Classic Poem

A Native Legend from the Senna

So, Senhor, having spoken with the dead,
And having learned from them that he must go
Without molesting any of the men
Of giant size and strength incredible
That he might meet, he took his magic knife,
And, cold and gloomy as his manner was,
He turn'd his steps to Senna of the East;—
With this long-known intent: that he would cut
A channel through the swamp that bound his town
And kept his people stricken with disease
And all the ills that haunt a marshy place.

—Little of kindness had he known of them,
His people. And he cursed beneath his breath:
‘Fools! Fools!’ Full oft they mocked behind his back,
And jeered to see him striving in the swamp,
Mud-grim'd and unsuccessful in the work
Of endless year to endless aching year.
Until at length, out of the whisp'ring dark
That holds the much-wise spirits of the Dead,
Had come his unknown father in the flesh—
The father that his eyes had never seen—
The father that was never known to man—
In likeness of a monstrous hippo, he
Had brought the magic knife with blade of flame
And haft of one great tusk of elephant,
And spoken thus: ‘My son, thou must go forth
And strive to overcome what thou shalt see;
The giants and enchanters of the West,
And all the great men of the farther North;
And if thou art successful in the work
Then what they had of strength will come to thee;
And thou may'st then come back, and thou may'st cut
Thy channel through the swamp that binds the town.’

So he had gone
Out to the farther North, and to the West,
And all enchanters and all monstrous men
That he had met with, he had fought and slain;
And all the might that had been theirs was his,
Until himself at length had now become
Of giant size and strength incredible.

Until one night
When, half-asleep, he brooded by the fire,
And crouched beneath the stars before the blaze,
And all was very still within the bush,
The spirits of the Dead had come to him
And spoken thus: ‘Now hast thou in thy arms,
Dubùra Tàka, strength to drain the swamp;
Therefore go back to Senna of the East
And do that thing for which thou hast desire;
But an thou meet with giants on thy way,
Leave them in peace and seek no more of blood,
Lest life itself should pay for victory.’

Now, having heard the wisdom of the Dead,
He turned his steps to Senna of the East,
And by long marches through a barren land
He sought the waving grasses of the coast;
And much he yearned to hear the tom-toms beat,
To see the girls of Senna in the dance,
To see the old men at the council tree,
And all the young men ready for the hunt;
To see the women with their iron hoes
A-work within the fields, the while their babes
Tumbled about the baskets in the dust;
To hear the herd-boys piping on their reeds,
And droning tales beneath the lazy sun
—He yearned, for during all these weary years
Of constant strife and wandering in the wild
He had not seen a man of his own kind.

And, as he hasten'd to the distant coast,
He left the barren highlands and the bare
Bleak hillsides where the grey umsasa grows,
And came upon a fair and fertile plain
Of palm, and thorn, and huge-boled baobab.
And at high noon, when all was hush'd with heat,
Half-hid by long brown grass and screening shrub,
He found, vast-limb'd, and lying like one dead,
A naked man asleep upon the ground.
Grasshoppers, and the insects of the bush,
And butterflies that sought a resting-place,
Sat fearless on him as if he were made of stone.
And evil-councill'd in the shaking heat,
Dubùra Tàka stood and gaz'd in rage
Upon a man who was more great than he.

 Then all-forgotten were the Dead
And that which they had spoken of the men
That he might meet upon his homeward way;
And, gripping well the knife with blade of flame
And haft of one white tusk of elephant,
He mov'd toward the man who lay asleep:
Thinking that he would slay him as he slept
To win the strength and virtue that was his.

But, as he gazed upon the sleeping man
And raised his knife to slay him where he lay,
He sicken'd at the thought, and did not strike:
‘Wake, dog!’ he shouted; ‘Sleeping like the dead
I cannot smite thee in thy unused strength.
Awake, and fight Dubùra Tàka here
Who waits to see what strength of arm thou hast.’
But in the silence of the noonday hour,
Like one whom sleep has lost the path of life
And has gone wand'ring to the spirit-land,
The giant lay unmoved upon the ground.

And in the blankness of the midday heat
Dubùra Tàka touched him with his foot:
‘Awake!’ he cried; ‘Awake, thou dog, and fight
Dubùra Tàka of the distant East,
Who waits to rob thee of thy great-limb'd strength.’

But, all unmov'd and like a man who's dead,
The sleeping giant lay upon the ground.

Then shouting and demented in his wrath,
Dubùra Tàka struck him with the knife
Flat-bladed, and with all his might he smote;
But in the stillness of the high noon-time
The butterflies resettled on his form,
Grasshoppers and the insects of the bush
Return'd and perch'd upon his moveless limbs
As if he had been made of lichen'd stone.

But then Dubùra Tàka thought him of a way,
And broke the dead twigs from the screening bush,
And drew the long brown grass, and built a pyre
Against the giant's body on the ground;
And bringing forth the fire-sticks from his belt
He rubb'd and set alight the wither'd twigs:
‘Wake, now,’ he said, ‘or else be burnt alive,
Thou unknown dog that sleepest like the dead!’

Then in the sun when all was hush'd with heat,
Except the twigs that crackled as they burnt,
The giant felt the sting of flame, and woke,
And with one hand he crush'd the leaping fire.
Back to the bush Dubùra Tàka drew
To judge unseen the waken'd strength of him.

The giant crush'd the fire with his hand,
And like a man aweary slowly drew
His vast-made limbs from off the shadow'd ground.
Dubùra Tàka saw beneath his skin,
Like nests of pythons in a sun-lit pool,
The coils of muscle writhe upon his arms.
The sweat of sleep had gathered on his brow,
And his wide-open eyes roll'd emptily
Towards the cloudless sky and dreaming flat,
And yearn'd far-off toward the purple hills,
And turn'd unblinking to the noon-day sun,
But rested not on tree, nor hill, nor plain;
—Till suddenly, like lightning in the gloom,
Dubàra Tùka knew that he was blind.

Then said the giant, lifting up his voice:
‘Who is it wakes me in the noontide hush,
When all is sleeping on the darken'd plain?’
Then came the answer: ‘It is I,
Dubùra Tàka, of the distant coast,
And I, at last, have wak'd thy heavy limbs
To gather up their strength and fight me here,
To find who is the greater. Give thy name.’

‘As for my name, it matters not to thee;
Nor why I slumber like the careless dead’
(So spake the giant); ‘know that I am blind:
Be thou the greater, and go on thy way.’

‘I shall not go,’ Dubùra Tàka said,
‘Till I have match'd and fought with thee, and tried
The mighty strength that lies upon thy bones
And coils beneath thy skin like monstrous snakes
That shake the surface of a sunlit pool;
For I am here to rob thee of that strength,
And make what virtue thou mayst have my own.’
‘Go, go!’ the Unknown answer'd; Get thee hence!
I would that I might give thee what I have:
But as I cannot, turn thy steps away
And leave me here to darkness and in peace.’

But in his lust the Senna raised his hand,
And rush'd upon the Unknown where he stood
Unarm'd and blind beneath the cloudless sky,
And struck at him full fiercely with his knife;
But on his palm the giant caught the blow
Flat-bladed, and the swinging stroke flew wide
And spent its deadly wrath upon the earth.
For as the blade descended to his neck,
The sharp edge sang upon the heavy air,
And moan'd aloud for all the strength behind,
And shrieked against the swiftness of its fall;
—Like to the thunder-winds
That howl about the crannies of a crag,
And sing beneath the branches of a tree,
And moan and sigh through countless spears of grass:
Yea, as it came, he knew its trackless path,
And with his hand he dash'd aside the blade.

And in his wrath Dubùra curs'd aloud,
And struck again, again, and yet again,
And crushed the long brown grass beneath his feet,
And broke the saplings in his headlong rush,
And in his onslaught crack'd the strong-boled thorn,—
All-mad indeed was he with hate and lust.
But through the long glare of the summer day
His magic knife proclaim'd its flashing path,
And sang aloud like bees that pass in swarm,
And sighed like reeds that bend before the wind;
And all the while the Unknown with his palms
Guarded his life and struck the blade aside.

And all that day they fought upon the plain,
The giant listening for the whirling knife;
And all that night they fought beneath the stars,
Dubùra Tàka heeding not the dark
That show'd the Unknown like a watchful ghost
That bulked alert and vast beneath the sky.
As for the Unknown, it was naught to him
Who knew not night-time from the midday sun
But that, at night-time, long and mournful notes
Of grey hyenas, seeking for their food,
Broke the long chanting of the croaking frogs;

And now and then the deep-mouthed thundrous roar
Of lions still'd all sounds to throbbing void.
And that, in day-time, all was very warm,
And little birds and insects thrill'd the air,
And lisping breezes cool'd the wearied flesh.
So, when the morrow came, still firm he stood,
Though wounded on the thighs with many blows;
And in the dawn-light listen'd for the knife,
To dash aside the blows with bleeding hands.

And all that day they fought, and all the night,
In utter silence till the third-found sun
Was hot and still above them at the noon;
And drunkenly they staggered in the heat
Beneath a weight of aching weariness.
And, though the Unknown guarded with his hands,
Full oft the magic knife sank deep and sharp
And bit the muscle on his tired arms;
For he was all a-wounded and he bled;
And Death was often whisp'ring in his ear.
Full weary too Dubùra Tàka swayed,
And rain'd at random blows against his foe;
And blinded by his unabated wrath,
He slipp'd and shambled on the blood-wet ground,
And often tripp'd and fell upon the stumps
That in his headlong rush he did not see.
But at high noon the Senna drew away
To find his breath that now was well-nigh spent,
And sobb'd and thunder'd in his parchèd throat,
And choked him like the grip of mighty hands;
And for awhile was silence but for this.

Then spake the Unknown, and his voice
Sounded far off like thunder in a cave:
‘Dubùra Tàka, art thou gone indeed?’
Then said Dubùra Tàka where he stood—
His voice all broken in his search for breath:
‘Nay, I am here, thou dog, and I shall fight
Till all thy flesh is flay'd from off thy bones!’

Then said the Unknown, gasping in his speech:
‘Alas! I cannot raise my drooping hands,
And I am all undone, and I am spent,
For I am all one wound and all my blood
Is sinking in the sand beneath my feet;
My knees are tott'ring, and my weary neck
Can scarce support the burden of my head;
And now, I fear, I cannot guard myself.
For I have lost my hearing, and cold Death
Is clasping me and calling in my ear …
Go, go, Dubùra Tàka,—get thee hence,
And wait not now to watch a dying man!’

Then spoke Dubùra Tàka to his foe:
‘Nay, I shall watch thee, dog, and see thee die.’
‘Alas!’ the Unknown cried, ‘I cannot bear
That thy fierce eyes should watch me as I fall—
Blind! Blind! Alas! beneath the burning sky,
To rise again and stagger in my strength,
That now slips from me to the shouting dark
Which flames and whirls before my blinded eyes.
A hundred frost-cold hands are at my throat—
They tug me by the wrists, and paw my feet—
They grip me at the knees and bear me down!
Go, go, Dubùra Tàka, ah! be gone!
I fear that I will shout aloud and sob
Before the horror of his choking dark.’
‘Nay,’ said Dubùra Tàka, ‘I will wait
And watch thee sob the horror of thy death.’

Then to the open blue
The giant rais'd his sightless eyes and cried:
‘Mulimo, who makes Man! Thou all-wise God!
God of the thunders and the mighty rains!
Lord of the lands and all that in them is!
O Thou who made me, give me now my sight
That I may see but once this dastard hound
That mocks me as I struggle in the dark!
Or if thou wilt that I shall still be blind,
Then let thy vengeance fall upon his head,
And strike him with the blindness that is mine,
Or grind his corpse to dust beneath Thy heel!’

Then in his wrath Dubùra Tàka cried:
‘Hasten, thou unknown dog, to find thy death!’
And seiz'd his knife—the knife with blade of flame,
And haft of one white tusk of elephant,
That he had taken long and long ago,
Far back in distant Senna of the East,
From him, his father, of the land of shades—
And in his strength he hurl'd the magic blade
Against the dying giant where he stood.
Flaming and like a thunderbolt it flew
And struck the blind Unknown upon the eyes
And lo! beneath the impact of the stroke
The white tears gush'd like rain, and he could see!

‘I see!’ he cried, ‘I see! O God of light,
The utter darkness has all slipp'd away,
The world is spread before me, and I see!
Aha! what is this shadow? It is Death …
E'en now his hand is closing o'er my eyes.
The darkness spreads. Oh! wait and let me look
Once more; but once—but once upon the world …
Blue hills, blue hills, and distant purple peaks,
Sweet whisp'ring streamlets cool thy sun-warm'd breast—
I know them well: full often have I lain
Beside their rocky banks, and let my hand
Sink hotly where they gurgle in the stones:

And all the while
I could not see the laughing lips at all.
O far deep sky above me, what art thou?
I know thee not, but thou art beautiful;
Maybe the road of gods that pass in storm,
And shake the earth with thunder and with wind,
And cast about the hailstones with their hands:

But not till now
Have I beheld the beauty of thy face.
Broad plain, wide plain, how good indeed thou art
Who wast my home for all these weary years—
My home for all these years of utter dark—
Hold! Hold! I cannot see! off, clinging hands!
You choke me, and I cannot see the day!
Why cling you at my knees? Ha! who is this?
—Who art thou there, so silent in the sun?’

But, in the sun, Dubùra Tàka stood
All silent, and he spake not any word;
For all the lust and anger was dispell'd
And like the Unknown, now he saw those things
That he had never known until this time.
And there was silence for a little while,
And all was still and quiet in the heat.

Then spake the Unknown, and his voice
Was heavy, thick and terrible with wrath:
‘I know thee—thou art he, the savage dog,
Who fought with one unarm'd and who was blind;
And then when he was spent thou mock'd his death,
And gloated on his dying agony.
I had forgotten. Be upon thy guard,
And look thy last upon the golden day!’

And all at once
The giant gathered up his failing strength
And gripp'd Dubùra Tàka by the throat,
And by the thigh he seiz'd him with his hands,
And in the air he whirl'd him in his might,
And dash'd him dead upon the shaking earth.

Yea, like some cliff
That undermin'd at footage, leaves its hold
And roars in madness down the mountain side,
And leaps in fury through the empty air
To crash in shatter'd fragments on the plain:
So fell Dubùra Tàka in his death,
And where he fell the solid earth was rent,
And through the thirsty sand his life-blood gush'd,
And roll'd in dull and sluggish strength away
Through the warm plain and past the purple hills,
Onward and onward to the distant East;
Until at length it came to Senna town
Where lay the swamp that spread the fell disease.
And through the reeds it roll'd and tore their roots
Out from their hold within the mud and slime,
And carried all the sickness from its bed,
And bore the marsh-land to the open sea,
Yea thus the river came and still it flows
Yet call'd the great Zambesi by mankind.

As to the nameless giant,
He was spent, and staggered to his fall;
But Death was kind and laid him down in peace
Among the blue-wash'd mountains of the North,
And laid him softly in the sun-warm'd earth.
But from his eyes still well'd the warm white tears,
And drew in drowsy singing through the plains,
And brought refreshment to the straight-stemm'd thorns,
And wander'd on through groves of baobab,
And past plantations of wild lemon trees,
Through hunting-grounds, and past the homes of men,
Who call it River Shiré even now.
Finding the wide Zambesi in the end
It pass'd with it towards the morning sun,
And lost its song at Chinde in the waves.