  The sunny hills of Africa, how picturesque and grand, While clothed in mist the vales lie hid, like some dark spirit-land The mountains in the distance seen, like hoary castles rise, And banks of clouds suspended hang, like icebergs in the skies. The flowery fields of Africa, how beautiful and gay, The fairest blossoms deck the plains, and perfume fills the May, While gushing streams from every kloof spread o’er the verdant green, And browsing game upon the lands add beauty to the scene. The country homes of Africa, where are their equals found? A welcome always greets the ear, and gladness reigns around; And as one cosily reclines upon the snow-white fleece, He feels a thrill of thankfulness, of gratitude and peace. Then should we not love Africa, and speak of her with pride, And hang to her and cling to her whatever may betide? And though we yield to other lands the palm for scenes of mirth, Our song shall be for Africa—the land that gave us birth. H. Hartwell. [Image of decorative bar not available.] |
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