The Fire Trumpet: A Romance of the Cape Frontier

by Bertram Mitford

  VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

  "I DIE, AND FAR AWAY. HAST THOU KNOWN?"

  A cheerful wood fire is crackling and sparkling in the grate, throwingout tremulous shadows upon the plain, massive furniture and polishedfloor, ever and anon lighting up the old room with a sudden glow.

  The glow quivers upon a pale, beautiful face and on a coronal of duskyhair, whose owner sits gazing into the bright caverns formed by theburning wood, the picture of retrospective meditation. A book lies openupon her lap, proclaiming that the twilight has overtaken her andcompelled her to give up reading in favour of a more idle but not alwaysmore pleasant resource--reflection; which pastime, in the presentinstance, seems to bring her more of sorrow than of joy, for there aretears brimming in the sweet eyes, and the curves of her mouth are even alittle more wistfully sad than usual.

  It is four months since we saw that horseman, with despair and gloomupon his countenance, riding away in the cold grey dawn, on, whither heknew not, neither cared; and Lilian Strange is still at Seringa Vale. Afew days before her projected departure, news came from the McColls tothe effect that they would not be returning to the colony for anothersix months, and offering, if she wished it, to release her from herengagement, otherwise they would be glad to have her back with them atthe time of their return. Mrs Brathwaite, however, who had secretlyformed a plan in her own mind for keeping Lilian altogether, soonpersuaded her to prolong her stay, at any rate until the McCollsreturned. "You see, dear," she had said, "you are not nearly strongenough to go back to work again yet, even if you had anywhere to go.And just as we have got a little colour into your cheeks and set you up,here you go getting ill again. Besides, we shan't be able to do withoutyour bright face, dearie, so if you can put up with such a quiet houseas this is now, don't say anything more about leaving." And Lilian,lonely and friendless as she was, and shaken and upset by the recentevents, had thrown her arms round the old lady's neck and indulged in agood cry, and declaring that she loved the dear old place almost beyondher old home, had done as she was told.

  "_You will be doing evil that good may come of it_." Was this so,indeed? Had she better have broken that promise? Ah! better not dwellon that now. And then would arise the thought of him--wandering afarand alone, uncheered, heartsick and weary in spirit; it might be indaily peril of death. It was at night--by day she could in a life ofusefulness in a measure lose herself--at night, in the dead, dark,lonesome hours, that such thoughts would come upon her, and with anawful feeling of forsakenness, she would lie through the long, silentwatches hardly able to sob out the bitter, voiceless anguish thatoverwhelmed her soul. And as yet, Time, the merciful healer, hadbrought little or no consolation. She would go about her dailyavocations even cheerfully, always tender and thoughtful, smiling often,though as yet so sadly, for she would, as she had resolved to herself,live in the happiness of others. And the event which had kindled thisresolve occurred very shortly after the death-blow to her own happiness.

  One day Hicks and Laura, who had been taking a walk round the gardentogether, came in looking a little flurried, and the former at once andfeverishly sought out his employer, whom he informed, with muchstammering and bashfulness, that he had just proposed to and beenaccepted by Laura, and he trusted Mr Brathwaite would see no objection,etc, etc. The old man heard him out, and then mused for a moment insilence.

  "H'm! You see, Hicks--you'll have to wait a bit, but I don't know thatthat'll do you any harm," he replied. "My brother George'll be roundhere in a few days--but you did quite right to tell me at once--then youcan speak to him yourself. I dare say he won't object, and I'll do whatI can for you. Ever since you've been with me you've given me nothingbut satisfaction in every respect, and I don't forget it, my lad.You've learned your work well, and what's better, you've done it well;go on as you've begun, and you'll make your way. But, as I told youbefore, you'll have to wait a bit."

  Hicks mumbled out a string of incoherent thanks, and wrung hisemployer's hand.

  "Ah, it's a grand thing to be young and to have all one's life beforeone," said the old man, kindly. "Well, it's nearly time to go andcount--or perhaps I'd better do it. Your head will hardly hold suchcommonplace things as sheep this evening," added he, with a good-naturedlaugh, as he turned away.

  In great elation Hicks bolted off, and, not looking where he was going,collided against Lilian in the doorway, with such violence as nearly toupset her.

  "Oh, Miss Strange. I beg your pardon! What a blundering ass I am!Have I hurt you?" he cried, in abject, remorseful consternation. "Howconfoundedly careless of me! Do forgive me?"

  "I'm not in the least hurt, really," answered Lilian, leaning againstthe chair, which she had just seized in time to save herself fromfalling. "But I'll forgive you, only upon one condition," she added,with a smile. "That you tell me what you are looking so ridiculouslyhappy about."

  Hicks told her, there and then.

  "I'm so glad," Lilian said. "I congratulate you most truly. You willbe very happy, and from what I have heard of you, you will deserve tobe."

  Again Hicks mumbled something as he pressed the hand she extended tohim, and passed on. Lilian gazed after him, and the tears rose to hereyes; but they were grateful, healing tears. "Thank God!" she murmured,"there is happiness left in the world for some people, and that is asight good to look upon." A warm glow crept round her heart--sostricken and desolate--and she felt that life might be worth livingafter all, to take part in the joys and sorrows of others. It was aturning-point, and the crisis was past; but, oh! the road was to be anuphill one upon whose thorny way the toiler would oft-times sink crushedand heartbroken. Then she had kissed and congratulated Laura, who,though outwardly very demure and reticent, yet felt thoroughly satisfiedwith her bargain.

  Mr Brathwaite was as good as his word, and with such a powerfuladvocate Hicks' suit was bound to prosper. George Brathwaite, aneasy-going man in any matter wholly dissociated with politics, listened,and was convinced, as his brother put the case before him. Hicks was aquiet, steady, hard-working fellow, in fact, bound to make his way. Hehad a little stock of his own, and lately some money had been left him,not much, but enough to help him on a bit when he should set up forhimself, and with a little help from them, would do well enough. He wasgood-tempered, and by no means a fool, and, in fact, Laura might havedone worse. And Laura's father thought the same, and the result wasnotified to the pair concerned. They must wait, of course, but thegreat thing was to have the consent of the authorities, and to know thatit was a settled thing. But a thorn in the rose lay in the fact that ina couple of days or so George Brathwaite would take both his daughtersaway with him--that being the errand upon which he had come to SeringaVale. However, they could write. A new experience to Hicks, by theway, who, with the exception of a stereotyped and brief letter home atrare intervals, seldom used the weapon mightier than the sword. But hewould find plenty to say now, never fear.

  "How I wish Claverton was back again," Hicks had said to Laura, the daybefore she left. "Poor old Arthur. I suppose he's started off on somemad expedition. The place won't seem the same without him."

  "Won't it? It would have been a good deal better for the place if ithad always remained without him," she retorted, rather bitterly.

  He looked at her with surprise. "Why, Laura, what has he done? Ithought you all liked him no end?"

  "Yes, rather too much," she rejoined, to herself--thinking of Ethel--butshe only said: "Well, I don't know why I said that. Never mind, Alfred,perhaps I'll tell you what I mean, some day; perhaps I won't; probably Iwon't. Try and forget it now, at any rate. You will, won't you?"

  "On one condition," replied Hicks, looking at her.

  What that condition was need not be specified. Nor does it concern thethread of this narrative whether it was consented to or not.

  Then the two girls had gone; and sorely did those left behind miss thebright young presences and the merry, jestful times which had prevailed,a
nd the old farmhouse had settled down into the slumbrous quietude inwhich we first saw it that glowing August evening, the best part of ayear back; and the events intervening had melted like a dream, for allthe outward traces they had left. But a dream from which that pale, sadwatcher, now gazing at the fire, would never awaken to life again.

  Twice only had Claverton been heard of since he left. The first time hehad written to Mrs Brathwaite explaining how nothing but the gravestreasons had induced him to leave thus suddenly--and more to the sameeffect; directing where his things were to be sent, and concluding withthe sincerest expressions of appreciation and regard--and the old lady,who knew pretty well by that time how matters stood, had felt inclinedto cry as she read it. The second letter, after an interval, was toHicks, and bore the Durban postmark. The writer was going up-country,he said, far into the interior, to do a little shooting, and someknocking about. He wanted to be quite independent, so would go alone,with a nigger or two to carry the things and look after a spare horse.He didn't want some cantankerous compatriot with him to worry his lifeout at every turn, not he. A few things had been left at Seringa Valewhich Hicks might look after for him, and if he never came back couldstick to--a horse, for instance, and some gimcrackery in the shape ofriding-gear and one or two things. No doubt they'd clash again some ofthese days; if not, well, it would come all right in the end, hesupposed, and life was not such a blissful thing, after all. It was notworth while answering this, concluded the writer, for he would be awayon his travels almost before it had started.

  And it is the crowd of memories and conjectures evoked by this letterwhich Lilian is pondering over this evening, alone in the firelight. Afew days ago, Hicks had asked her if she would like to see it, as shewas not in the room when he read out its contents. She had kept it eversince, and good-natured Hicks, noticing the light in her eyes, and thetremor of her hand as he gave it her, had "forgotten" to ask her for itagain. She has read every word of it until she knows it by heart, andhas conjured up many and many a picture of that lonely traveller,wandering on, mile after mile, far into that vast continent of whichthis locality was merely the outskirts. And it is her doing! She can"read between the lines" that time has brought no more healing to himthan to herself, and, thinking over it this evening, one of thoseterrible paroxysms of woe is nearly upon her, and she half rises toleave the room when a step is heard in the passage, then the door opensand some one enters, whistling a lively tune which stops suddenly as thewhistler becomes aware of her presence.

  "That you, Miss Strange? Good evening; are you trying to read in thedark? By Jove, how cold it's turned!" rattles on Hicks, rubbing hishands briskly, and kicking up the logs in the grate.

  "Yes," answered Lilian, for the diversion has called her back toherself. "And how the days are drawing in!"

  "Rather! And cold? This morning, down there in Aasvogel Kloof, theground was white with frost, and at eight o'clock, long after the sunwas up, it was nipping cold. I had to keep changing my bridle-handabout every minute and a half, keeping one in my pocket till it gotwarm, you know; not that it did get warm even then, still it thawed abit."

  "Fancy that. And yet there are people who would stare if you mentionedthe word cold, in connection with Africa."

  "Yes, I know. `Afric's sunny fountains,' and all that kind of thing.The only `fountains' we see here are after a jolly big rain, and thenthey're not sunny, but precious muddy. Those poetic fellows do talkawful bosh."

  Lilian smiled. "Don't try to be satirical, it doesn't suit you at all,"she said. "And now tell me what have you been doing all day?"

  "Oh, I went down and counted at Umgiswe's. He's a regular old humbug,and is always losing sheep. I'm certain he kills them. Don't I wish Icould catch him, that's all. I thought I had, the other day. Anyhow,the _Baas_ ought to give him the sack."

  "I shouldn't have thought it. I thought he had such a nice old face,and he always says, `morning, missis,' to me, so prettily, whenever hecomes up here."

  "A bigger humbug than him couldn't help doing that," said Hicks,gallantly. "Well, then, I went on to Driscoll's, to see if I couldn'tbeat him down in what he asks for that place of his. He wants a greatdeal too much, the beggar does; far more than he offered it to Clav--"and then honest Hicks, suddenly remembering that this very place was theone Claverton had started to inspect on that day which, somehow, seemedconnected with his abrupt departure and Lilian's simultaneousdepression, waxed very red in the face, and, bending over the fire,began stirring it and banging it about, as if he would pulverise thecharred, smouldering faggots.

  "And did you succeed?" asked Lilian, so quietly that he thought thereminiscence involved by the association of ideas had passed unnoticedby her.

  "N-no," replied Hicks. "But I think I'll manage it in time. He's atight fist, is old Driscoll."

  "You will like settling in the old locality, I should think. You arenot one of those who are always longing for change just for the sake ofchange."

  "No. In fact, as it is, I hardly like leaving the old place."

  "What--not even with Laura?" said Lilian, with a smile.

  "Well, of course. But you know, when a fellow has been long on a placelike this, and had such a rare good time of it, as I've had, he's boundto cut up a little rough when it comes to leaving it, no matter how."

  "Naturally. But one must look forward--not back, unless it is for apure, strengthening recollection. One might look longingly back fromthe rough, toilsome ascent of a steep hill into the sunlit, peacefulvalley one had rested in behind; then to keep on and on till the ascentwas conquered, and an easy road led smoothly down into another restfulcalm. That is how you must look at life, when things go the reverse ofsmoothly with you at first--as perhaps they will."

  Poor Lilian! Not yet could she realise this herself, and she knew it.Yet she laid it down in theory to her companion, for he had told herthat he liked that sort of talk--that it did him good, in fact--and itsremembrance encouraged him when he was inclined to take a gloomy view ofthings. They had become great friends, those two, thrown together thusby force of circumstances; and Lilian had never tired of listening toher companion's hopes and fears, any more than he had ever tired ofconfiding them to her--it must be confessed, with something of wearisomereiteration, the more so that he had found so gentle and sympathetic alistener.

  "But I forgot. I must not talk like that, or you will say I'm gettingpoetic; and `those poetic fellows do talk awful bosh,'" concludedLilian, looking up at him with a bright, arch smile.

  "Oh, I say! As if I should think anything of the kind!" exclaimedHicks. "It was I who was talking nonsense. I suppose the firelightmakes a fellow get sentimental. The firelight in winter is pretty muchwhat the moonlight is in summer, I suppose."

  But the sentimental side of this firelight talk was brought to an end bythe entrance of Mr Brathwaite, followed almost immediately by that ofhis wife.

  "Sharp evening!" he said, joining the two on the hearth. "We mustexpect winter now, at the end of May; and this year it'll be a cold one.I see there's a little snow on the mountains already--just asprinkling."

  "When shall we have a good fall?" asked Lilian. "The mountains mustlook perfectly beautiful, all covered, and with such a sun as this uponthem. It must be very cold up there."

  "Cold? I believe you. I was nearly frozen to death up there myselfonce. It was some years ago now. I was coming over the Katberg roadwith a waggon-load of mealies--I and Ben Jackson. He had three waggons.We were caught in a snowstorm, and had to outspan. Couldn't see tenyards in front of us. Ten yards! Not one; for the wind whirled thepowdery stuff into our eyes till we were nearly blinded. It was nojoke, I can tell you. There are some lively _krantzes_ about there; andit's the easiest thing in the world to drop a few hundred feet beforeyou know where you are."

  "And how did you manage?"

  "Well, we outspanned, and tied the oxen to the yokes. We couldn't makea fire, so we turned into our blankets and piled up e
verything in theway of covering; but that wasn't enough, and I was quite frozen.Nothing to eat all the time, except a bit of frozen bread to gnaw at.One of my Kafirs was nearly dead, and thirteen out of sixteen oxen diedfrom cold and starvation. Ben was more unlucky still, and lost twowhole spans. Yes, that was a time!"

  Then came the lamp and supper.

  "You were asking when we should have a good fall?" went on MrBrathwaite. "The first rains we get here will leave the mountains whiteas a sugarloaf down to their very foot."

  Thus, with many an anecdote and reminiscence, the evening wore on.Eventually the lights were extinguished in the slumbering house, one byone, till all was dark and silent. And shining upon upland and valley,and upon homestead and fold, cleaving the frosty sky with a broad pathof pale incandescence, gleamed the Milky Way, with many a brilliantconstellation flashing around its track. Hour follows upon hour, butthe calm influences of the peaceful night bring no relief to thatbroken-hearted woman lying there with her face buried in the pillows,sorrowing as one who is without hope. And every now and then a greatanguished sob shook the prostrate form, for a very torrent oflong-pent-up grief had come over her this evening, fresh and poignant ason that terrible day when the glories of the radiant summer world wereas staring mockeries.

  Lilian rose and threw open the door. The cool night air flowed inrefreshing waves upon her burning brow, and, oh! how solemnly the goldenstars twinkled in the far blue vault as though the eyes of their CreatorHimself were visibly looking down upon her woe.

  "Come back to me, darling!" she wailed, her brimming eyes fixed on thecold, star-spangled sky. "Only come back. Ah, love! I sent you awayfrom me, drove you away with hard, cruel, bitter words, and now my heartis breaking--breaking. My life is done. I killed it when I sent youaway."

  A ghostly beam streamed in through the open casement. Above hung thepointed moon, pale, glassy, and cold.

  "My life, my love, come back!" she continued, sinking into a chair bythe window, with her hands tightly locked, in the extremity of heranguish. "Come back, and we will never part again, never. I willabjure my word, which I have pledged by a dying bed. I will riskeverything. We will never, never part again, no, not for an hour. Onlycome back. Oh! What am I saying? I shall never see you again.Perhaps even now you are--dead, and it is I who killed you. Ah, love,my heart is broken! If you are not in life, come and look at me indeath--in pale, cold, still death--and take me with you. Only let melook upon you once more!"

  The moonbeam crept further along the polished floor, and a puff of airentered. Ah! What was that? Was it a voice--a name--faint, dreamy,more felt than heard--a voice from the awesome, mysterious spirit world?Quickly Lilian raised her head.

  "I thought you would come to me, darling," she murmured, in low, firmtones, as though she had nerved herself for an effort. "I thought youwould come to me, even though dead. But let me see you! I can hearyour voice. I can hear you call me, once, twice. But, oh! let me seeyou. Ah--!"

  She sat upright and rigid, gazing in front of her. For a form floatedupon the shadowy moonlight, seeming to rest everywhere, yet nowhere.And the features of the recumbent figure she knew too well--pale,haggard, and drawn as they were.

  "Ah, come to me, my love, my life!" she wailed, stretching out her armsin wild entreaty, but the apparition vanished. She rushed to the openwindow. Only the eyes of a myriad gleaming stars met hers, and a filmydark cloud passed over the moon, veiling it for a moment.

  "I have seen his spirit," she exclaimed, passionately, her eyes fixedupon the dim horizon. "I have seen him, but he is gone. Ah, Christ!Thou hast a tender and a pitying heart. Let me see my love again--mysweet lost love!"

  Look out into the still night, Lilian. Fix your eyes upon those distantmountain-tops, and then can your gaze travel many hundreds of milesbeyond them, you may see--what it is better that you should not see.

  Far away on the wild border of Northern Matabililand, night draws on.In one of a group of neat, circular kraals lying in a hollow between twogreat mountains, it is evident that something momentous has eitherhappened or is going to happen this evening, for the chief men arestanding together in a knot, talking in low tones and with an anxiouslook upon their grave, dignified faces. From the eastward, a mightyblack cloud is rolling up along the rugged, iron-girded heights, andupon the fitful gusts is borne, ever and anon, a low, heavy boom. Downthe mountain paths the cattle are wending, the shrill whoop of thechildren driving them, sounding loud and near, while the chatter of twoor three withered crones, gossiping outside one of the domed huts, isstrangely, distinct in the brooding atmosphere, hushed as it is beforethe gathering storm. The shades deepen, and the red fires twinkle outone by one in the gloaming; but still the men keep on their earnestdiscussion.

  "He will die," one of them is saying. "It will bring us ill-luck. Theking, when he hears of it, will visit it upon us--he wants to stand welljust now with the whites. And if this stranger dies here, he will sayit is our fault. Haow!"

  And, with true savage philosophy, the speaker and his auditors refreshthemselves with a huge pinch of snuff.

  "There is a white man living away beyond Intaba Nkulu," says another."He might be able to do something to save the stranger."

  "No, he is only a trader--not a medicine-man," exclaim two or threemore, simultaneously.

  A flash; a peal of thunder, loud and long, and one or two large drops ofrain. The Matabili start, look upward, and adjourn to carry on theirdiscussion inside a hut; but they are soon interrupted by the entranceof a young Natal native, who, with anxiety and fear on his countenance,cries:

  "Mgcekweni--Sikoto--come quick and look. My chief is dying."

  With a hurried exclamation the two addressed rise, and, following thespeaker, stoop and enter an adjoining hut. Lying on some nativeblankets on the floor, is the form of a man--an Englishman. A rolled-upmat serves him for a pillow, and he lies tossing about in the wildthroes of fever. A saddle and bridle, a waterproof cloak, a gun, andone or two small things are scattered around; a bit of candle stuck inthe neck of a bottle, throwing a ghastly flickering light upon thewhole, and making the cockroaches which swarm in the thatch, glistenlike scales.

  "Water, water," moans the sick man, throwing his arms wildly out of bed.

  "_Aow! Manzi_!" murmur the two Matabili, not understanding, but withready wit guessing the burden of his cry, and simultaneously making amove towards the earthen bowl containing the desired fluid.

  But the young native was before them, and, motioning one of them toraise him, he held the bowl to his master's lips.

  "Ah-h-h," exclaimed the dying man, falling back with a relieved sigh,and lying with closed eyes. Then he started again. "Where is it?" hecried, his fingers clutching spasmodically at something in his breast,which he drew out and held tightly clasped in his hand. "Lilian--Lilian--It died with me. Your writing--the only thing I have left ofyou--Lilian--!" He paused a moment, breathless.

  Then he sprang up raving. "Sam! Sam! Where are you, you damnedrascal? Sam; do you hear? Go and tell her--find Lilian," and then asif the beloved name calmed and soothed him, he sank back with a quietsmile.

  "What does he say?" asked the two Matabili of each other. "Liliane--Liliane. Aow! That must be the name of the white man's God." And theyrepeated the name over and over to themselves, so as to remember exactlywhat the stranger had said, when they should report the matter to theirking.

  He had come there, this stranger, but a few days previously, he and hisnative attendant. He had come alone, travelling through their land, ashe said, on his way far, far into the interior beyond, and had stayedwith them, living as they lived, talking with them a little, but usuallygrave, taciturn, and sad. He would wander about all day in themountains with his double gun, bringing back game at night, buck orbirds, which he shared freely with them, and now he had become ill; nodoubt caught the malaria while lying out all night down by the river,trying to get a shot at the lion, whose spoor had been seen
by a boy whowas wandering on its banks, and who had fled terrified at the sight ofthe great round pads in the sand. And Mgcekweni, the petty chief of theneighbourhood, was in sore perplexity about this stranger lying at thepoint of death within their gates; and over and above the fear that hisroyal master, with all the unreasoning caprice of a despot, would holdhim and his responsible, he had a genuine liking for the white man--thegrave, quiet traveller, whom he had at once set down as a big "_Inkoa_"among his own people.

  Crash!

  The thunder pealed without; a vivid blaze of lightning lit up theinterior of the hut, leaving it more gloomy than before in itssemi-darkness; the rain poured in torrents, lashing up the hard earthoutside, and there, in the weird light, stood the tall, erect forms ofthe Matabili chief and his brother, conversing in subdued whispers, andwith a world of concern clouding their dark, expressive faces. Kneelingbeside his master, intently watching every change of his countenance,crouched the native boy, Sam. Again the thunder crashed and roared, andthe scathing blaze darted through the pouring rainfall which hurleditself to the earth with a deafening rush; and amid the fierce warringof the elements let loose the wanderer lay dying. Yes, dying. Alone ina barbarous hut, racked with fever; tossing on a rude couch, almost onthe bare earth; far from friendly or loving glance or touch; not even acountryman within hundreds of miles; alone in that gloomy apartment, thecockroaches chasing each other along the wattles of the thatch overhead,and tall, savage warriors watching his failing moments in wondering,half-superstitious concern. Thus he lay.

  Suddenly he raised himself and sat upright.

  "Lilian! Lilian!" he cried, in a voice so loud and clear that itstartled his savage auditors. "Ah, I _will_ see you," he went on, hiseyes dilating and fixed on the opposite wall as if to pierce through itand all space.

  "I _will_ see you--and I can. I see you here, now, here beside me. Areyou going with me? Keep those sweet eyes upon mine, as they are now,darling--ever--ever--ever."

  His voice sank, and with a glad smile he fell back and lay perfectlystill, and without the faintest movement.

  "He is dead!" exclaimed the savages, holding their breath.

  Precisely at that moment Lilian Strange was uttering her passionate,despairing invocation, as she gazed through her open casement far intothe clear, starry night.

  The day broke upon Seringa Vale, and the rain gusts howled along thewind-swept wastes--violent, biting, and chill. But by noon there wasnot a cloud in the heavens, and Lilian had her wish, for the mountainswere thickly covered with snow to their very base. And as she gazedupon the distant peaks starting forth from the blue sky, spotless anddazzling in their whiteness, it seemed to her that they might be a meetembodiment of her own frozen despair--ever the same--icebound sight andday--through calm and through storm.

  And the sun shone down upon the land in his undimmed glory, plenty andprosperity reigned everywhere; not a whisper of war or disturbance wasin the air, indeed, all such had died away as completely as if it hadnever been. And the hearts of the dwellers on the frontier were gladwithin them--for the red tide, once threatening, had been stayed, andupon their borders rested, in all its fulness, the blessing of Peace.

  Part II.

  Once where Amatola mountains rise up purple to the snow, Where the forests hide the fountains, And green pastures sleep below-- Sweeter far than song of battle, On the breezes of the morn, Came the lowing of our cattle And the rustling of our corn. Where our flocks and herds were feeding Now the white man's homestead stands; And while yet his sword lies bleeding, Lo, his plough is in new lands.

  _Lament of Tyala_--Anon.