  The free-born Kosa still doth hold The fields his fathers held of old; With club and spear in jocund ranks, Still hunts the elk by Chumi’s banks: By Keisis meads his herds are lowing; On DebÈ’s slopes his gardens glowing, Where laughing maids at sunset roam, To bear the juicy melons home: And striplings from Kalunna’s wood Bring wild grapes and the pigeon’s brood, With fragrant hoards of honey-bee Rifled from the hollow tree: And herdsmen shout from rock to rock: And through the glen the hamlets smoke; And children gambol round the kraal, To greet their sires at evening-fall: And matrons sweep the cabin floor, And spread the mat beside the door, And with dry faggots wake the flame To dress the wearied huntsman’s game. Bright gleams the fire: its ruddy blaze On many a dusky visage plays. On forkÈd twigs the game is drest; The neighbours share the simple feast: The honey-mead, the millet-ale, Flow round—and flow the jest and tale; Of hunting feat, of warlike fray; And now come smiles, and now come sighs, As mirth and grief alternate rise. Or should a sterner strain awake, Like sudden flame in summer-brake, Bursts fiercely forth in battle song The tale of AmakÓsa’s wrong; Throbs every warrior bosom high, With lightning flashes every eye, And, in wild cadence, rings the sound Of barbÈd javelins clashing round. But, lo! like a broad shield on high, The moon gleams in the midnight sky. ’Tis time to part; the watch-dog’s bay Beside the folds has died away. ’Tis time to rest; the mat is spread, The hardy hunter’s simple bed; His wife her dreaming infant hushes, On the low cabin’s couch of rushes: Softly he draws its door of hide, And, stretched by his GulÚwi’s side, Sleeps soundly till the peep of dawn Wakes on the hill the dappled fawn; Then forth again he gaily bounds, With club and spear and questing hounds. Thomas Pringle. [Image of decorative bar not available.] |
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