THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES SONGS FROM THE SOUTH SONGS FROM THE SOUTH BY JOHN ERNEST ADAMSON LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON FOURTH AVENUE & 30 STREET, NEW YORK BOMBAY, CALCUTTA, AND MADRAS 1915 TO GWEN 2 I AM deeply indebted to Miss Nancy Thomas of Min-yr-Afon, Ruabon, for frank criticism while these " Songs " were in the making ; her sane judgment has been invaluable. I am under a like obligation to Professor John Purves of Transvaal University College, Pretoria. J. E. A. CONTENTS PAGE THE MARCH OF THE DAYS - - - i ELUSIVE AFRICA - - 2 THE INEFFICIENT CLERK .... 5 AFTER HEAVY RAINS ------ 8 MIDDAY -- _ . - . . 9 THE SUMMER STORM - n MARCH AND COUNTERMARCH - 13 YOUTH - 16 BEYOND THE BARRIERS ----- 18 THE COMING OF WINTER - - 19 THE QUIVERING GUM - 22 A SUMMER NIGHT - ----- 24 SOCIAL CONSCIOUSNESS - - - - 26 SANCTUARY - 27 RED AFRICA - 29 STREET-BLOSSOMS - - - - 32 THE WORKER - .... 33 THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY - 37 THE ROAD TO TOWN ... - 39 To THE DEAD - 41 THE NEW PACE - 42 THE HEART OF THE HILLS - - 47 NATURE AND ART - - 50 A GREY DAY 51 x CONTENTS PAGE THE WALK - 53 A PRAYER - 56 REVERIE - 58 THE POINT OF VIEW - 61 LE MIEUX EST L'ENNEMI DU BIEN 62 SIRIUS IN THE SOUTH - 65 THE CALL - 66 AN EVENING WIND - 68 A WINTER AFTERNOON - 70 A SUMMER AFTERNOON - 71 GREEN AND GOLD - - 73 THE RANKER - 75 THE SEA 77 THE MOON'S TREK - 81 BEFORE THE STORM 83 WITHOUT AND WITHIN - 84 A WINDY MORNING 86 FREEDOM - - 87 Two VOICES - 90 SUNSET IN THE EAST - 93 A SUMMER MORNING - ... 94 AD VALOREM - - 96 NORTHWARD O ! ..... 97 THE GAME - 101 EVENING AND MORNING - - - 104 UP WIND AND SUN - 106 BY THE CAMP FIRE ... . 107 AWAKE ! - - - 109 EACH HIS TASK - 112 SOUTHWARD O ! - 113 AT THE END OF THE DAY ... - 117 Songs from the South THE MARCH OF THE DAYS. OH ! stop the hurrying days, They fly so quickly past, We cannot catch their beauty or appraise Their wonder while they last. Nay ! speed them in their flight, Time is no prudent churl ; For ever on the thread of dark and light He quietly slips a pearl. ELUSIVE AFRICA. WHERE is the soul of Africa ? Where song is silent But silence sings ; Where dark is pregnant With glimmerings Ungotten of moon or sun or star. Where is the pulse of Africa ? Where shadows are lit To a glowing brown ; Where the infinite Rings in the town ; Where stars are near and neighbours far. What is the secret of Africa, Where youth is old And age is young ; Where hope is bold And care is flung Through the portals of the past ajar ? SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 3 Where is the home of Africa ? Where rooms are alleys On to the stoep ; Where the rider sallies From streets that coop ; Where the waggon keeps in front of the car. Where is the sigh of Africa ? Where no breeze foils The fever-heat ; Where the worker toils In the walled-in street ; Where tongues are many that harmony mar. What is the riddle of Africa, Where now is never Tho' yesterday's gone ; And to be ever But never won ; Where the ship never crosses the harbour bar ? Where is the heart of Africa ? Where the void is full Of the shining sun ; SONGS FROM THE SOUTH Where veld-airs lull The heat of noon ; Where the kaffir croons over the rude guitar. Where is the vision of Africa ? In the soul of the rover Wandering wide, When the scent of the clover Is thrust aside By the throb of the veld in memory's scar. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH THE INEFFICIENT CLERK. THE terminus ! Not of the tram alone, But also of that eight-hour interlude When ledger, bell, and 'phone Have all conspired to prove ineptitude ; Now he is on the threshold of the night, The night ? for him the coming of the light ! The humming of the car far down the line Has ceased before he makes a move for home ; The evening is too fine For hurrying, a cloudscape fills the dome ; And so he waits to let a motor pass, Then takes the narrow track across the grass. The garden gate has clicked and at the sound The dogs rush out to share his world with him ; Loud bark and joyous bound Proclaim at last the dead day's requiem ; To a warm nook that eve's red fires light up Smiling Johannes brings the fragrant cup. 6 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH And now with quick appreciative eye He greets the panorama in the west ; The mystery of the sky Is speedily to him made manifest ; With rainbow key he soon uncodes the scene, Save for a wondrous and uncharted green. Once up and down the garden path he goes, But this is not the home of his romance ; Even a fresh young rose Appeals in vain. The red dies from the kranz, And gladly he obeys the guttural call To the frugal meal. The evening shadows fall. He starts to read the virile " Songs of Travel " Sung by the alien singer of the south ; The melodies unravel Around his nervous sympathetic mouth ; And forest green and lazy blue lagoon Displace the silver shimmer of the moon. But soon the book is shut that he may hear The music of his own unwritten song ; Articulate and clear It rings the grooves of silence all along ; SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 7 For the soul of the inefficient clerk Is a terminal for whispers from the dark. They come from the spreading sunlit veld, From kopje, kloof, and donga, from the sea, From the fever-haunted belt, From where he's been and where he fain would be ; For he knows every song that they can sing, Every note of the music that they bring. His chair upon the stoep is now a seat Reserved within the theatre of the night ; His soul goes out to greet The amazing splendour of his fancy's flight ; The fibre of his being throbs and swings Attuned to the dark's orchestral strings. Six hours of dreams and dawning comes in grey Loth to outdo the evening's brilliancy ; Tramward he makes his way With something yet of her resiliency ; But Jawkins' loud " Good morning ! " breaks the spell The opening scene of day's protracted hell. 8 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH AFTER HEAVY RAINS. GONE is the brooding reservoir of cloud That for a decade of grey days has filled The vault ; in sheets or torrents, as it willed, Bursting its convex bounds, and hissing loud Its victory o'er the parched earth's fires. A crowd Of snowy fleeces throng the blue and build Moving mosaics on heaven's floor, distilled From sun and sea, to beauty's service vowed. The long-dry dongas their deliverance roar ; A green sea holds the plain and climbing fills The creeks and harbours of the distant hills : To their high tops the emerald eddies pour ; The wonder is they have not overflowed The red-brown ribbon of the narrow road. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH MIDDAY. THE dorp is dozing ; The spread of the nooning sun, His lassitude imposing, Has steadied, stayed, and stopped the workers one by one. The street is basking ; The stores no longer hum ; The coolie wearies asking The kaffir's trade ; and squats wide-eyed but still and dumb. The team is lying Along and athwart the chain ; The voorloper is sighing Upon his couch between the wheels for dark again. The clerk is drowsing And nodding on the stool ; Dull memory arousing A fleeting figment of a plunge into the pool. 10 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH The garden's panting ; The cat has ceased to prowl ; A crazy iron slanting Lends mocking cover to a gasping blinking fowl. The leaves are drooping Pendant and powerless ; The slender stems are stooping Beneath the load of lurid shafts that downward press. The hills are staring, The shimmering brown flanks glow ; The kopje's height is glaring ; The veld, swooning in heat, lies motionless below. The earth is waiting : The blue holds brown in thrall ; His grip no jot abating, Remorselessly he seals dominion over all. The dorp is sleeping ; Life from the stoep is sped ; Save where the lizard's steeping His cold green scales on glowing stones warm blood has fled. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 11 THE SUMMER STORM. THE shots of his vanguard rattle Against the iron roofs ; The grey-black line of his battle Blots out the hills and kloofs ; His front lit by forked flashes, His herald the thunder's peal, On veld and dorp he crashes And sets his blinding seal. With rage his features harden, His sluices downward pour ; On veld and roof and garden He falls with a hiss and a roar ; With cloud-sent shafts he lashes The panting prostrate earth ; And laughs at the long ribbed gashes In wild and savage mirth. His first mad passion sated, He thinks it time to relent ; 12 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH His shock is now abated, His blows are sooner spent ; He sees how she shrinks and cowers, He sees the marks of his spleen ; And loosens gentle showers To wash the red wounds clean. The roar of his first fierce onset Is now a haunting croon ; Wild as a winter sunset, Sad as a waning moon ; The fault earth turns to listen As one turns to a bird at dawn ; Her eyes begin to glisten Like dew on a sheltered lawn. The fever has departed, Her limbs are fresh and cool ; Happy and lighthearted She bathes in the storm-born pool ; And laughs to think that his thunder And rage and wantonness Were the husk of a lover's blunder, The kernel was a caress. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 13 MARCH AND COUNTERMARCH. WITH sudden onset the wide pall of night Stifles the lingering embers of the day ; With counterstroke as swift the lord of light Annihilates the dark with far-flung ray. The fierce wind fills the storm-cloud's lurid sail, Darkening with surly gloom the radiant sky ; An avalanche of blinding rain and hail And lo ! the smiling veld is warm and dry. Three hours ago the lazy languorous airs Were furnace-hot with white shafts from the sun ; And now with cutting breath the wind unbares The fallacy that summer has begun. When last I looked the dry and parched hills Towered glaring o'er the veld, burnt, brown, and bare ; And now they sleep lulled by the swollen rills, While all the lowlands a green carpet share. 14 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH And thus we swing through march and counter- march From burn of tropic sun to bite of cold, From violet bed of eve to morn's high arch, From green and young to brown and bare and old. Now summer leaps to winter with a bound, Splashing slow startled autumn in her stride ; Now winter hot-a-foot must end the round, Raising a cloud of dust spring to deride. It may be that these undulations swift Of heat and cold, of shadow and of glare, Are tributary to the urgent drift That harries men from recklessness to care, From swift resolve to faltering and flight, From hills of hope to valleys of despair, From fear at dark to courage with the light, From hate's fell fog to faith's clean upland air. The surging cosmic moods grimly enfold The moral of a march that leads right on ; For it is sovereign wisdom to lay hold Of what is left, nor mourn o'er what is gone. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 15 The forward look, quick burial of regret, Out of the debris to new vantage-ground ! And surely as in red the sun has set In white he'll open up to-morrow's round. 16 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH YOUTH. YOU'D think he held the keys of the morning, You'd say he'd leased the lilt of the day : He walked as on the wing And a song I heard him sing As the sunlight opened up for him the way. He'd lost no trace of vigour at high noonday, He took the street with easy swinging stride ; Blue and keen and bright His eye challenged the light As he slipped through the swaying human tide. The setting sun outlined him wet and gleaming, Poised on the cool pool's bank ; The gurgle of the plunge, Clean as a rapier's lunge, Told the welcome of the waters as he sank. The music of the dance had chased the midnight And was heralding the dawn of a new day : SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 17 Untiringly he sped And in the vanguard led A maiden through the rhythm of the lay. And if his eye should dim or step should falter, As the years heap up their tale of day and night, He can dwell with a glow On that good long ago, When he easily outdid them in their flight. 18 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH BEYOND THE BARRIERS. WHEN the freed skiff from moorings gaily bounds, Responsive to the rudder and reefed sails, And clearing the piled pier, joyously hails The pulsing swelling morning ; when red mounds And waving untracked grasses call the hounds And barehead rider, when nor wire nor rails Block the long leagues, when nothing now avails To break the stride, when matin-song resounds ; Oh ! then awakes the wild tumultuous hour When barriers are forgotten, the wide world Is man's inviolate heritage, the soul Sounds the strong keynote of unfettered power, Rides where the flag of freedom is unfurled, Scorns plotted parts and claims the uncharted whole. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH THE COMING OF WINTER. THE curtain's raised, the sweeping monsoon rain Has left us for a year ; The heavens are high, the arch is blue again, The air is cool and clear : We're launched upon the voyage to the brown and sere. Here on this lofted sunny hinterland The soul begins to sing, The stature grows and eye and heart expand When summer's on the wing ; For we awake in autumn as you awake in spring. 'Twas yesterday we cowered 'neath the sun We laboured 'neath the cloud ; And when the impending roofed-in day had gone, Mosquitoes sang aloud Their endless tireless drone to sleep's destruction vowed. 20 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH Now is the morning purified and purged Of languor, drone, and lees ; The sleeper from the barred room has emerged Into the sparkling seas, And buoyantly he heads away toward the breeze. Now is the course a gallery of days, Horizon-wide, heaven-high, Shot end to end with cool strong sparkling rays, Roofed by a cloudless sky Blue as a summer sea, steadfast as destiny. While through the spring you slowly broaden down To hedge-rows green of June, We steal through autumn to the gold and brown, To welcome heat of noon, To starlit nights when veld-fires spread beneath the moon. Your sun will now climb zenithwards, and ours Reluctantly descend ; You'll sing the fragrance after summer showers, While boldly we'll contend For morn's resilient splendour, for the stars that blend. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 21 For days that sparkle and for nights that thrill, For breakfast in the sun, For the gaunt vigour of the clean-cut hill, For the still afternoon, For long red fires of sundown when the day is done. Luxuriance yours : harvest of hay and corn, The song of lark and thrush, The lingering twilight and the blossoming thorn, The rosy spreading blush On the deep-breathing sea asleep in the dawning hush. Rare splendour ours : harvest of shining days, Silence along the height, Long violet shadows on the crumbling vleis, Star-studded vault of night, The cold grey wind that wakes the veld to greet the light. THE QUIVERING GUM. I FEEL no airs, But the slender gum of single stem Is tremulous to the tips ; I think it shares Quivers of dead day's requiem, The last breath from her lips. Each upturned hand Fingers the void for throbbing strings, For pulsings of the eve ; They understand The silent song that the sunset sings. Eve's toneless semibreve. A troop in flight Of homing birds seeks sanctuary ; The fragile swaying hands Pity their plight : The crest is a cradling aviary Of fluttering tired bands. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 23 Now they are sped Down a short trail of tuneless notes ; The fingers derelict Take up the thread Of sunset's swaying song that floats Soundless but benedict. 24 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH A SUMMER NIGHT. TWELVE hours the sun has poured upon the earth His burning dazzling light ; Now he has left us, till the morrow's birth, The sultry languorous night. The skyline's haunted by a sullen glare That devastates the dark ; All through the sombre cloud-ridge looming there The restless lightnings spark. Here nothing stirs the stillness of the air, The long-stemmed flowers droop, Save that winged whirring warriors vainly dare To invade the lighted stoep. The cricket's rasp is slowly dying down To a more tuneful bent, And the low distant murmur of the town Hums an accompaniment. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 25 From the near gloom a sudden short sharp bark Out there the night-mail's roar, Strive to assail the rising tide of dark ; In vain the echoes soar : The burden of the heavy pendant night Pinions the breathless earth ; And it would seem there can be no more light, No dawn, no new day's birth ; When from within and the lit stoep along There breaks a firm strong chord, And a clear rushing stream of living song Announces a safe ford Across the dark, a soulborn instrument With which enfranchised man Can recreate the encircling firmament, And hold hi check the van Of night, of dark, of inner gloom and rage, Of binding circumstance : Victory blazoned on the illumined page Of ever-young Romance ! 26 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH SOCIAL CONSCIOUSNESS. THE sense of fellowship, the love of man, Is not the foster-child of fatherhood Or any some-part selfish bond of blood. Born of the life that from the red wounds ran Of locked battalions, it speeds the van Of common institutions, common joys, And common duties ; singing through the noise Of train and car, propping a nation's span. Strong linked purpose, dovetailed destiny, This is the tide and this the crested wave That stirs the bosom of the far-spread sea, The ocean of our common heritage Where, though the storms of self may fret and rage, Souls, far adrift, shall yet find arms to save. SANCTUARY. THERE is a sanctuary, where week by week, Simple trusting souls foregather ; Some, as they say, to worship, some to seek Solace for lost endeavour. To sit a while apart from circumstance, Aloof from tidal ebbs and flows ; To leave the tossing of the sea of chance For the firm shore's repose. To sit and see the bright sun boldly cross The guarded threshold, just so far, And suddenly stop bewildered, at a loss Before the barrier Of shadow, brighter than his own broad band Of radiant cloud-directed rays ; The light that never was on sea or land And yet fills all the days. 28 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH To listen while the organ now reveals The swelling chords of morning's hymn ; To hear how through the responsive nave there steals The lingering amen. To hear the promise of a burden shared, Of pity full and manifold, Of shelter for the soul that now was bared, Prone, shuddering, and cold. To hear the words that through a thousand years The wondrous tale have bravely carried Of resurrected hopes, of dried-up tears, Of death-blows boldly parried. Sure sanctuary ! the vibrant red-brown walls Rise nobly, stronger than the strong, Raising against the storm that on them falls A battlement of song ! And when the peal has passed, when all is still Without, and song dies down within, The birds in sheltering eaves the silence fill, And flute and pipe begin. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 29 RED AFRICA. THE virgin veld By the clean ploughshare to the sun upturned : You've seen the ruddy bronze that through it burned, You've felt the throbbing life that in it dwelt. The red of earth : You've seen it from the windows of the mail, When after heavy rains white fleeces sail Aloft, and there's an end of drought and dearth. The red of eve : You've seen the line of winter's western fire Glow sullen through the mist ; and then conspire With dark'ning violet, peace to retrieve. The red of night : You've seen the veld-fire spreading on the hills, Stealing on lambent flame-feet where it wills, Ruddy at dark, by day a bare black blight. 30 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH Pillar of dust : The herald of the quickly-gathering storm Is Afric's scourge ; you've seen the red ensign form, Advance, and fall, in the van of the lightning-thrust. The flaunting red That reigns upon the leafless kaffir-boom : The red of aloes where the kopjes loom : You've seen them, and the miracle is not dead. The red camp-fire When pipes and stars are lit, when throbbing night Is near, and crunching mules but speed the flight Of memory : you've felt the soul aspire. The rocks' warm red That glistens through the green of weed and wave : You've seen it when the slow tides lift and lave Them lazily, and the sun's high light is spread. The red of race : You've seen it flood the trembling features pale ; That is a red relentlessly to assail Till nation's blend the crudeness shall efface. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 31 Well, blood is red, And the young veins of Africa now throb With full vitality ; nothing shall rob Her of the prize : a nation strongly bred. 32 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH STREET-BLOSSOMS. WHY are street-blossoms rare ? in the long lane Of passers-by why does the flower fair In self-born radiance so seldom dare To blow ? Do men prefer the dead domain Of care and fear ? They rush to lock the chain, To anticipate the thrall of an advent Ruthless, and nurse each sadly-forged event That shackles, and shuts out the sun and rain. Nature unfolds a merrier, braver tale Of search undaunted for the quickening dew ; Lo ! even after devastating hail The flowers assert life's final victory, In resurrection fortified and free ; Why cannot man daily his joy renew ? SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 33 THE WORKER. PITY not the parrot Wired in a cage, The tailor in the garret Stitching a daily wage ; But rather pity him who's out of bounds For whom nor lathe nor jenny ever sounds. The candle in the cottage, The fire in the grate, The table with the potage, The mealie on the plate : No viand rare, no light that ever burned, Can equal those if these have not been earned. The car's not worth the craving Though up the slope it steals ; The tramfare's worth the saving, You'll miss the jars and squeals ; The peace that fills the foot-men when they land Is what the wheel-men never understand. 34 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH The lilt that's in the ledger, The song of buzzing drums, The story of the voucher, The throb of guiding thumbs : The poetry of labour's not for them That take a solid hour to choose a gem. Pity him that lunches Through a long menu ; Envy Bill who crunches A crust beneath the blue ; There's ease of which the lounges never tell Where waistbelts are unbuckled for a spell. The scratching of the goose-quill, The rasping of the file, The clanging of the anvil, The trowel on the pile : There's music here that leisure never heard In babbling brook or piping song of bird. The storm is in the offing, But let the shirkers run ; The dust may quicken coughing, We'll end what we've begun ; SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 35 The rain will wash the dust out, a wet shirt Will leave us cool and fresh for the home spurt. The lit pipe at the outspan, The stretch of tired limbs, The clean arms where the sweat ran, The dam that labour brims : Oh ! who would barter these that toil has won For all the unearned increments 'neath the sun ? The day's work now is over, There's but the sky to scan ; There's rest now for the rover, The wife turns to her man ; Her hand finds his, her eyes the week-old moon, And through the dark she feels the love-song croon. The cool night wind that passes, The bright eyes of the stars, The rustle in the grasses, The sleep that knows no jars : These are the worker's well-won recompense Great ease of soul and limb, great joy of sense. 36 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH Down to the town, the throbbing humming town, Gaily we go, gaily although Hours are long and labour's song is sometimes hard to sing, It's a battle through the rattle, dust, and clamour- ing ; None shall say we linger or loiter as we go Down to the town, gaily stepping down. Back home again, to home and stoep again, Day's work is done, night's joy's begun ; Up the slope, strong in hope, through the ruddy rays, Who can measure our cup's pleasure or our joy appraise ? There's the figure waiting in the setting sun : " Wife and home again ! " beats the deep refrain. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 37 THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY. THIS earth of ours wheels onward through the void Enclosed for ever in a filmy shell : Canvas it is for colours of the morn For blue of noon and all the pomp of eve ; A sounding-board for song : for piping breeze, For tempest's roar, for thunder's deaf'ning crash, And all the great Musician's repertoire ; A store-house for the dew, sweet perfume's vase, A curtain 'gainst the light, a raiment soft That holds the radiant heat ; a window wide Wherethrough to get a glimpse of neighbour worlds No less a shell, light and invisible, Yet holding us for ever fast entombed, Choosing our panorama and our song. And we must needs spin out another web, Wind close about us an opaque cocoon Of prejudice and pride, of memory, Leanings, aversions, longings dim and vague And stirrings deep of personality. 38 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH We fashion films to float before our eyes, Wool for our ears, scales for unfeeling hands. If we could sense the rose with virgin eyes, Could strip the human accents from the word, Silence the singer and yet hear the song, Banish the ugly visage of strong rage, Fathom a grief by blotting out the tears, Face for a throb of time clean naked truth Perhaps we should not live to tell the tale. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 39 THE ROAD TO TOWN. FOR eyes and ears that know, the road, Trod daily, has a vibrant code, Speeding communion ; the miles Renew their voices and then: wiles With each day's morning ; waiting grasses Greet the wise wayfarer who passes : Sometimes a nod, familiar, short, Sometimes obeisance of the court. The brook is on familiar terms, Alert since dawning he affirms A morning grave or gay ; nor fails The signal that it naught avails To cross his mood : if smooth and grey, Contemplative you pick your way ; But if he runs in joyous rills, You stride along and morning thrills. The careless wind will interview The traveller and maybe woo 40 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH With whispers of the moor and strand ; You bare your head and understand. But if in league with languorous day, He'll follow after all the way, Winging the sun-shafts in their flight, Mocking the while your sultry plight. The very track has morning moods : He shakes the soul that too much broods With hidden pebbles ; and anon Crunches in knowing unison. Sometimes from timorous steps he slides And floundering footfalls soft derides ; Anon responsively he'll meet The pulse of firm determined feet. A willow waits outside the town, And if you look as you go down With eyes that pierce her reticence, Her quiet smile will recompense Your boldness ; for the fresh young green In memory, the haunting sheen Of her long locks, will carry you Close- veiled the glaring streets right through. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 41 TO THE DEAD. The first casualties in General Botha's expeditionary force to what was formerly known as German South- West Africa were among the commandoes from the high veld in the east of Transvaal. HIGH veld, high courage ! burghers of the east, Great towering men, shaped on the windy heights : Some full of years, veterans from fiercer fights, Some in youth's hey-day, from the marriage-feast No more for you the lamp shall gleam a-nights ; No more you'll greet the east when young day lights The long Lebombo ; waking hours have ceased ; For honour, word, and oath, your life is leased. Wail not, then, mother, the lone sandy grave ! And you, young wife, weep not your man now dead ! Their blood has cleansed the ensign of the stain ; Their grave enfolds clean honour ; 'neath the nave Of heaven they lie in peace ; the life is sped, But their bright memory shall long remain. 42 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH THE NEW PACE. DAY follows hard on the heels of day in this young land of the sun, Night is a breath, light is a burst, ended ere well begun ; From Monday at morn to Saturday noon the out- spans are few and far, If the moon is down and the sun not up we trek with the morning-star. Not an eight-hour day but a six-day week is the spell we reckon upon, And the weeks run into a month before the unit of pay is done ; They say the seasons still number four, but August is very nigh May, And it seems but a step from Christmas eve to the darkening shortest day. The veld knows the purr of the cylinders and the roar of the daily mail, SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 43 There isn't much chance of dozing now on an ant- heap out in the vale ; No longer the waggon meanders along all over the broad brown track, The hoot of the horn's in the van of the car and the dust-cloud at her back. No longer is the hooded cart with chestnuts abreast the pole The envy of the country side ; the iron is now in the soul As the dust in the eyes and the mouth of him who needs must jump aside At the call of a man at an auto wheel, and break his pony's stride. This morning I hulloed Hilary Jones with the bloom of the north on his cheek, He'd traversed twelve thousand miles of sea to eat the homely leek ; He'd trodden the plains of Canada and the Rockies' western slopes, And but yesterday I God-speeded him as he hung on the gangway ropes. 44 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH The youth on his way to school to-day was sucking a chubby fist In a go-cart wheeled by a kaffir maid, when we met in a morning mist ; I shall see him next at the christening with his first-born in his arms, And it won't be long ere he's taking me out to show me one of his farms. Is it we who drive the days along and the weeks and the months and the years, Blotting out all the yesterdays, planting and plying the shears ? Do we make the pace up the morning rise and down the afternoon fall, With never an eye for the tired face or an ear for the weary call ? Or are we borne on the rising tide of a strong young nation's sea That will mount and swell and know no ebb till she reaches maturity, Will carve the narrows and fill the flats till she finds her destiny's bound SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 45 On a far-flung shore where evermore the fall and the flood shall sound ? Whether human drive or tidal sweep is the key of the mystery To the eye of the nation yet unborn it may be given to see ; We only know that time for us is no smoothly-flowing stream Whereon the steersman may idly cruise and tack and anchor and dream. We know that the evening finds us far from the morning's anchorage, That through the long day we get no glimpse of the steps of a landing-stage ; That scarce has the bark slid down the slope of a wave to an even keel, When another is rising and poising aloft for the shock that makes her reel. A land for the young is this young land, for the eyes that do not blink, For the cheeks and the lips that do not blanch, for the hearts that do not sink ; 46 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH A land for the feet that can tread the path through donga and over kranz, For the souls that can see the haven far o'er the sea of circumstance. The past forgotten, the future unknown, we joyfully trim the sail, Our hearts are light and we welcome the fight although the bark be frail ; We'd sooner be swamped by a rising tide than sink in a stagnant pool, And who can tell ? at the end of a day we may make a harbour cool. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 47 THE HEART OF THE HILLS. WHAT for a heart is ribbed within the hills, The rugged monuments of time and storm ? Fire, strength, and fervour, for it feeds and fills Such majesty of frame, such towering form ; No puny temper carries such a front, Lightning- and hurricane-proof, and all unmoved When thunders seal the riven firmament ; 'Gainst crash and blaze and buffet tried and proved. Tenderness too ; or the reluctant mists Had fled ere this to hidden halls of day, And the frail snow that flutters where it lists Had not found there a hostel until May. On whose bare stones the tender mosses sleep He is unruffled as the deeper seas ; From whose dry nooks the elusive aloes peep, His is the harbour of the soul that flees. And fortitude ; for vainly torrents press The battle home against his battlement : 48 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH The reinforcements under monsoon stress Surge, fall, and flee his adamant intent. Strong suns may beat and night-born frosts may bind, But his brave heart remains invincible ; The wheeling years renew their feet to find Him scarred and seared but crowned and dominant still. Bounteous as God, of his own self he gives, Earth of his earth, that the wide plains may bear His opulence that plentifully lives In unturned leagues, on lands loaned to the share. On veld born of his gaunt and rutted flanks He turns a flood of generating heat ; He lures the rain-cloud that the waiting ranks Of corn and vine may feel the life-blood beat. Fidelity that standeth by her own, And constancy that neither death nor life Can shake : he keeps his silent watch alone. The strong winds swiftly summoned to the strife Bluster and pass ; the transient shadows flee ; Morn, noon, and eve usurp the precedent place ; He stays, the sentinel of eternity, Flanking his vales : keeper of time and space. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 49 And heart of grace ; or day-dawn would not seek His hoary crests with such young bloom to dress, Magnanimous the heart beneath the peak Where morning lavishes her loveliness. High-day would not heap on her focussed fires Save in warm gratitude for his good will ; Eve would not linger on his softened spires, Did she not know the heart within the hill. A heart to home to, else within his holds Leopard and eagle would not bask and nest ; Snows would not feed the fountains he enfolds, The young copse would not so securely rest. The hill-folk know the hospitable height, And carol to his silence ; the reply Rings from his tops through the pellucid light To the still shadows where the homesteads lie. 50 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH NATURE AND ART. " The damaske rose which is sweeter in the still than on the stalke." (John Lyly.) TRANSLATION of the face of earth and sea To canvas, written page, or sounding chord, Leaves a vast long-accumulated hoard Of wealth for every gem it takes ; and he, Freed from his setting, changes wondrously, Losing and gaining lustre with accord ; For powerless are colour, note, and word To catch the whole, to sum infinity. The rainbow is beyond them and the stars, And so they lavish all their tenderness Upon the changeling ; spending on his dress The last of all the treasure that is theirs ; That's why I love my picture of a boat On fancy's chartless seas proudly afloat. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 51 A GREY DAY. WEARY of colour and light, Of gardens and streets ablaze, It came in my soul's sore plight Like Sunday among the days ; Like violets among flowers, Like a cave along a bay, It came in the early hours, That morning dressed in grey. Dazed with distance and height Of kranz and kopje and star, My eyes were glad of respite From straining to fix the far ; But when the ceiling of grey Shut out the arch of blue, There wasn't a nook of the day I didn't go peering into. Hand in hand with the grey There seemed to walk the still, 52 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH And the nearness of things to gainsay Their silence seemed to thrill ; Even at late high morn On the garden there rested a hush : I looked out over the lawn Expecting to see a thrush. The afternoon's slow march Was tuned to the tone of a hymn, I seemed to be in a church, The light was so grey and dim ; An avenue of gum In long and slender file Of pillars still and dumb Flanked a cathedral aisle. But when the night crept on And grey grew into gloom, The darkening cloud-bank dun Oppressed like the wall of a room ; I longed for a break of blue And a great bright flooding wave Of sunlight pouring through Every nook of the dreary cave. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 53 THE WALK. DOWN the hill by a zig-zag path, Rough and o'ergrown, the aftermath Of heavy summer rains, we struck The plain where the dogs had the great good luck To find a wood to nose right through. And while they followed spoor of sorts Through every glade and bush, the forts Of fur and feather trampling ; I held the narrow light-brown ring Of shadow, that the thin trees fling When the sun's near the top of the arch of blue. Reluctantly we left the cover And stepped out into the flood together ; The two dogs panting from the sport Heightened the heat, the dachsi sought The streak of shadow between my feet. But when it seemed that we must melt, A cooling wind stole over the veld ; 54 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH It tempered the sudden glaring shock, The dogs their ears began to cock At rustles about each bush and rock, And ranged to find the still hare's seat. A full hour now we forged ahead, The broad veld track was sandy and red, The grasses waved in a steady breeze, A scraggy avenue of trees Fenced the spreading plain for a while ; Thence to the poort where spruyt and train Meander through the low berg-chain, The track dipped and the summer rains Had left it flooded ; while I was at pains To make a detour, there were canine gains : A drink and a bath the way to beguile. Beyond the poort we met a man ; His face was tired, the sweat still ran, The short grey sprouts on the deep-tan ground Told sun-up labour : he had not found The time to shave on a Sabbath mom. A glad " Good day ! " and then the tale Which, save by contrast, sounded stale : SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 55 While I'd been trying my rhymes to stitch, Tuning thoughts and words to a pitch, He'd been dragging a cow from a ditch, Had saved her and a calf new-born. Was it for want of a breeze we pined ? (We'd turned for home and it followed behind) Or was it the heat of the climbing day That heightened the tedium of the way ? The morning zest had diminished by half. I could not banish the haunting fear Which clung like the thought of a face austere, That all the labour I might bring To the making of songs I tried to sing, Wouldn't equal at liberal reckoning The worth of a cow and a new-born calf. 56 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH A PRAYER. OH ! Thou Who in the morning years Made the slow pulses throb, Steeled us against the shivering fears, Stifled the lust to rob, Shaped us with keen-edged eastern winds, Cooled us with winter snows, Warmed us behind the close-drawn blinds, Taught us how honour glows, Thrilled us on wide-flung moor and fell, Braced us in summer seas, Stilled us in shadowed vale and dell, Laid us 'neath spreading trees, Drove us through rainy wind-swept streets, Drenched us with icy showers, Roused us from bitterest defeats, Held us in panic hours, Lengthened the grey of summer night, Scented the new-mown hay, Speeded the swallow's wheeling flight, Tuned us love's roundelay ; SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 57 Be with us in these autumn days, In this our southern home, Steady our eyes to the searching rays, Hand us when far we roam, Give us a lead across the veld, Bellow the slow camp fire, Walk with us through the fever belt, Quench the quick-rising ire, Waken us at the rosy dawn, Renew the tired eve, Kindle the green on the crazy thorn, Unmask the make-believe, Stablish us facing the zigzag spear, Temper the deaf 'ning peal, Steady the feet of the flying year, Break humanity's seal, Illumine the canopy overhead, Darken the welcoming stoep, Level the roughs of the paths we tread, Carry the souls that droop. 58 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH REVERIE. THE curtain of the night has veiled the sun, The last thin line of green is now shut out ; The last red shaft his upward way has won, The wheel has taken one more turn about. The day is gone : the dark holds heaven and earth, Save where an invasive star is breaking through ; Or where the street lamp lights up leisure's birth, Signals the end of what we're called to do. The spoken word is said, the ink is dry That locks the written word with master key ; In the archives of the day the records lie, Naught can unsay, erase the history. The iron's forged and hangs upon the nail, The chips are chiselled from the rounded shaft ; Well done or ill, nothing can now avail To undo the done of eye and hand and craft. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 59 Who would recall the word, the shaft, the shoe ? They stand the best of what we have to give ; To-morrow we will face the task anew, To-night we'll live as we may choose to live. Shall music fill the spaces of the night : Chorus and song, and swelling symphony ? Or shall romance speed on the free hours' flight Till we have shared the hero's victory ? Why search the shelves ? There's many a rousing song And circumstance in every plain man's tale ; Though on the scroll the dull drab details throng, The shining hour they never can assail. We'll stroll from Westminster to Piccadilly And down the long broad highway to the Park ; The afternoon is fine and, willy-nilly, The crowd will bear us, as the waves a bark. The jostle and the roar, the grave, the gay, We'll meet breast-wise the throbbing human tide ; And English faces, voices, by the way, Shall thrill our very souls with joy and pride. 60 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH The morning's early and the tide is high, We'll take a header from the old quay wall, And feel the rosy ripples lapping by, As on the cool strong sea we rise and fall. We'll take the track that winds across the moor, The bracken will be wet but we're well shod ; We'll send the rabbits lobbing down their spoor, And hear the lark scaling the heights of God. Over the brow there is a falling glen Where, on a day, a thousand waters ran ; The larch-glades cool are little sought of men, And we may chance to hear the feet of Pan. The village inn, the welcome open door, The burly host, laconic, red, and hale, The ham-hung ceiling and the cold stone floor We'll take the settle and a pint of ale. The church upon the hill : it is so still And restful in the fading evening light ; The old folks sleep there peacefully until The last trump calls them into God's own sight. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 61 THE POINT OF VIEW. A tree will hide a county, A rock a vale ; A word will block a bounty, A wall a gale ; Come out into the light, then, And shun the shade ; Let nothing shroud the sight when The truth's displayed. 62 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH LE MIEUX EST L'ENNEMI DU BIEN. Is anything the matter with the now That we must still be straining to the next ? The next will soon be now, and anyhow There's mockery lurking in the fond pretext Of a good time coming that will bring Emancipation, a great enfranchising. The chin may be too high for vision clear, The happy valley's not beyond the hill, A stretch of pleasant country here and near Is awaiting a good husbandman to till : See the seer in his cabbage patch, His pipe's out ; he forgets to strike a match. To run a tiring race and not know where The tape is, not to see the winning-post, To course around in circles like a hare, And not know which is hunter, which is host, Will leave you of a devil fast possessed, And loose the hounds of envy and unrest. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 63 Some men there are who cannot see the fair For straining for a fairer yet to be, Who cannot sit at ease and fill a chair And make one of a jovial company : Their eyes are roving sideways and beyond Their lips are moving but do not respond. A journey is a long addition sum, A totting of the stations or the log ; The wide majestic auditorium A blank or at the best a dreary fog ; And life itself becomes a terminus That's never reached, the content but a curse. The working day's an empty row of chimes That slowly ring the dreary hours out ; The working week's a series of six times To turn the revolving calendar about ; The playing hours an artificial chase Of a phantom, and the only goal is pace. The dinner is a prelude to the play, Presided over by a waiting tram ; The stall will have a feather in the way, The next act has the song and epigram ; 64 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH " We'd better leave before the curtain falls And miss ' God save the king ! ' and the recalls." The walk is but a Bradshaw underlined, A bald coincidence of place and clock ; The hurry there an empty striding grind, The hurry back a cold shirt and a shock : An item of the programme's out of gear, We should be there, and " Curse it ! " we are here. 'Twere better just to know bird calls to bird To hear but not constrainedly to listen ; To know but scarce to see that of the herd A-browsing, fifty red-roan quarters glisten ; To be content to be a sounding-board And let nature have the choosing of the chord. To know, not see, that butterflies still pass, That still the industrious ants invade the ground ; To feel, in spite of crickets in the grass, The splendour of the silence all around ; To spread out a relaxed and waiting soul, And let nature have the filling of the scroll. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 65 SIRIUS IN THE SOUTH. LEST we forget, our mindful mother earth Ever wheels on in silent axial sweep, Discovering to her careless, wandering sons A loved and long familiar tract of sky, Wedded with youth and its unquenched fires. From out his violet bed in the moonless night Across the dark, washed clean by recent rains, Bold Sirius darts his rays of green and red, A diamond of restless brilliancy, Out-dazzling all the host of lesser lights That twinkle round him. King of the southern sky He reigns in radiant splendour. Yet he lacks The friendliness and soft solicitude Wherewith he dominates the northern night And vigilates a cradling summer sea. 66 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH THE CALL. COME up with me unto the hills ; They compass sanity : the ills Of man world-old Will find a balm in their blue length, And weakness will awake to strength Where they unfold. Come out with me into the plains ; Their green obliterates the stains That mar the scroll ; Their waving grasses and long leagues Transmute the dreary dull intrigues That choke the soul. Come forth with me into the night, And let its stillness speed the flight Of restless care ; The great peace of the firmament, The steady restful stars, are sent To solve despair. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 67 Oh ! come into the shining day ; Let the clean radiance now gainsay Poor night-born schemes ; Let the strong sunrshafts here beget High courage, and the red sunset Mother day-dreams. Oh ! shed the husk of wall and roof, Take cover in the sunlit kloof, Arise and go Where herd and goats nimbly ascend, Where the long landscapes never end, Where aloes blow. 68 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH AN EVENING WIND. FOR hours the clouds have enveloped the sky In a grey-blue funeral pall ; Riding low and lowering high They have threatened but failed to fall ; Sulkily drifting off to the west They have stifled the evening light ; The wind now ranges his steeds abreast To harry them in their flight. He sweeps along at an easy pace As though secure of his prey ; The gums, forsooth ! must seek to brace Their plumes to block his way ; For a moment they venture to check his stride, Claiming a victory In a long low hiss, as they sweep aside And nod in childish glee. % But now his coursers rear on high, He calls them to the assault ; SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 69 Hoofs on the earth, manes in the sky, They thunder across the vault. The gums sway back from root to crown And roar and creak and groan ; His front afar, his wake dies down To a long low deep-toned moan. Again a hiss, a roar, and a moan ! His music marches free, He seems to be seeking a lost key-tone, The theme of a symphony. The wild long chorus unrehearsed Echoes now in fancy free On a long shore where the rocks are nursed On the breast of a swelling sea. Now the song of the wind is the song of the wave As it gently curls and breaks ; The stones roll back in falling octave Down the slope of the white spume-flakes ; Tis the song of the breaker mounting high And falling with sullen roar : The song that resounds to eternity Along the lone seashore. 70 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH A WINTER AFTERNOON. THE afternoon is bright ; the air is still and cold ; The silence is the silence of South Africa That ever seems at breaking point yet never breaks. The shiver of the pendant leaves That vainly seek to hide the blue gum's nakedness, Is all that tells of life. The remorseless shade Of living death and cold dead life Creeps silent on the soul. When hark ! the mount- ing song Of man's last chanticleer, the throbbing car ! It rends the silence and the voice is Africa's, Not alien, but the vibrant song of her young waking life. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 71 A SUMMER AFTERNOON. THE leaden brooding sky of one short hour ago, Inverted ridges and down-pointing promontories Of grey and blue and black, Has spent itself in sweeping hissing sheets of rain, To the accompaniment of zig-zag flash and rocking peal, While man and beast and all inanimate circumstance Could only cower and wait. And now the sunset sky is one long range of flame, Lighting the western face of house and hill and tree With a wild crimson aftermath of dying rage. Suddenly to two gaunt battered boles of gum The destiny is given to catch the ruddy glare And soften it. They stand suffused, Twin silent harbingers of quiet peaceful night. So shall it surely be the lot Of some rude derelict of war's ungovernable rage, 72 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH A grave of glorious dead, a broken trench of victory, To herald in an hour of resurrected hope, When the brute paradox of war shall lie behind And peace shall lie before. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 73 GREEN AND GOLD. A WESTERN flood has filled the open alley With the warm evening light ; The dark green firs shut out the slumbering valley And the grey kranz's height. The wash of summer rains has soothed the grasses, And every frond and leaf Is radiant with a green that all surpasses Description and belief. A step it is into the glowing flood, The yellow silent tide ; And the green silence of the flanking wood Another step aside. A cricket and a single piping bird Share the still scene with me ; And yet their notes incessant have not stirred The great tranquillity. 74 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH A presence holds this silent vestibule Of living green and gold ; The warm radiance and the coloured shadows cool Vitality enfold : Strong silent life, a tide without a wave, Moving the memory : Wedding the peace of a cathedral nave To pulsings of the sea. Is this the key : spark of coincidence Of place and man and hour ? The presence is the child of circumstance, Of ray, and leaf, and shower ? I do not know, and do not stop to ask, It is enough for me That beauty's self should here and now unmask, Unfold infinity. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 75 THE RANKER. I HAVE no voice To sing the song that rings through souls of men ; Hymn thou the choice That leads to life and hope and honour ; then Hear my " Amen ! " Direct my eyes You that can pierce the smoke and scan the flame ; Point me the skies Of unveiled truth, burning and cloudless ; name My goal the same. Track the lone sands You that are bold and strong to rein and steer ; Cut the tight bands That circle faltering feet that fear ; and hear Our soul-born cheer. Blaze us the trail You that can pioneer through forests deep ; 76 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH We are not frail In following, the trust we'll guard and keep Till we shall sleep. Sound the long peal You that have heard fired freedom's clarion call ; The rankers reel For lack of unison, but captained, all Will fight or fall. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 77 THE SEA. BANISHED the sea ! then heaven's fires light in vain The day and night ; in vain magnificence Of earth unfolds ; there is no solace, no, Nor recompense. The changeless arch of blue Roofs the long uplands, bounds the abyss of light In unflecked majesty, but cannot stay The throb for sea-born billows beating true. The sea is nature's woman, the warm heart That sends the glowing pulses through her sons. Banished the sea ! then earth's a sepulchre. Oh ! mother sea ! The sun has scaled the heights That rim the east, his level morning beams Search all the length of the yet sleeping vale For fragmentary welcome : here a gum Spreads his thin arms and speeds a wavering smile ; There a gaunt gable, hard and indolent, Yawns drowsy greeting ; yonder waking cow Blinks in reluctance at the opening day ; 78 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH But, for the rest, the long vale hugs the shade, Turning its back upon effulgent dawn. The miracle has gone, and left but light Ere sleepy nature stirs. Oh ! for thy thrill When every wave leaps up to meet the sun, And throws it back transmuted to the morn, A thousand rays at once, rosy with love : Thy throbbing pulsing heart all animate. The sleeper in the eastern room starts up, Throws wide the casement, takes the wide suntrail With 'tranced eyes and parted trembling lips, Then through the door, across the yielding sand, Up the rock-face, on to the lapping marge : One long deep breath, the poise before the spring, And to thy heart he leaps through the green flood That holds him, folds him, laves his cleaving limbs Until they rest exulting on thy breast. Oh ! mother sea ! The breezes cross the plains On faltering feet ; they hesitate and halt, Their march all spent upon the hot parched earth, Or bluster heat-impregnated and scorch What waits for cooling ; then they leap aloft In wild and whirling vortices that sweep Dead leaves and pillar'd dust up to the blue. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 79 Canst thou not loose a swinging brine-steeped gale So full, so strong, so resolute, so winged, That all the thirsty interposed leagues Cannot exhaust it till it floods the cheek And eyes and hair, and all around me sings Of wave and cliff, of gull and albatross ? Oh ! mother sea ! these curving contour waves, Cold, petrified, and silent through all time, Ridge after ridge caught and for ever held, Their very crests curled over for the fall, These troughed and tranquil vales they call the main In flood of memory irresistible, Yet but to banish it in mockery The keener for their very steadfastness. Oh ! for the waters' gay inconstancy, The tireless swinging greybacks running free, The breaking green, the lazy foamless tide, The long-drawn growl when combers whelm the rocks, The purr of knee-deep spume called home again, The rippling laughter up the rough-ribbed sand, The gurgling chuckle 'long the low quay-wall, The babble when the boat sleeps head to tide, 80 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH The long-resounding roar beneath the cliffs, The moaning on the bar, the lullaby That sings all through the dreamy summer night, The matin challenge through the rosy dawn. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 81 THE MOON'S TREK. VEILING her face With maiden grace She leaves her lover, the sun ; But shyly peeps When from the deeps Stars twinkle one by one. Riding high In the northern sky In an anchorage of blue ; On outstretched wing When vespers ring, To keep her lover in view. Rising serene In silver sheen As he sinks red in the west ; Queen of the night, Speeding his flight In her bridal splendour dressed. 82 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH Faint and pale On the homeward trail, Her course is nearly run ; A last outspan In the morning's van And her long lone trek is done. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 83 BEFORE THE STORM. FROM six till six, from sun-up till sun-under, We've kept the road, allowing for outspans, With four good mules, as good as any man's, And thirty miles the tale ! But can you wonder ? All day we've been pursued by flash and thunder, All day we've swallowed grit from dried-up pans ; All day the following wind with fiery fans Has raised the dust and made the leaders blunder. We've been the fulcrum for the sun's long lever, The focus for his hot straight-shafted rays ; We've felt a thirst like that of raging fever As up the glare of each long slope we've walked ; Now the hot night in blotting out the blaze Has loosed the storm that all day long has stalked. 84 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH WITHOUT AND WITHIN. THE arresting splendour of the southern morning, When from the shore of night, The cool dark shadow of the deep stoep scorning, We plunge into the light, Holds us enthralled ; but brighter is the ray Of hope that starts despairing manhood once more on his way. The sensuous beauty of the southern plain, When the young mantle green, Responsive to the wash of tropic rain, Puts on its summer sheen, Is nature's masterpiece ; but fairer far Is the fresh front of innocence without a stain to mar. The lowering terror of the southern heaven, When the brown avalanche Before the fast-pursuing winds is driven, And furrowed cheeks must blanch, SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 85 Is like a doom ; but doom itself is there When judgment for a mean thing done is imminent and bare. The quiet peace that fills the southern night, When from the sea of day, Sunworn and weary of the long-fought fight, We land where dark holds sway, Is nature's benison ; but God's own gift Is that great peace that comes when haunting fears are cast adrift. 86 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH A WINDY MORNING. CLEAN sunlit cold, hiss of the tree-tops swaying, Wedding of sun and wind 'neath a green nave, Strong forest seas, riot of green limbs playing, Movement and melody, song of the wave. Blue-shadowed hills, careless of wind and weather, Still barriers, fronting the restless plain, Long yellow leagues, rippling in light endeavour, Green oases, calling for rest again. Cloud-laden skies, white wind-borne fleeces sailing, Piled on the horizon, shunning the higher blue, A morning moon, faint in the light and paling, A sheaf of golden sun-shafts breaking through. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 87 FREEDOM. WHEN you are rid of baggage packed to bursting : Habit and mood and all the slough of self, Grey hungry care and envy ever thirsting When they are with the lumber on the shelf ; Then you will laugh to hear the young cock crowing, Attuned you'll turn toward the bovine note ; Piping from copse will set your pulses glowing, You'll feel the quiver in the songster's throat. When there's an end of wasted breath of wailing, Of telling the long tally of your needs ; When throes of doubt no longer are assailing, And seeking crumbs of credit for your deeds ; The yellow litter carpeting the wide road Will mind you of the quickly-marching days, Of branches freed the burden of a dead load, Of twigs renewed of wind and autumn rays. 88 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH When no new crust heaps up the day's desiring, When rage is banished from his dark abode ; When vain regret is dead as vain aspiring, When fear has fled and hate has lost his goad ; The crazy scrub will call you to the grey kranz, Grasses will beckon from the waiting kloof ; Chrysanthemums will greet you with a shy glance, And yet reluctantly remain aloof. When your worn soul with shackles all encumbered, No longer stalks ambition shod with spleen, No longer pirouettes in roles unnumbered, Yourself spectator and yourself the scene : Riding, hiding, through the cloud and out again, The moon will swing serene across the vault ; Stars will pale before the great orb's kind disdain, While before her coming the planets halt. Sighing, crying, gums will greet the evening breeze, Plumes will sway in shy rhythmic delight ; Shadows will chequer the broad highway between the trees, Changing into fairyland the summer night. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 89 Homing, roaming, loth to leave the lonely glade, Murmuring the music of love's young dream, Youth will wander across the light and through the shade, Challenging the moonrays with love's soft gleam. 90 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH TWO VOICES. THIS way, infinity and freedom wild, The flung luxuriance of kranz and veld, The long green stretches undulating far And slowly climbing to the dim blue line A broad and stately sea of continent Rising and falling as the slow winds will. Here there is room enough for shadows blue Vast as a county : now they pause, and now Glide silently across the sunlit space ; In the cool interval before they pass A long-drawn deep intoxicating breath Sets nature throbbing. Yonder browsing herd, A hundred strong, is but a zig-zag line Upon the further hillside. A slow train With fleecy ensign, winding through the poort, Creeps like a caterpillar o'er the veld, Moving in silence till its whistle shrill Rouses the loud remonstrance of the kloof. This way immensity ; no rival eye SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 91 Sharing dominion of the vista vast, Save where a vulture, poised on crescent wing, Looks down from his pavilion in the blue. This way the town, this way the walled-in streets Encumbered with the rumbling squealing trams, The undulating song of cylinders, The crash and rush of motor-bicycles, The creeping waggon and the trailing cab. This way the iron roads, the open square Glaring in focussed southern light, the air Ablaze and resonant with discordant sounds. But this way, too, the faces of the street : The human freight of wheeling tram and car, The jostle and tumultuous delight Of good human propinquity ; the stream Of men and women, maybe in the main Hard and austere, care too predominant And joy too rare ; yet it is warm and known, And animate as we are animate. The grasses and the plains, aloes and crags, Are mute and irresponsive ; in their midst In solitude more deep than of the sea. Here we're at home, among our kith and kin. Though the prevailing colour may be grey, 92 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH Now and anon the crown of womanhood, Manhood in strength, the dignity of age, And childhood's innocent and trusting eye, Flash out and lo ! God walks once more with men. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 93 SUNSET IN THE EAST. BEFORE the eye of science the riddle solved itself ; Did not indeed exist ; but to the wondering gaze Of plain untrammelled man a miracle it seemed That on the farthest limit of the eastern bound A peak should stand rose- flushed, and owe its wondrous light To the sinking lord of the west : that o'er the arc of eve, Across the vast abyss of heaven, the far-flung rays Should find a resting-place there in the shadowy east, And radiate the fast-accumulating gloom With the last lingering beauty of the dying day. The rose peak found his soul and told the glorious tale Of lone hearts flushed with unexpected joy ; of nights Made bright by penetrating rays whose origin Is neither known nor sought. 94 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH A SUMMER MORNING. HEAVEN high and far Oh ! the wide sweep of it And the great deep of it- Radiant with day's bright star. A copse cradling here Oh ! the deep green of it And the soft sheen of it Waving a word of good cheer. A range resting there Oh ! the blue length of it And the wild strength of it- Asleep in the morning air. A valley between Oh ! the great peace of it, God has the lease of it Spreading its carpet of green. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 95 A hawk in the sky Oh ! the glad sight of it And the swift flight of it- Sweeping and poising on high. A hum all around Oh ! the low croon of it And the full noon of it- Housed in a silence profound. A breeze from the north Oh ! the soft rush of it And the warm blush of it Lazily seeking the south. The sun on his way Oh ! the high arch of it And the blue march of it Would he were willing to stay ! 96 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH AD VALOREM. No other test we ask, nor scale nor rod, Than this : how we do stand in sight of God. Stripped of all subterfuge and trick and dress, We ask for judgment, neither more nor less, According to our worth. If that be naught, Cast us at once aside without a thought ; But if we stand in credit on the gauge, Give us our chance, give us man's heritage. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 97 NORTHWARD O ! So the morn you'll mount the gangway and hear the shore-bell sound, You'll feel the good ship gliding from the quay ; You'll swing around the pier-head and the throbbing screws will pound Beneath the lazy pulsing of the sea. You'll stand along the shore-rail and watch the contours gleam In the light of the slowly- westing sun ; You'll hear the blaff of grey-backs, you'll see the spume a-stream, And " Northward O ! " the voyage is begun ! Then the days will run together in a glad monotony Filled out with running seas and clouded dome ; You'll be cabined in the glory of a wild immensity, And the snoring trades will speed the journey home. 98 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH You'll swelter through the doldrums and sweat across the line, You'll mark again the miracle of landfall ; You'll anchor at the Islands and socially combine To pay the usual hurried morning call. You'll meet the P.O. liner abreast of Finisterre, And pity the poor beggars outward-bound ; Impatient at the short'ning log across the Bay you'll fare, And wake to hear the Channel ..foghorns sound. Oh ! the Channel and the Needles and the Water and the quay, The run in the May morning up to town ! The quivering panorama of six thousand miles of sea Now fades before the hedgerow and the down. Now Capricorn is bartered for fifty north the line, And the longitude is England's ! Oh ! the green, The homesteads and the rivers, the horses and the kine, The old, the loved, the choking English scene ! SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 99 I can see you stepping down at dirty Waterloo, Why ! the porter gruff of ten long years ago ! The bookstall and the faces : it is, it is all true ! You hardly dared believe and now you know. When you've had your fill of London you'll hurtle to the north Or down the fat Thames valley to the west ; Your eyes and heart will fill again on the spot that gave you birth, When lips and hands by your own folk are pressed. Then the wistfulness of moorland, the freedom of the fell, The short turf on the cliff-head by the sea, The shining sands of morning, the steady lazy swell, The salt spume when the boat is running free, The purple of the heather, the yellow of the corn, The tingle when the rain beats on the cheek, The lark still singing skyward, the mavis on the lawn, The cawing when the rooks the elm-tops seek 100 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH Oh ! I hear it all and see it all and envy you the spell, And you'll carry home the message from my heart ; But I know there'll break a morning when you'll wave a last farewell As you're heading " Southward O ! " abreast The Start. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 101 THE GAME. OUT on the court, in the sun, In the keen strong afternoon light ; Work's account has been duly paid, Now there's only the game to be played, Maid and man against man and maid, Out there in coolest white : The game's begun. No one calls for a halt, Gleaming white in the sun, Back and fore the figures glide, The ball is driven from side to side, Out or in as the swaying tide Of the game runs gaily on ; That's a fault ! Faster and yet more fast, Every stroke must now be tried : 102 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH Forward drive, long, swift, and low, Lob to the line and back they go, Volley quick, " Game all ! " and so The game is fought for the side : Set at last ! You who like the red on the brown And the game eleven a side, The cut past point to the off-side rails, The break-back that just takes the bails, The drive that over the pavilion sails, The catch taken in the stride Low down ; You who like the white on the green Sitting clear in the long fairway, The two-twenty drive, low, clean, and true, The cleek that takes you up in two, The putt when the pill plumps out of view, The honour that crowns the play All, I ween, Will chorus the song I sing Of a week rounded off with a ball ; SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 103 Whether served from the line or driven from the tee Or bowled from the crease it matters not a D So long as the game's played cheerfully By men and maidens all : Hear the ping ! 104 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH EVENING AND MORNING. SOME sing the eve when the low western rays Are all shut out from dark'ning northern streets, And the encroaching shadows slowly mount The eastern walls ; while in the gardens still The dusk climbs up the silent patient trees Until their tops alone remain aglow As with an aureole. At even pace Peace creeps upon the weary heart of man And holds it rested ; the memory of the sun Is but an afterglow of genial warmth, Transmuted from the fires of dying day. It is an hour serene, worthy a song, Worthy, indeed, a full orchestral theme. Yet how can eve compare with birth of morn When the springing east, passing his barriers, Floods the awaking vale with fresh strong light ? For a brief while the shadows hold their ground, Disputing earth's dominion with the sun, Providing a last sanctuary for the dew. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 105 But shade and earth-born shower are soon o'er- whelmed Beneath the rising front of day's strong tide ; And young and old, launched in its influence, Mounting aloft on resolution's crest, Ride gaily out on fortune's boundless sea. So east means more than west, morn more than eve, As flood more yet than ebb, light more than dark. 106 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH UP WIND AND SUN. TREAD a wide glade, the sun upon the beam, The wind behind, And you will find A tree a hard grey glare ; The track a cut-out, rolled and bare ; Through you fare, Bereft the litter of a waking dream. But face about and walk up wind and sun And lo ! a scene Verdant, serene, Twin sun-steeped living flanks ; Come, take your stand between the ranks, Render your thanks, And in this windy roofless nave breathe orison. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 107 BY THE CAMP FIRE, GIVE us a song ! This silence is the music of the dead ; Ring it along ! We'll chorus it, the embers still burn red, The stars will give the echo overhead. Let it acclaim The jingle of the ride into the sun ; Full-throated blame For falterers, praise full-lunged for the run Onward and onward till the goal is won. Give us a toast ! Nay, it is mine ! to Britain and her sons ! Her sea-worn coast, Her ships that guard, her men that man the guns, To every drop of British blood that runs ! 108 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH Brim one more glass ! Here ! let us see the colour in the light ! Each to his lass ! May the good God now keep her in his sight, And cherish her throughout the coming night ! SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 109 AWAKE ! NEVER a song When the east you scan, And soft mists throng In the morning's van ? There's room for a song under day's blue span Never a smile When the blue wreaths curl On the long hill pile, When the clouds unfurl ? There's a rosy fleece that's just a pearl ! Never a laugh For the calling breeze ? Can't you hear the sough In the swaying trees ? Why, the mealies are cackling at their ease ! Never a word Of answering cheer, 110 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH When the waiting bird Is calling near ? There's a message the cricket would have you hear ! Never a spring Up the kopje side ? Look at the swing Of the kaffir's stride ; Won't you mount on the morning's rising tide ? Never a sigh To greet the shade ? Measure the high And arching glade ; Your palace of green is ready-made ! Never a glance At the bubbling pool ? Born in the kranz It is clear and cool ; To pass it by is the way of a fool. Never a nod To the crescent moon, To the gift of God SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 111 To late afternoon ? The sun will be under the kopje soon. Never an eye For the fires of the west ? The embers die On the long berg-crest ; They harbinger the dark and rest. Never a prayer To starry night ? Consign your care To the infinite ; There's never a cloud to stay its flight ! 112 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH EACH HIS TASK. To him the laurel of the stricken field, He wings the heights, a third the deeps will yield Victory ; and glory be to God who steels Hearts that shall conquer, hands that hold the wheels. Our privilege to do what they would ask : To prosecute unmoved the daily task, To tread the trodden paths, to feed the fires That still light up the hearth where faith aspires. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 113 SOUTHWARD O ! AR'NT you weary harrying pleasure ? The trees are bare of leaves, The woods are dead, and sodden to the heel ; Ar'nt you weary of the dripping of the rain from off the eaves ? There was warning in the swallows' southern wheel. The days are short, the streets are bleak, you huddle by the fire, Or watch the arc-lamp glimmering on the square ; The morning has no lift in it, it's full of fog and mire, Sun-up is murky twilight, starshine's rare. Buttoned to your buried chin you bend before the blast : j November sleet and summer is begun ! Ah ! there it is ! the long-pent truth comes flooding home at last : You know that you are aching for the sun. 114 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH Aching for the southern sun, craving for the veld, All through the encroaching night and yielding day ; You see the far blue sky-line where kranz and kopje melt, You hear the silence calling : " Come away ! " For you may damp the fire down through the months and through the years, Piling up a crust of lumber mined from ease ; But when southern night is calling, when the shining distance stirs, No walls and streets will hold you, nor no seas. Now London is a vision far astern the Union Mail, Unless your girl's behind your glance is fore ; The buffet through the Bay has blotted out the northern trail, To the south and to the sun your track you bore. Somewhere off Gibraltar the bite will leave the gale, You'll begin to square your shoulders to the full ; You'll turn half-left to Africa and lean on the port- rail To watch the sun- trail dancing on the swell. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 115 Madeira's gone, and whites are on, the chairs are in the shade, Cape Verde is three hours under, well abeam ; The human tide swings deckwards and coteries are made, You're forgetting to remember or to dream. You leave it to the engines when you've seen her round the curve, And the course is south-south-east down to the Bay ; The long leg is before her and you know she will not swerve ; You're tuned down to the lazy roundelay. Now and again at sunrise the majesty of morn, And at sundown serenity of eve, The cloven green tons for'ard, the far-spread fan astern, Reveal the real, blot out the make-believe. The sun is well behind you, you have found the Southern Cross, You bend to southern trades beneath the bridge ; The white-caps are assailing the unruffled albatross, Contemptuously scaling each long ridge. 116 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH Table Mountain front of sunrise and in rear of Table Bay, Robben-Island and the quickly-tiering town In the glare of Afric's dawning ! " Oh ! we have come to stay " The pier-head and the quay the gangway's down ! SONGS FROM THE SOUTH 117 AT THE END OF THE DAY. WHERE will you have your chair At the end of a long-fought day : In a well-lit room with an open door, Your pipe alight, the rugs on the floor Held by the dogs, the fire a-roar, The piano inviting a lay ? Seldom there. When the screws are pounding true At the end of a good day's run, Will you lean against the starboard rail, And follow the spread of the long moon-trail To where it ends in an opal pale, While the ship drives bravely on ? That'll do. On the stoep is all not well With an outlook on to the night ? The moon's half up the eastern sky, 118 SONGS FROM THE SOUTH The plumes of the gums are riding high In a breeze that whispers a lullaby, And never a cloud in sight For a spell. On a lawn shall I set your chair ? It runs straight down to the strand ; The tide is high and a summer sea Here on the rocks is breaking free, There it is racing gleefully Across the yellow sand Fix it there ! PRINTED BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD., AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW, GREAT BRITAIN UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-32m-8,'57(.C8680s4)444 THJfi LJtfKAKI / OF CAUFUKMt LOB ANGELES 6001 Songs from the A22sSouth_ A 000 493 1 1 5 o PR 6001 A22s