Now daylight rules: but Livingstone still sleeps
Within the clay-built shadowy chamber walls.
Fragments of torn soil'd paper, strewn around,
Show notes of travel jotted on the way
With his own red blood, used in place of ink.
A notebook, and a Bible, lie beside;
With sextant, and chronometer, and hides;
Ivory, tusks, a rifle, a javelin.
Hark! the tranquillity of burning noon
A distant shot disturbs!—and now another!
Men rouse them—what is it? another shot!
It must be some approaching caravan.
Shall they awake the Master? Nay, he hears:
He is awake, and, listening, wonders too;
Hoping, and fearing; communing with God.
He sends his trusted servant to discover
Who is the leader of the caravan.
He has heard rumours of a white man near.
Who? can he be commissioned to relieve?
"'Tis only some pale trader after all!"
The messenger in breathless haste returns:
He has seen the leader of the coming band:
"It is a white man! and he seeks for thee,
My Master! he hath large supplies with him!"
But Livingstone can scarce believe for joy.
And yet what grateful accents from afar
Come faintly wafted on this Afric air?
A hearty ringing Anglo-Saxon cheer!
Renew'd by multitudinous followers,
Advancing down the forested hill-sides
Of Ukaranga! swiftly they arrive;
Eager Ujiji pours excitedly
To give the strangers greeting—a black crowd,
Among dim huts and trees, with bearded grave,
Flowing-robed, turban'd Arabs, in the rear
Of England's great explorer, waiting now
To welcome his unknown deliverer.
How? 'tis the banner of America!
America saves England—mighty Child
Of mighty Mother, it is nobly done!
Join your two strong right hands for evermore,
And swear that none shall sever them anew!
Then tremble, crown'd oppressors of mankind!
England, America, on your free soil
The slave may kneel; but only kneel to God!
Thou, gallant Stanley, scorning toil, alert,
Stern battling with thy formidable foes,
Hast won the brilliant prize; and Europe turn
Her enviously grateful eyes on thee!
The outer world supposed the traveller dead.
But Murchison, and some true friends beside,
In England, as beyond the sundering sea,
Firm in sagacions confidence, divined
His living need, and sent strong hearts to help.
Young, namesake of a faithful friend at home,21
Finds all the falsehood of a traitor's tale:
But Stanley finds the murder'd man alive!
His ardent spirit bounds with generous joy,
Proudly exultant; for himself hath found
The man whom Europe and America
Delight to honour, and desire to save.
Who should this be with venerable mien,
And ashen hair, and worn wan countenance,
Travel-marr'd, in dun raiment, with bowed form,
Wearing a mariner's goldbanded cap;
Of aspect firm, beneficent, and calm;
He who advances with a kindly smile
Before the Arabs?—'tis a stranger's face—
Yet Stanley knows it must be Livingstone!
Longing to clasp him in a friend's embrace,
And yet restraining transports honourable,
He only bares the deeply reverent head,
With questioning accent naming the great name.
Livingstone warmly grasps the proffer'd hand.
And after salutation courteous
To some around, these recent yet fast friends
Turn toward the claybuilt tembé; whose broad eaves
This afternoon shall shelter two glad men,
In place of one alone and desolate.
The traveller, slowly dying yesterday,
Now shares with relish in a plenteous meal,
Reiterating: "You have brought me life!"
Letters from loved ones, how long silent! soon
The pilgrim reads; and while soft evening wears,
They sit communing of how many things!
They speak of friends; of some whom fame well knows;
And one whom Livingstone may chance to name
Yet lives—another—he has pass'd away!
Then the explorer tells a wondrous tale
Of his exploits, adventures, and desires.
But on himself, emerged but yesterday
From forests of the dark barbarian,
His comrade pours a flood of radiance
From royal Europe trembling to her base,
And deluged in the lifeblood of her sons—
France, the Colossus, shattered at Sedan;
Her emperor, with all her chivalry,
Slain, or enthrall'd; while Germany the proud
Draws stern inveterate coils of battle close
About the fairest city in the world!
Moltke and Bismarck are dismembering France;
William assumes old Barbarossa's crown
In that great mirror'd chamber of the halls,
Which Louis, Gaul's grand monarch, piled in pride
To all the glories of his conquering race !
The wanderer listens, marvelling, to all;
While darkness deepens over Africa.
He turns to dearer themes—tells how he yearns
For home and his beloved; but would fain
Finish his work, since all the means are here.
"Nor will my labour now detain me long!"
They pore upon their notes, and charts; arrange
The future, lying on a fur-strewn floor,
By oil-light, burning in a shard for lamp;
Sipping black coffee, breathing fragrant fame . . .
With other heart and other hopes to-night
Livingstone hearkens to the solemn sound
Of Tanganika's melancholy wave;
And his friend hearkens; for he may not sleep,
Whose heart is buoyant with a wondering joy.