Page:A Treasury of South African Poetry.djvu/167

Far off at times they seem—and yet how near
Those days of simpler manners, sterner life,
The settler-days of hatchet, gun, and spear,
Of hardship and of strife.
Labour and action try the pioneer,
But not the heart-ache easier dreamers know;
Else had he never built and founded so,
Nor we, who follow, traced his footsteps here.

Strange temple! where the savage horde of old
Reared their round huts, and cleared their tilling-place:
Now thou hast rest and slumber to enfold
Those of another race.
Does peace come never till the pulse be cold?
Here, surely, could the living find her too.
Yet must we win her; there is much to do,
And this land's charter still but half unrolled.

Lo! evening falls; far over Mariannhill
The sunset hangs, and the rich after-glow
Sets the dark woods on fire; the air is still,
The grey bats come and go;
A thousand insects chirp in chorus shrill,
The firefly wanders with her elfin light,
And the young moon grows on the speedy night
That gathers round us ere we leave the hill.

Lance Fallaw.