The Poetry of South Africa - Various

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MAKANNA’S GATHERING.

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      Wake! Amakósa, wake!

       And arm yourselves for war,

       As coming winds the forest shake,

       I hear a sound from far:

       It is not thunder in the sky,

       Nor lion’s roar upon the hill,

       But the voice of Him who sits on high,

       And bids me speak His will!

      He bids me call you forth,

       Bold sons of Káhabee,

       To sweep the white men from the earth,

       And drive them to the sea:

       The sea which heaved them up at first,

       For Amakósa’s curse and bane,

       Howls for the progeny she nurst,

       To swallow them again.

      Hark! ’tis Uhlanga’s voice

       From Debé’s mountain caves!

       He calls you now to make your choice—

       To conquer or be slaves:

       To meet proud Amanglézi’s guns,

       And fight like warriors nobly born:

       Or, like Umláo’s feeble sons,[12] Become the freeman’s scorn.

      Then come ye chieftains bold,

       With war plumes waving high;

       Come, every warrior, young and old,

       With club and assegai.

       Remember how the spoiler’s host

       Did through our land like locusts range!

       Your herds, your wives, your comrades lost—

       Remember—and revenge!

      Fling your broad shields away—

       Bootless against such foes;

       But hand to hand we’ll fight to-day

       And with their bayonets close.

       Grasp each man short his stabbing spear—

       And, when to battle’s edge we come,

       Rush on their ranks in full career,

       And to their hearts strike home!

      Wake! Amakósa, wake!

       And muster for the war:

       The wizard-wolves from Keisi’s brake,

       The vultures from afar,

       Are gathering at Uhlanga’s call,

       And follow fast our westward way—

       For well they know, ere evening-fall,

       They shall have glorious prey!

       Thomas Pringle.

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      Half way up Indoda[13] climbing, Hangs the wizard forest old, From whose shade is heard the chiming Of a streamlet clear and cold: With a mournful sound it gushes From its cavern in the steep; Then at once its wailing hushes In a lakelet dark and deep.

      Standing by the dark-blue water,

       Robed in panther’s speckled hide,

       Who is she? Jalúhsa’s daughter,

       Bold Makanna’s widowed bride.

       Stern she stands, her left hand clasping

       By the arm her wondering child:

       He, her shaggy mantle grasping,

       Gazes up with aspect wild.

      Thrice in the soft fount of nursing

       With sharp steel she pierced a vein—

       Thrice the white oppressor cursing,

       While the blood gushed forth amain—

       Wide upon the dark-blue water,

       Sprinkling thrice the crimson tide—

       Spoke Jalúhsa’s high-souled daughter,

       Bold Makanna’s widowed bride.

      “Thus into the Demon’s River

       Blood instead of milk I fling:

       Hear, Uhlanga—great Life-Giver!

       Hear, Togúh—Avenging King!

       Thus the Mother’s feelings tender

       In my breast I stifle now:

       Thus I summon you to render

       Vengeance for the Widow’s vow!

      “Who shall be the Chiefs avenger?

       Who the Champion of the Land?

       Boy! the pale Son of the Stranger

       Is devoted to thy hand. He who wields the bolt of thunder Witnesses thy Mother’s vow! He who rends the rocks asunder To the task shall train thee now!

      “When thy arm grows strong for battle,

       Thou shalt sound Makanna’s cry,

       Till ten thousand shields shall rattle

       To war-club and assegai:

       Then, when like hail-storm in harvest

       On the foe sweeps thy career,

       Shall Uhlanga whom thou servest,

       Make them stubble to thy spear!”

       Thomas Pringle.

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      Hark! heard ye the signals of triumph afar?

       ’Tis our Caffer Commando returning from war:

       The voice of their laughter comes loud on the wind,

       Nor heed they the curses that follow behind.

       For who cares for him, the poor Kósa, that wails

       Where the smoke rises dim from yon desolate vales—

       That wails for his little ones killed in the fray,

       And his herds by the colonist carried away?

       Or who cares for him that once pastured this spot,

       Where his tribe is extinct and their story forgot?

       As many another, ere twenty years pass,

       Will only be known by their bones in the grass!

       And the sons of the Keisi, the Kei, the Gareep,

       With the Gunja and Ghona in silence shall sleep:

       For England hath spoke in her tyrannous mood,

       And the edict is written in African blood!

      Dark Katta[14] is howling; the eager jackal,

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