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.