A Treasury of South African Poetry and Verse/Cullen Gouldsbury

THE CHIEF.

Down in the low, dim lands, where forest trees
Hung shadow curtains out across the sky,
And only branches whispering in the breeze
Awoke the echo's sigh;

Down through the gardens, where dark shadows pass
Unchallenged and unhindered year by year,
Tottering, past the tufts of yellow grass,
He came—a Chief pour rire.

Lord of a land where famine lurked amid
The nibbled mealie-cobs that strewed the ground,
King of a realm where fell disease, half-hid,
Bred hideous shadows round.

Monarch, perhaps, of half a hundred huts,
One of the relics of a vanished day,
Hedged in with all the mockery that shuts
The king with feet of clay.

His garb?—A blanket dragging in the sand
For kingly robes, a band of bark for crown,
Necklet of beads for royal insignia, and
A rein to belt his gown.

His retinue?—A brother-relic strayed
Some steps behind, bearing a gourd with care,
Some remnant of humanity decayed,
With fat-anointed hair.


From shadows passing, shadow-ward they went;
Nor gave me greeting, as I sat the while
Beside the looped-up doorway of my tent,
The tedium to beguile.

Only, it chanced, some tribesmen slouching by
Stiffened their backs, and turned to greet their king
With ceremonious clapping, and a cry
That made the red rocks ring.

I turned, and caught the pride that lit his face,
The sudden majesty that fired his brain—
Old and forgotten stories of his race
Glowed in his eyes again.

Then, silence—and his eyes were veiled anew—
Stiffly, he hobbled onward as he came.
"Faith!" said I, musing as he passed from view—
"Is kingship but a name?"

Cullen Gouldsbury.

THE PACE OF THE OX.


What do we know—and what do we care—for Time, and his silver scythe,
Since there is always time to spare, so long as a man's alive?—
The world may come, and the world may go, and the world may whistle by,
But the pace of the ox is steady and slow, and life is a lullaby.


What do we know of the city's scorn, the hum of a world amaze,
Hot-foot haste, and the fevered dawn, and forgotten yesterdays?—
For men may strain, and women may strive in busier lands to-day,
But the pace of the ox is the pace to thrive in the land of Veldt and Vlei.


The daylight breaks in the Eastern sky, and sinks to sleep in the West;
Thus it is that our days go by, bringing their meed of rest .
The Future's hidden behind the veil, and the Past—is still the past,
And the pace of the ox is the sliding scale that measures our work at last.


The song of the ships is far to hear, the hum of the world is dead,
And lotus-life in a drowsy year our benison instead —
Why should we push the world along, live in a world of flame,
When the pace of the ox is steady and strong, and the end is just the same?

Cullen Gouldsbury.