Who bore the gold of Ophir and built the tower of stone—
But left no sign save empty mine, and rampart overthrown.
But others find their footsteps, and strike the trail anew.
How fared the burghers onward across the wild Karoo!
And still, with hand at bridle and eyes that search the wind,
With strain and stress the white men press that mocking sprite to find.
We seek her by the valley,—she moves upon the height;
The rainbow stands athwart us to blind her from our sight;
Along the sea-bound bastion her steps are hid in spray,
And though we dream,—with morning gleam the lustre dies away.
Yet sometimes for a moment men think to feel her nigh:
When first the lost Moon Mountain unveils to Stanley's eye;
Or when the Great White Wanderer beheld Zambesi leap
With earthquake-stroke and sounding smoke down the stupendous steep.
And then again we lose her, for lack of wizard skill,
Only the message liveth that tells us, Further still!
Yet could we come upon her, and seize, and hold her fast,
The onward track would something lack of its old magic past.
