From Capetown's mountain-minster, from Durban's lake of sleep,
The steeds of steel are hasting, their inland tryst to keep;
From Inyak and Algoa, from rock-barr'd Buffalo—
For whereso'er the white men fare, those steeds of steel must go.
Their manes are thick with vapour, their breath with steam and fire,
Their feet are shod with iron, swift feet that never tire.
With harness as of war-horse in metall'd mail they shine,
Yet may not cease on tasks of peace to tread their measured line.
Across the tawny desert that slender thread is flung,
O'er arch'd and column'd granite the bridge of bronze is hung;
Beneath the Rainbow Forest 'tis washed with torrent spray,
And through the sand, one burning band, sparkles the living way.
Scarce from the beaten pathway hath the lean lion fled,
Still the baboon stands barking on ridges overhead.
The savage, in dark gorges, where gaunt hyenas lurk,
With the set face of stoic race watches the wizard work.
All by the wild Hex River is hewn the upward track,
Where midnight from black basalt takes on a deeper black,
On the Karoo's wide reaches is stretched the ringing rail;
And the wan day dawns faint and grey o'er grass-veld parch'd and pale.
Climb, climb, ye highland horses, the tryst is farther yet,
The seal of boundless purpose upon your course is set.
With gold of greater Ophirs than Tyre or Sheba knew,
Ye bear the spoil of wine and oil, till one great dream come true.
Then, when the ways lie open, and north and south are one,
Choose of your swiftest racers that new-built path to run;
Like plume above his forehead let the high torch be lit,
A sign to show what pilgrims go where the dark races sit.
By silent Tanganyika the thunder-wheel shall beat
By all the land-bound waters shall press those flaming feet—
Shall pierce the central forests for many an endless mile,
Burst with their freight through Egypt's gate, and race beside the Nile.
The old gods lie in slumber, with lotus on their lids,
They couch beneath the shadow of purple pyramids.
The young god leaps among them, the god of wheels and links,
Who lives by speed, and may not heed the riddle of the sphinx.
The oldest of the cities shall see earth's newest things;
The oldest of the rivers shall feel their rushing wings.
Oh, messengers of magic, not vainly are ye spent;
The word ye give makes nations live, and binds a continent!
The steeds of steel are hasting, their inland tryst to keep;
From Inyak and Algoa, from rock-barr'd Buffalo—
For whereso'er the white men fare, those steeds of steel must go.
Their manes are thick with vapour, their breath with steam and fire,
Their feet are shod with iron, swift feet that never tire.
With harness as of war-horse in metall'd mail they shine,
Yet may not cease on tasks of peace to tread their measured line.
Across the tawny desert that slender thread is flung,
O'er arch'd and column'd granite the bridge of bronze is hung;
Beneath the Rainbow Forest 'tis washed with torrent spray,
And through the sand, one burning band, sparkles the living way.
Scarce from the beaten pathway hath the lean lion fled,
Still the baboon stands barking on ridges overhead.
The savage, in dark gorges, where gaunt hyenas lurk,
With the set face of stoic race watches the wizard work.
All by the wild Hex River is hewn the upward track,
Where midnight from black basalt takes on a deeper black,
On the Karoo's wide reaches is stretched the ringing rail;
And the wan day dawns faint and grey o'er grass-veld parch'd and pale.
Climb, climb, ye highland horses, the tryst is farther yet,
The seal of boundless purpose upon your course is set.
With gold of greater Ophirs than Tyre or Sheba knew,
Ye bear the spoil of wine and oil, till one great dream come true.
Then, when the ways lie open, and north and south are one,
Choose of your swiftest racers that new-built path to run;
Like plume above his forehead let the high torch be lit,
A sign to show what pilgrims go where the dark races sit.
By silent Tanganyika the thunder-wheel shall beat
By all the land-bound waters shall press those flaming feet—
Shall pierce the central forests for many an endless mile,
Burst with their freight through Egypt's gate, and race beside the Nile.
The old gods lie in slumber, with lotus on their lids,
They couch beneath the shadow of purple pyramids.
The young god leaps among them, the god of wheels and links,
Who lives by speed, and may not heed the riddle of the sphinx.
The oldest of the cities shall see earth's newest things;
The oldest of the rivers shall feel their rushing wings.
Oh, messengers of magic, not vainly are ye spent;
The word ye give makes nations live, and binds a continent!