Once , as I wandered by night on the fringe of the moonlit desert,
Lapped in a vision I saw pictures of days that are dead:
Groups of horsemen rode by me—with rifles slung at the shoulder—
Bronzed and bearded and stern, silent and watchful they rode.
Following close after these came, drawn by slow-footed oxen,
Wagon on resolute wagon—white-sailed ships of the veld.
Maidens with smiling faces, framed in the sun-bonnet homely,
Peeped from the rocking wagons that rumbled steadfastly on.
Almost I heard the rattle of chains and the creak of the jukskei,
Almost the cracking of whips as the wagons lumbered along:
On, and endlessly on, invincibly journeyed the trekkers,
Onward over the desert, melting away like a cloud.