Читать книгу The Poetry of South Africa - Various - Страница 27

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We met in the midst of the neutral ground,

’Mong the hills where the buffalo’s haunts are found;

And we joined in the chase of the noble game,

Nor asked each other of nation or name.

The buffalo bull wheeled suddenly round,

When first from my rifle he felt a wound;

And, before I could gain the Umtóka’s bank,

His horns were tearing my courser’s flank.

That instant a ball whizzed past my ear,

Which smote the beast in his fierce career;

And the turf was drenched with purple gore,

As he fell at my feet with a bellowing roar.

The stranger came galloping up to my side,

And greeted me with a bold huntsman’s pride:

Full blithely we feasted beneath a tree;—

Then out spoke the Forester, Arend Plessie.

“Stranger, we now are true comrades sworn;

Come pledge me thy hand while we quaff the horn.

Thou’rt an Englishman good, and thy heart is free,

And ’tis therefore I’ll tell my story to thee.

“A Heemraad of Camdebóo was my sire;

He had flocks and herds to his heart’s desire,

And bondmen and maidens to run at his call,

And seven stout sons to be heirs of all.

“When we had grown up to man’s estate,

Our father bid each of us choose a mate,

Of Fatherland blood, from the black taint free, As became a Dutch burgher’s proud degree.

“My brothers they rode to the Bovenland,

And each came with a fair bride back in his hand;

But I brought the handsomest bride of them all— Brown Dinah, the bondmaid who sat in our hall.

“My father’s displeasure was stern and still;

My brothers’ flamed forth like a fire on the hill;

And they said that my spirit was mean and base,

To lower myself to the servile race.

“I bade them rejoice in their herds and flocks,

And their pale-faced spouses with flaxen locks;

While I claimed for my share, as the youngest son,

Brown Dinah alone with my horse and gun.

“My father looked black as a thunder-cloud,

My brothers reviled me and railed aloud,

And their young wives laughed with disdainful pride,

While Dinah in terror clung close to my side.

“Her ebon eyelashes were moistened with tears,

As she shrank abashed from their venomous jeers:

But I bade her look up like a burgher’s wife—

Next day to be mine, if God granted life.

“At dawn brother Roelof came galloping home

From the pastures—his courser all covered with foam;

‘’Tis the Bushmen!’ he shouted; ‘haste friends to the spoor!

Bold Arend come help with your long-barrelled roer.’

“Far o’er Bruintjes-hoogtè we followed—in vain:

At length surly Roelof cried, ‘Slacken your rein;

We have quite lost the track’—Hans replied with a smile,

—Then my dark-boding spirit suspected their guile.

“I flew to our father’s. Brown Dinah was sold!

And they laughed at my rage as they counted the gold.

But I leaped on my horse, with my gun in my hand,

And sought my lost love in the far Bovenland.

“I found her; I bore her from Gauritz’ fair glen,

Through lone Zitzikamma, by forest and fen.

To these mountains at last like wild pigeons we flew,

Far, far from the cold hearts of proud Camdebóo.

“I’ve reared our rude shieling by Gola’s green wood,

Where the chase of the deer yields me pastime and food:

With my Dinah and children I dwell here alone,

Without other comrades—and wishing for none.

“I fear not the Bushman from Winterberg’s fell,

Nor dread I the Caffer from Kat River’s dell;

By justice and kindness I’ve conquered them both,

And the sons of the desert have pledged me their troth.

“I fear not the leopard that lurks in the wood,

The lion I dread not, though raging for blood;

My hand it is steady—my aim it is sure—

And the boldest must bend to my long-barrelled roer.

“The elephant’s buff-coat my bullet can pierce,

And the giant rhinoceros, headlong and fierce;

Gnu, eland, and buffalo furnish my board,

When I feast my allies like an African lord.

“And thus from my kindred and colour exiled,

I live like old Ismael lord of the wild—

And follow the chase with my hounds and my gun,

Nor ever repent the bold course I have run.

“But sometimes there sinks on my spirit a dread

Of what may befall when the turf’s on my head;

I fear for poor Dinah—for brown Rodomond

And dimple-faced Karel, the sons of the bond.

“Then tell me, dear Stranger, from England the free,

What good tidings bring’st thou for Arend Plessie?

Shall the Edict of Mercy be sent forth at last,

To break the harsh fetters of Colour and Caste?”

Thomas Pringle.