labours. The mealies and millet grow well at her hand ; Her beer is the best that is boil'd in Matshanga ; Her pots are well-wrought, and her herbs are rich-flavour'd ; Her children are strong, and her temper is good. But— The hut of Kusawa she graces no longer ! DEATH SONG OF KUSAWA AFA 79 DEATH SONG OF KUSAWA AFA Rashumba is dead, Inkoos ; Therefore he comes not To work on the hills with Chikwira Makoma. Chikwira Makoma made question ; I answer'd, ' Makumba Rashumba has gone to the darkness ; And therefore, Inkoos, have I journey'd alone.' To Nyambane we went From the land of Magaza To trade at the coast in the stores of the Banyan. For Umshakawanu, a chief on the high veld. Had given a dance, and Makumbo Rashumba Had gone to drink beer and to help with the harvest ; And Umshakawanu had boasted of purchase Of cloth and of hoes from the stores of Makura At prices far less than the price at Melsetter, Or the store at Chinota of Banga Radai. When the rains had gone over We went to Nyambane, With money to trade in the stores of Makura. We stayed at a kraal near the town of Nyambane, And there was a woman, Insato the Python. ' Makura, ' a corruption of Ma-CooIie, the Indian traders ; the Banyans . ' Banga Radai, ' a knife like this ; a corruption of the name Ballantyne. 80 DEATH SONG OF KUSAWA AFA Her name was Insayo ; But they of Nyambane Had call'd her Insato — Insato we found her ! For she was as strong as the snake of the mountains, Insato, call'd so by the men of the coast-line. Her skin was ashine like the skin of the pjrthon. Her eyes were aglint like the eyes of Insato, Her spirit was wise as the spirit of serpents, And evil she was — Neither father nor mother. Nor brother nor sister had she at Nyambane, Nor husband — but White Man, and Banyan, and Kaffir Knew well, and were fear'd of, this woman Insato. She spoke to Rashumba, ' O child of the mountains, Stay thou at the huts of Insayo ; thy barter Insayo will speed ; for the tongue of Insayo Is wily in barter, and cheating the Banyans.' Rashumba was pleas'd ; And we stay'd with Insato, And danced through the night, drinking wine of the palm trees ; And slept through the day, making merry at night-time With those of Nyambane, the friends of Insato, DEATH SONG OF KUSAWA AFA 81 Who live in the homes of the White Men, and pander Those dark Portuguese who make wives of the Kaffirs. Yea, night after night did we waken the darkness With shouts and with songs and the thunder of dancing. And week after week did we spend with Insato In dancing and revelry, greatest among them. And month after month did we waste in Nyambane, The terror of all ; till Makumbo Rashumba Grew drunken and foolish, and quarrel'd with many. Beginning old songs of the wars of Matshanga ; Insulting those dogs who dwell there by the sea- coast ; And beating the harlots, the friends of Insato ; Till came one Rupia would fight with my father. Makumbo Rashumba was blinded with drinking, And seiz'd this Rupia, and choked him, and slew him — We buried him there in the sand by the sea- shore. I spoke to Makumbo, ' Rashumba, my father. Now let us do barter, and fly for Matshanga ; The death of this dog lies full heavy within me.' 82 DEATH SONG OF KUSAWA AFA Makumbo Rashumba Said, ' Lo, I have squander'd In feasting my wealth at these huts of Insayo. Now let us return to the land of Matshanga.' But Insato the Python Made jest of our going ; ' Come friend,' said Insato, ' we go to Makura To purchase whatever Rashumba desires.' And went they, and purchased, and came in the evening With cloth and with hoes and with beads and with wire ; Full laden they came ; but the wealth of Insato Had purchased the heart of Makumbo Rashumba. That night did they feast Till the heart of Kusawa Was heavy within him. I sat by the fire — out there in the palm trees — And curs'd at their dancing, and curs'd at their drinking Out there in the palm trees. They danced till they wearied ; They drank till they slept, — lying dark in the shadows ; And naked they lay in the gleam of the starlight Like dead ; and I watch'd them. And curs'd by the fire, Till sudden a flash — DEATH SONG OF KUSAWA AFA 83 And a shriek in the darkness — Hoarse cries and wild terror — The flying of women. . . . Then over the dance- ground A Tshangaan, Matsamwa, a son of Umtema, Who also was trading, rush'd past me and shouted, ' Gunyama ! A lion has taken Insato ! ' I rush'd in the dark ; And I heard in the darkness The muffle of oaths, and the voice of my father Cry, ' Shumba, my brother ! O brother, Gunyama, Die now at the hands of Makumbo Rashumba ! ' Matsamwa came back with his shield and his kerrie. And others came with him with fire and axes. The lion was dead in the grip of Rashumba ; Insato lay dead with her eyes to the starlight ; The face of my father was torn beyond knowing. The ears of my father hark'd not to my weeping, Makumbo Rashumba was gone to the darkness. He was the bravest ! He was the greatest ! Makumbo Rashumba, the shield of the impi ! So deep was _ his voice that the soot on the thatching Dropp'd down when he told of the wars of Matshanga ! ' Gunydma ' and ' Shumba,' both meaning ' lion.' g2 84 DEATH SONG OF KUSAWA AFA The stars would fall down when he sang in the night-time ; The mountains would shake to his step in the war-dance ; He was the lion ! The stealer of cattle ! The thunder of battles ! The sun on the gardens I The strongest of men ! But — Father of Afa, Now where hast thou gone to, Makumbo Rashumba ? ROSES AT INYANGA 85 ROSES AT INYANGA Where the high-veld breaks to valley — Deep ravines where hill-streams sally — Stands a kaia looking Northward through the mountains to the plain. To the careful hearts that tender Roses glowing — proses blowing. Gold and white and redly showing — Well you know the way to render Thanks to them who guard your growing by your hope of Home again ! Red and white and gold-leaf'd roses Growing where the lizard dozes — Blue-tail'd lizard lazy dozing in the dazzle of the sun — Now your distant England freezes, But Inyanga lends you breezes — Sun-warm'd winds that pass with singing — Hill-cool'd winds for ever bringing Scents of honeysuckle clinging to the stoep-poles, tambu spun. ' Kaia, ' a hut. • Tambu spnn,' spun with rope made of umsasa bark. 86 ROSES AT INYANGA Other English flowers mottle Half the garden, near the wattle — Green-grey wattle gaily growing on the margin of the pond ; But, cool roses, I am thinking You mean more than all the others To the English. You are linking Half-lost thoughts that Afric smothers Of the skies where stars are blinking in the white- edg'd Isle beyond. For the sleepy sun goes Westward, And the far fish-eagle nestward. And the errant longings linger on the land where they would be ; Just a moment is allotten For the longing, rose-begotten — Cruel roses, memory-waking, — Memory-waking, but unslaking. Of the love-days, half-forgotten, and the folk across the sea ! THE MAN POSSESSED OF DEVILS 87 THE MAN POSSESSED OF DEVILS I Brother, brother, why left they you alone? Did they not know — Not know thee ? But alas, none knew But me ! Yet, had they known. You had not now been so, Perhaps. But you Are dead. And shall I raise my voice unto the dead — Dead brother, shall I deck your grave with songs. And crown your head With words, where silence now belongs ? II I knew it all ; Yes, and I knew it well. I conquer'd, but I know not whether it were worth the fight. 88 THE MAN POSSESSED OF DEVILS By night, When every door was shut, And I was left alone, I fought it out. And the grey giant is a subtle foe, And is not seen — invisible — but I, — i Why should I tell you now, who know ? Why should I raise my voice unto the dead — The quiet dead ? My brother, do you care, And can you hear — This maim'd, cold shape of manhood that is thee ? What matter now. Mayhap you now are free. And all your boasting over — you who bragg'd To drown the cries of devils, and the long Harsh losing battle. Brother, shall I wreath your grave with song. As now I bury thee Apart from other men ? But what are words — ^to light A path that is not, or to rouse to fight That shatter'd brain that cannot strive again ? Ill Not so ; but here. Apart from other men. Neither in joy nor sorrow do I lay Thy clay Unto the peaceful clay again. OTHER LINES BY THE GOOD THAT WENT BEFORE 91 BY THE GOOD THAT WENT BEFORE Lose not one hope — Hope is thy sword To the making of thy fire, to the gain of thy desire, To the finding of thy hoard ; By the good that went before rate the good that lies in store To the honour of the Empire and the glory of the Lord. Oxford, 1907. 92 SAILING OF MARTIN O'BRIEN SAILING OF MARTIN O'BRIEN Drowned with Osskassen and the others at the Kowie, Cape Colony, 1902. Bark of my soul, the golden West Whispers me out to the open sea. To those isles where mariners find their rest — To that port of peace where I would be ; The night wind yearns and the dock-lights peep- But we know our way on the pathless deep. II Evil was I on sea and shore, But I, as / am, no man may know. Draw out from the port I want no more — Draw out for the port where I would go ; Sail down from the dock and the fading quay — Sail out for the haven where I would be. HI Bark of my soul, the sunken sun Calls me and calls me out to the West ; The work is finish'd, the day is done, I have drawn my pay, and I wait my rest. The rollers lisp, and the winds increase — I steer thee now for the port of peace. TO 93 TO ' Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari, quam tui meminisse.' Tumultuous soul of broken seas That surge and crash upon the coasts, Where, whirl'd in whiteness on the breeze. The thin-drawn foam flies up like ghosts Of waves that shout their fierce despair. Of waves that sob in thwarted might, And sink before the wind-swept air To barren death in depthless night — Alas ! Unkind indeed wert thou When lashed to madness by desire Thou chose a merely human brow On which to kiss thy quenchless fire. Thy seas, like dogs of monstrous size A- writhe beneath the heaving main, Yearned darkly towards the §ombre skies To vent their weight of voiceless pain. At last there chanced upon the sand An idler by the ocean's rim ; They stretched — and when they bit his hand The hunted horror fell on him. 94 TO The haunting dumbness gripped his soul, And drove him stumbUng 'fore the wind Till, wreathed in wrack, he glimpsed the goal That he would seek, but never find. But having seen he cried aloud (Like them, the dogs beneath the main,) And bayed, like them, the whirling cloud. And prayed the gods for peace again. He bared his breast before the blast, And mocked his gods in bitter scorn, He railed against the unheeding past, And cursed the day when he was born. For ever, from the seething air Of serried cloud and darkling snow. He felt the sweep of glorious hair. And saw the path he could not go. Alas ! The sun has lost his heat, Alas ! The breeze has lost its song, And all the ways that feel his feet Are barren, and the days are long. And all the flow'rs have lost their scent. And all the grass has lost its hue, And all the night is sleepless spent, And naught is good, and nothing new. TO 95 The endless trails have lost their charm, And all the sport is stale and old, The morning streams have lost their balm, The crumbling fires sink grey and cold. There is nowhere in all the lands — No tropic bay nor ice-bound ness — Can speed the silent falling sands, Or bring a short forgetfulness. But when the waking sea-wastes moan. And black the shuddering skies are blind, And low the waiting forests groan. The trampling stallions of the wind ; When scared the children shake and hark. And women fly the rain-god's form. Wide-eyed he waits the shrieking dark. And trembles for the coming storm. And when it comes he staggers forth Against the wind that crashes by. To search the lightnings of the North And probe the thunders in their sky. There, lashed by rain and stinging hail. Madly by hot-brained passion sent, He shouts aloud a wind-caught wail, And sobs aloud his long lament. 96 TO And once again he strives to speak A nameless pity to the air, And yearns to feel against his cheek The warm wet sweep of glorious hair. Yet, Ocean, wouldst thou take again This memory to the brooding sea — This haunting gift and cureless pain — I doubt that he would give it thee ! DYING IN SPRING 97 DYING IN SPRING A Spring day, and warm ; The ivy lisping on the window ; And Love waiting at the door. Sun after storm, Pools drying in the road below, And children's laughter as they come and go, And the soft South wind that woke the thaw. Pale primroses in bloom. Blue violets on the window-sill, And the shy scents of wakfening trees Filling the room. Where all is very still. But the dream-whispering of the breeze. With Summer the bluebells go, In Autumn the lilies are gone, And the last flower with Winter's wind And the white waste of snow, When the last sunbeam has shone. To the great all-seeing mind ; Back, to re-bloom or to sleep, they wing — But the human rose returns in Spring. 98 DYING IN SPRING Brown hair a-wave, And quiet, languid eyes ; Young life, out-worn, that hies Back to the life that gave. .Weary hands on the white counterpane ; Pale brow, smooth cheeks, unpassioned lips. And tired limbs that will not rise again But slip to silence, as the cut wild-flower slips. Spring day, and warm; The ivy lisping on the window ; And Love, heart-broken, at the door. Quiet after storm. Pools dried in the road below, And children's laughter where they come and go In the soft South wind that brought the thaw. THE PAINTING OF A PICTURE 99 THE PAINTING OF A PICTURE To G. H. Lady, from lips of little worth, from a tongue of small renown, Would you learn the life of the things that lie lair'd in the, lisping brown — Lair'd in the grass by the granite peaks where the blue-hid mountains melt — Would you learn the chant of the Utter Wild and the song of the Open Veld ? Would you steal the soul from the solid stone where the secret gold-hoards sleep Waiting the while till the White Men come to work in the inner deep ; Would you draw the diamond of deathless worth with its glint of glittering blue From the sand of the Kalahari or the dust of the dry Karroo, Merely by piecing the shatter'd shards of an ill- told tale aright ? Nay ! you must go to the Open Veld, and study by day and by night ; Hide on the neck of the timber'd hill where the herds of horn'd game pass, Till you read the tale of a broken twig, and the rune of a bended grass. H 2 100 THE PAINTING OF A PICTURE You must commune with the vastness, you must partake of the wild, On guard Hke the closely hunted, in faith like a little child. Hunted full oft you will know that you are, you will draw that hard-drawn breath, For you will not come on the Truth of the Wild, till you glimpse the gates of death. And you will not find the face of the Veld, till you feel the weight of her hand. Till you sink in the blinding darkness to grope in the sheathing sand ; And you will not find the heart of the Veld till you pay the price in pain. But when you have found the form of the Veld, you will not forget again ! But when you have shiver'd beside the blaze that blinks in the highveld blast Which whirls the white ash out on the wind like the shades of the shadow'd past ; While the cowering Kaffirs watch and wait, whispering tales of fear Of the ghosts of the dead and their fathers' forms that flit in the fleeting air ; THE PAINTING OF A PICTURE 101 But when you have heard, in the hush of the heat that holds the air blood-warm, The crash of the rolling thunder and the rush of the coming storm ; And when you have sicken' d at hunger's gnaw, and sobb'd in choking thirst. And struggled blind for the water-hole 'fore Death should find you first — Yea, when you know these things, I say, and a thousand things beside,- — The trail of the snake, the lion's spoor, and the path of the hippo wide, The tragic fleck of hair and blood where the hunted sable died . . . Why, then, if your eyes have seen aright, and the Veld has sung to you. You may draw and paint your picture, and know that it is True ! 102 TO V. F. TO V. F. My kindest critic, Can I bring to thee Garlands of blossom From a wild rose-tree, Or wood-grown bluebells — Kingcups from the lea, Or cowslips, fragrant scented Like those orchards over-sea ? Alas ! I have but one — One song in all ; A heart-song that goes back Whither the heart-ties call. The hill-winds call and call ; The thickening memories blurr And all the paths I tread Lead back to Africa. TO V. F: 103 II Far countries have I seen, Vast waters in between, Cities and divers men, Forest, and field, and fen, Lands at their death or dawn, Prairie, and range, and plain — But the heart goes back again To where the heart was born. Glorious the steel prows That plough the wind-blown foam ; Glorious what the Past allows Of Athens and at Rome ; Full-glorious is the world to me. Rich in all wonders marvellously, But — as the swallows cross the sea, So flies my singing Home. Thus of lone space I sing — Of brown unmeasur'd miles. Where carrion vultures wing O'er earth that seldom smiles With cornlands or with beeves — And timidly I bring This wreath of wither'd leaves. 104 THINE EYES THINE EYES Sadder than parting when grey skies Weep ceaseless showers ; Sadder than love-songs are thine eyes ; Softer than night when moonlight dies Leaving the stars to while the hours On meadows swathed in sleeping flowers. THY HEART 105 THY HEART Purer than sea-sand by the shore Where white waves flow ; Purer thy heart than lilies pure ; Than snow-flakes that the wide skies bore- Fresh whiteness glitteringly aglow — To drown a drift of driven snaw. 106 R. W. R. W. Out of the haze of immutable distance — Over the dip of mysterious skyline — Following roads that the gods had ordain'd me — Roads of the ocean that paths of Rhodesia Had yielded, sea-ended : from glamour of sun- shine — The warm glow of sunshine that gladdens the vastness Of mile upon mile of a desert unpeopled — From shadows of mountains asleep in the sun- shine — From shade of umsasas adrowse in the silence : That silence gigantic, abiding, unbroken. That stifles a word ere the word can be spoken. That chokes like the hush of a palace deserted — From solitude blank as the levels of Ocean — From plains undiscover'd, from valleys un- trodden — From camps in the hills where the glow of the fires Makes mock of the splendour and gleam of the heavens — From camps near the rivers, full-fed from our fishing — From kraals and the thunder of drums and of dancing — R. W. 107 From paths tuck'd away in the sweep of the Unknown — From dust of the roads where they straggle and dwindle And shrink in the grip of a desert derisive — From hunting and drinking, from hating and boasting (The boast that has never a tongue to forbid it ! ) From horror of death where it lurks in the river — The terror of death where it prowls in the dark- ness — From the Veld and its casual reckless adventure I come. The desire, the need, and occasion Combined with the Law that was written afore- time — Yea, even with Adam, — concerning us two. Thus went I to find thee : thus came I and found thee; To do as was written, to work as is needed — To live and to love for the honour of England — To fashion a dream in the form of a nation. II Down deep in the heart of the spirit of silence There glimmers a pool, and the face of the water Reflects such a dream that the one who shall see it Shall never forget. He may hate it or cherish, 108 R. W. May loath it, or love it, or leave it to mildew — To canker his life and to sadden his living ; But, never forgotten,- this dream shall be with him. And some have been born whom the goad of this vision Has driven to effort — to struggle invincibly Under the hope that full time may deliver him Part of his dream. And of these, Love, am I. For, groping in silence, I came on the water ; I looked ; and behold, in the deep of the water : — The- brown of the Veld, the unending immensity. League after league of the houseless and home- less. The smokeless, the gardenless wealth of the desert. The rivers unfish'd and the valleys unhunted. An empire peopled with nothing, — a country Abandoned to emptiness, yearning for people^' A mother well iit for the birth of a nation, A continent wasted, a home that ten millions Could live in, and love in, — a land that the plough- shares Could waken to songs of triumphant rejoicing ! I looked ; and behold, in the deep of the water : — The smoke of a city, the thunder of traffic. R. W. 109 The cry of the children, the sob of the starving, The surge of the thousands that have not an acre! Our measure of wealth is our measure of labour. Our measure of life is our measure of children. A king is not made by the sceptre he carries, A queen is not wrought by the silk that enfolds her; The strength of a king is his title of office, The heart of a queen is her reason for being ; True strength is a right that all men should lay claim to. True love is a gift that all women should offer. Who has these, or gets these, or struggles toward them, Is king -to all time, and is queen everlasting. We strive after God, — and we worship His foot- print ; We yearn for a star, — and we make us a lantern ; We reach for a sabre, — and find us a plough- share ; We hope for the purple, the circlet of laurel, And find but a rag that will cover our naked- ness. Into the vast irresistible emptiness Resolute, hopeful, we cry for a symbol — no R. w. Some symbol to shew us the why and the where- fore — Some symbol enormous, emblazoned, convincing — Some truth so stupendous that we must believe it. And follow its guidance for ever and ever . . . And out of the emptiness, stirring us strangely. And humbling profoundly, we catch at the answer : The wail of a child . . . and that only an echo. Into that measureless void of uncertainty — Into the Future : we, gropingly, shrinkingly, Check'd by stupidity, blind inability, Govern our steps ; and withal, in grim courage That struggles for prescience, grapples with shadows, That ponders a step that is blindness incorporate, Hope . . . and still hope, and push on in the darkness. For we have seen it — our dream unforgettable! Out of the darkness the Word has been wafted us — Out of eternity plans of our Masterpiece Flared like a flame and burnt into our being . . . Out of the darkness they show'd us our palaces — Unto eternity now shall we fashion them. R. W. Ill III Yet, in the end, they will fathom our secrets ; Say it was easy to make what we made ; Turn us and criticize, handle, dissect us, See where we fail'd and forget where we conquered — Point us a way that was better and surer — Show us a road that was swifter and straighter — We, who are moulding the hope of a People ; We, who are finding a world for our Nation ; We, who are giving our lives and our efforts ; We shall be blamed that we did not do better. Blamed ? But who cares ! — as the lights that we follow Have shown us a Thing to be Done — to be lived for — Just so shall we struggle, just so shall we labour, Just so, though unthanked, we shall live for and do it. , 112 FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH Shall I ask more of God, Who gave me love ? Shall I upbraid hard Fate who ever lay'th Burdens ? Not so — I swear by God above — So you be faithful, darling, unto death. You will forgive, though all my faults do show I am content, though every other breath Condemn me. 'Tis enough ; that you may know That I was faithful, darling, unto death. Shall peaks of circumstance we cannot climb For ever part us ? I have word which saith Our God will grant us footing in His time. So we be faithful, darling, unto death. 10. 1. 1908. YEARS WINTERLESS YEARS WINTERLESS What matter, love, that the short Summer goes With fading flowers and falling leaves and rain ; For we have sought a season — not in vain — A-bloom with deathless lily and with rose. Around us let the snow whirl, and the rain ; Keener the joy to us when great wind blows, Waking the warm life in the cheek that knows The blush of youth and heart without a stain. Thou art the Summer of our joyous days — Sun sparkling in thy laughing words again : Thy self is Spring, and all the birds again ; With all the Spring flowers growing in thy ways. 8. 8. 1907. 114 AFTER FEVER AFTER FEVER Welcome, Sad Hours ; In your dusk I find, As in the April showers That blow before the wind, Beyond, a gladder sunlight. . . . There are eyes As glad, as bright. As bluest of blue skies ; — Would they not cloud indeed Were I, forespent, to cry : — O World, I would be freed ; Have done, and let me die. Not though I never rest. Sweet earth, nor sleep again ! — I, who have found the Best : My Sun, beyond the rain. . . . Welcome, Sad Hours, For your clouds, I find, Are only April showers That blow before the wind. Humbly I give, True Heart, On bended knee, This, . . . though a shadow . . . part Of me, to thee. THIS TO THEE, TRUEST 115 THIS TO THEE, TRUEST This to thee. Truest. Here I pause. . . . for how, Knowing my own unworthiness, shall I Cast words of molten gold ? The best — The best alone — is thine ; and now. Seeing this but in thee, I pause. The nightly sky In scattered paragraphs of living flame — The silver dawn through whose wide-swinging doors The patient sun returns, — our well-loved West Emblazoning blue oceans, golden shores, — Hold songs that make all human singing lame. Dead heroes may have read their songs therein ; Read them : or written, writing to their Best. Falteringly, I, Following the mighty Dead herein. Strive. And I strive to win — Though Time, triumphant, for the rest, O'erwhelmed them, mocking as they passed to die. 116 THIS TO THEE, TRUEST They, living, wrought their seasons into rhyme ; Out of some vast dumb yearning — who can say ? — Their voiceless hands, (huge eifort pardoning A sometime road of slaughter and of crime,) Groping immensely for the perfect day, Reared up an empire, or dragged down a king. How can I sing ? Shall I go beg from thee Something of sweetness ? — thee before whose feet I would lay conquered kingdoms. . . . From the birds Borrow a measure ? Steal from out the sea Mutable rhyme ? Alas, I can but beat My own harsh iron into measured words. This to thee. Truest. Here I pause. . . . How long, Knowing my own unworthiness, shall I Attempt uncouthly what is thine : the best. Cry Peace, True Heart, cry Peace and gain thereby A silence, stronger and more sweet than song. AMOR ATQUE LABOR 117 AMOR ATQUE LABOR What need to speak of Love ? For Love Is all the world, as thou and I, True Heart, Found out long since. And Work ? Against the years God gave us Work, that out of pointless space Each man might hew His purpose, and be glad. September 1908. 118 SPRING SPRING For R. W. Out of the vastness of the stretching waste Where the hard suns swing over and go down, Lost of the lost, brown in the endless brown, Towers the highveld mountain, solemn-faced. Steadfast, alert, gigantic, thunder -torn. Out of the sand and the sere grass he sheers ; His wind-worn weary granite grimly bears Its burden of waste places and forlorn. His summit, riven, grips and balances Over great chasms where the maddened wind Fights day-long, till day goes and leaves behind Dumb echoes and stupendous silences. Leanly, among the rocks and hurried sands. Where the grey lichens laugh against the gale, Wind-tossed, the gnarled umsasas, gaunt and pale, Push in scarred roots that cling like giant hands. SPRING 119 What worth the fight that is not slaked of hate ? Why not die down, have done, and be at rest, — Decay, depart, blow beaten to the West Like the blown smoke resistless ? Yes, but wait : Tender — forgiving — from the farthest sky. Sick of the fatness of a richer earth Less full of battle and the strain of dearth. Comes Spring, the gentle-touching and the shy. The fierce blue shades his mighty eyes in cloud. The wind dies to a breath of flowers fanned. The aching glitter of the aimless sand Has peace amongst the grasses that enshroud. Green come the grasses, and a thousand roots Out of forgotten crannies of torn heights Stretch forth glad faces to remembered lights Reflected from the glamour of new shoots. Even the lichens — white and red and green — Take on fresh colours from the sea-born rain. Mend their rent surface and creep on again To clothe the uncaring granite in between. High up the hill-bees and sky-wandering birds Find the steel-fibred dwarf umsasas clad In honey-odoured blossom, leaves as glad As lover's eyes, tender as whispered words. 120 SPRING Great and serene the mountain, all enfurled In trembling brightness of swift colours met, Yields to sweet Spring, to sleep and to forget,— A dreamland picture in a crystal world. 29th April 1909, CoU. Exon. THE END PRINTED BY 9FOTTISWO0DE AND CO. LTD., COLCHESTER LONDON AND ETON ill