The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle

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Edward Moxon, 1838 - Africa, Southern - 219 pages

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Page 154 - Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend, Seeking a higher object. Love was given, Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; For this the passion to excess was driven, That self might be annulled : her bondage prove The fetters of a dream opposed to love.
Page 71 - For dread to prouder feelings doth give place Of deep abhorrence ! Scorning the disgrace Of slavish knees that at thy footstool bow, I also kneel — but with far other vow Do hail thee and thy herd of hirelings base : — I swear, while life-blood warms my throbbing veins, Still to oppose and thwart, with heart and hand, Thy brutalising sway — till Afric's chains Are burst, and Freedom rules the rescued land, — Trampling Oppression and his iron rod : Such is the -vow I take — so HELP ME GOD!
Page 11 - still small voice'' comes through the wild Like a father consoling his fretful child, . Which banishes bitterness, wrath and fear, Saying,
Page 6 - Had my sad yearning heart forlorn But found a single friend : , My race extinct or far removed, The Boor's rough brood I could have loved ; But each to whom my bosom turned Even like a hound the black boy spurned. " While, friendless thus, my master's flocks I tended on the upland waste, It chanced this fawn leapt from the rocks, By wolfish wild-dogs chased 6 : I rescued it, though wounded sore And dabbled in its mother's gore : And nursed it in a cavern wild, Until it loved me like a child.
Page 5 - All shivering from the foaming flood, We stood upon the stranger's ground, When, with proud looks and gestures rude, The White Men gathered round : And there, like cattle from the fold, By Christians we were bought and sold, 'Midst laughter loud and looks of scorn—- And roughly from each other torn. " My Mother's scream, so long and shrill, My little Sister's wailing cry, (In dreams I often hear them still !) Rose wildly to the sky.
Page 64 - His fathers' once, where now the White Man builds His home, and issues forth his proud commands. His dark eye flashes not ; his listless hands Lean on the shepherd's staff"; no more he wields The Libyan bow — but to th' oppressor yields Submissively his freedom and his lands.
Page 203 - My son, be this thy simple plan : Serve God, and love thy brother man ; Forget not, in temptation's hour, That sin lends sorrow double power; Count life a stage upon thy way, And follow conscience, come what may; Alike with earth and heaven sincere, With hand and brow and bosom clear, " Fear God, and know no other fear.
Page 65 - he has no gratitude™!'' II. THE CAFFER. Lo ! where he crouches by the cleugh's dark side, Eyeing the farmer's lowing herds afar ; Impatient watching till the Evening Star Lead forth the Twilight dim, that he may glide Like panther to the prey. With freeborn pride He scorns the herdsman, nor regards the scar Of recent wound — but burnishes for war His assagai and targe of buffalo-hide.
Page 120 - Yes — though the sceptic's tongue deride Those martyrs who for conscience died, — Though modish history blight their fame, And sneering courtiers hoot the name Of men who dared alone be free Amidst a nation's slavery, — Yet long for them the poet's lyre Shall wake its notes of heavenly fire ; Their names shall nerve the patriot's hand, Upraised to save a sinking land ; And piety shall learn to burn With holier transports o'er their urn...
Page 3 - I SAT at noontide in my tent, And looked across the Desert dun, Beneath the cloudless firmament Far gleaming in the sun. When from the bosom of the waste A swarthy Stripling came in haste, With foot unshod and naked limb; And a tame springbok followed him.

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