Is very near: here I shall die alone:
I am weary, worn, deserted, destitute!

⁠It may be that my work is nearly done.
And though some say Christ cannot conquer here,
A noble army of dark men to-day,
Following His banner, proudly spurn the lie.
The native chief Sechele,²⁰ whom I taught,
Now teaches all his subject countrymen;
And Africaner, the black conqueror,
Whose very name was terror to the world
Of his resistless ruining career,
Moffat alone, no weapon in his hand,
Subdued with silent spiritual power.
The haughty devastating spirit bow'd,
Like Saul of old, a willing thrall to Christ;
So that all marvell'd to behold the man,
Saying, "Can this indeed be Africaner?"
I have unveil'd before the feeble eyes,
Inured to twilight of a prison cell,
Little by little, His fair radiance,
Reflecting Him, though faintly, in my life.