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diff --git a/old/61762-0.txt b/old/61762-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b25002a..0000000 --- a/old/61762-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1704 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Bush Fire, by Ida Lee - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Bush Fire - And Other Verses - -Author: Ida (Ida Louisa) Lee - -Release Date: April 5, 2020 [EBook #61762] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BUSH FIRE *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif, MFR and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - THE BUSH FIRE - - _AND OTHER VERSES_ - - - - - THE BUSH FIRE - - _AND OTHER VERSES_ - - BY - - IDA LEE - - _SECOND EDITION_ - - LONDON - SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY - _Limited_ - St. Dunstan’s House - FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C. - 1897 - - - LONDON: - PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, I.D., - ST. JOHN’S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL ROAD, E.C. - - - TO MY - - FATHER AND MOTHER - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - -THE BUSH FIRE 1 - -BILL, THE GROOM 4 - -WHITE SEA HORSES 10 - -SUFFOLK 13 - -THE FISH-GIRL’S SONG 18 - -PHANTOMS OF THE SEA 20 - -THE WATER FROG 23 - -THE FOREST KING’S LAMENT 25 - -THE DROVER’S VISION 30 - -THE HOMESTEAD 34 - -THE BUSHMAN’S WOOING 44 - -THE VIOLET’S MESSAGE 49 - -TO A FAR DISTANT FRIEND 52 - -THE PROMISE 54 - -WHERE LILIES GROW 57 - -NATURE’S LESSONS 59 - - - - - THE BUSH FIRE. - - -STOCKMAN (_Loq._). - - Wake up, boy! the grass is burning; - See the glare across the hill! - Flames are nearing the “Flat Paddock,” - And the sheep are in there still. - Dark you say! Yes, so I think it, - Tho’ I see the field of corn; - But the lights which flicker thro’ it - Are not those we see at dawn. - Mount the Arab! Take wet sacking! - Wet it must be, mind, not dry; - We must save the master’s cattle, - If we perish while we try. - - Ride on faster, you are younger, - Tie your horse to yonder tree, - Break some overhanging branches - One for you and one for me. - Face the fire and do not shirk it, - Never mind the smoke and heat; - Do not heed the dead wood cracking, - Or the sparks beneath your feet. - Beat and blind them, crush and kill them, - Till their blackened embers lie - Stark in ashes, and around you, - One by one in darkness die. - - See the blaze is growing greater, - Now it runs with many a leap - To where stand the tall white gum trees, - In whose limbs the parrots sleep,-- - Throws its fiery arms around them; - Every bird in terror flies - From its home in grief forsaken, - Shrieking harsh unearthly cries. - Will the wind not turn to Westward, - Or those great black clouds drop rain? - There was thunder! no, I doubt it, - But do listen once again. - - Now I hear the poor sheep bleating, - How they gaze from out the gloom, - Like the stake-bound men we read of - Who have died the martyr’s doom. - Just this moment they were rushing - Thro’ the scrub down to the plain, - Parch’d and weary. Now returning, - They seek refuge here again. - - * * * * * - - It was thunder! It is raining, - For the cinders, hot and red, - Hiss, as cool drops fall upon them - Through the branches overhead. - - Sweetly blows the yellow wattle - ’Cross the road and up the lane, - But to me the scent is sweetest - Of the damp and moist’ning rain. - How it plays upon the firewood, - With a pattering ceaseless sound, - Like some grand and glorious music - Sent to soothe the saddened ground. - Take my arm, boy! I feel blinded! - ’Tis with joy from such a sight. - Lead me home. I will thank God there - For His love to me to-night. - -_“The Bush Fire” appeared in “The Sydney Mail” (Christmas Number), -December 19th, 1896._ - - - - - BILL, THE GROOM. - - - The lights burn in the stable, and I stand in the yard, - Yet thro’ the open window I hear him breathing hard; - They watch the bed in silence where Bill the groom lies still, - For Bill the groom is surely fast going down the hill. - ’Twas only yestereven, he made a solemn vow - To catch and ride the chestnut; she stands outside there now, - While he lies crushed and helpless upon a bed of pain; - He will not see the sunset behind “The Ridge” again. - The chestnut’s free and easy, a trifle too thin-skinned, - I know she isn’t faultless, though sound in limb and wind; - But I thought she’d give no trouble, for Bill said he could ride,-- - Australian-born he was not, he came from t’other side. - The young ones like to tell us the way they do things there, - And tho’ I always listen (you know that’s only fair), - I wonder what would happen on those great spread-out plains, - If when I rode “The Nigger,” I let hang loose his reins. - - When Bill first said he’d ride her, I think I did say “no,” - We told him all about her, the way that she would go, - That she had bucked and thrown us whene’er she’d got the chance. - Bill leaped the fence and caught her, she led him such a dance! - He put the saddle on her, it was not nearly tight, - I ran across and fixed it,--and he rode out of sight. - The hay-shed hid them from me, I watched them ’long the fence, - The mare then walked so quietly, I thought she’d learnt some sense; - I know he’d got his stirrups, and held the reins quite straight, - And sat his saddle firmly as he went out the gate. - I went and fed his horses, and forked their straw all round, - Then something seemed to whisper that Bill was on the ground; - I thought I heard him calling, but when I raised his head - His face was white and fainting, he looked to me quite dead. - I don’t know how it happened; but there! my eyes grow dim, - I helped him mount the chestnut,--and she dealt his death to him. - - We brought him in and laid him upon his bed to rest, - And night and day we’ve waited, just hoping for the best, - And done our utmost for him--the family are away,-- - The doctor says he cannot see out another day; - Tho’ living’s mostly trouble, my life I’m sure I’d give, - If I could bring back yesterday, and let poor Billy live. - He’s waking now, they tell me, but not for long, poor lad, - If he but had his mother, ’twould make his end less sad. - - For years they have been parted, yet strange enough it seems, - Last night she came in spirit to calm his troubled dreams. - They say she is in England, across the ocean blue: - I know she here was watching her boy the long night through. - Don’t say it all was fancy! I’m not a bushman raw; - Bill saw her when she entered, first in the open door, - He followed every footstep until she reached his bed, - And caught her hand and held it, as she stroked his tired head. - And when she rose to leave us, the light, a narrow streak, - Crept underneath the windows, and tears stole down her cheek; - Her face was drooping lowly, it looked so pained and sad, - As once her glances rested upon the sleeping lad. - - * * * * * - - He asks about his horses, and wants to bid good-bye - To “Colonel” and to “Captain,” to “Mill” and “Marjorie,” - And even to the chestnut! he says it was his fault, - She only bucked just once or twice, and when she seemed to halt, - He pulled against the bridle, then up she reared in air - And fell right over on him--he lay beneath her there. - Come, wheel his bed among them and turn them in their stalls, - ’Tis hard if he can’t see them before his strength quite falls. - - They seem to know he’s going--they lick his outstretched hand, - And as he speaks they whinny, the sight is really grand! - But when he sees the chestnut (for in the door she stood), - I never thought a youngster could be one half as good, - He pats her, and he pets her, and strokes her bright red mane; - The beast I’m sure is sorry she’s caused him all this pain - (I do believe I’m crying, tho’ Bill wears such a smile, - He hardly could be wicked with a face so free from guile). - - And there, among the horses, he said he heard a call, - Tho’ everyone kept silent and solemn thro’ it all. - His voice once broke the stillness, “That’s not the stable bell? - The angels call me, mother!”--I caught him as he fell; - We did not try to raise him; I saw it was no use; - The horses they were standing, with halters swinging loose, - To watch our every movement: we took his bed inside, - And now I know they’re grieving because poor Bill has died. - - - - - WHITE SEA HORSES. - - - Glad sea horses! Sad sea horses! - Rear the head, and toss the mane, - Spread out wide in bands together. - Face the boundless deep again! - Grand white horses! Stand, white horses! - Just one moment calm and still, - In the bright and sparkling sunshine! - None would dream your wrath would kill. - - Great sea horses! Stately horses! - When you gallop still be kind: - Where is strength to curb your fury, - Where are reins your mouths to bind? - Urging onward, surging onward, - Wild your onset, fierce and free! - Proudly rides a ship to battle - O’er the line ’twixt sky and sea. - - Wait, white horses! Bait, white horses! - While you don those trappings new; - Now your noble chests are wrapt in - Sumptuous folds of green-fringed blue. - Tall white horses! Small white horses! - Can it be in peace or war, - Thus you madly race the ocean - Till you reach the sand-strewn bar? - - Champing horses! Ramping horses! - Mid the roaring, mid the noise, - Ere your fetlocks churn the billows, - Proudly they uplifted poise. - Darting horses! Parting horses! - They have broken loose away, - Flinging far behind their traces, - As they plunge among the spray! - - Racing horses! Pacing horses! - When you speed with foam-shod feet, - Does, unseen, some ghost or spirit - Prick your flanks with spurrings fleet? - Vain sea horses! Strain, sea horses, - With the sinews you possess, - Dashing high, above the waters, - Heads which never knew distress! - - Fighting horses! Biting horses! - Open mouths and nostrils wide, - Arching necks and tangled forelocks, - Snapping jaws on either side. - Fierce wild horses! Pierce wild horses! - As the ship doth glide along, - They have struck athwart the bulwarks - Blow on blow, dealt loud and strong. - - Mad white horses! Bad white horses! - Has the vessel spoilt your chase? - How you turn aside to lash it, - In a passionate embrace! - Splashing horses! Crashing horses! - Soon you frolic left and right, - Angels guard storm-beaten sailors - Who encounter you to-night! - - - - - SUFFOLK. - - - AN EVENING IN AUTUMN. - - Gray shadows speed the fading day, - And creeping mists assert their sway; - They rise arrayed in varied hue, - From sober black to faintest blue, - As smoke mounts o’er a slumbering fire, - Or lingers round some funeral pyre. - Across the fields and in the wood, - Where pheasant nestles o’er her brood, - No sound is heard; the lifeless trees - Scarce move their branches in the breeze, - And fallen leaves lie curled and damp - Where glow-worm shows his tiny lamp. - Soon too with day the shadowed light - Will folded sleep, in arms of night. - Upon the marsh and up the hill - Wild rabbits scamper with a will. - The crimson sun so warm and red - Now sunken lies, in regal bed, - And tinted clouds float gently by, - Like rose-leaves o’er a painted sky. - The bending river wends its way, - Through meadows green where oxen stray; - It stretches out its lengthy arm, - Which twists and turns past heath and farm. - Here, wild fowl often make their nest, - And plover, too, with golden crest, - From off its banks will fly or run - Amid the reeds at setting sun. - The village wrapt in sweet content - Reviews, ere night, the day well spent; - And cotters lean without their door - To talk with friends the season o’er. - Beyond the sward, smooth lies the beach - Whence mighty waters onward reach, - And to the shore still rippling send - Sweet murmurings that do not end. - So softly do the wavelets move, - They seem to breathe but words of love - As if they feared or trembled, lest - They hurt one shell upon its breast; - Or cast one pebble on the sand, - Lest it should know their strength of hand. - Thus fades the day before my sight - While nature waits the coming night. - - - MORNING. - - Dark broke the daylight, cold and gray, - And sea-birds flecked the foaming spray, - Above the deep. The waves now dashed, - And rolling huge, so heavily lashed - Their watery fleece against the strand. - But yesterday, with loving hand, - They laved its face with warm caress, - And softly on its cheek did press. - The glowing sun, which blessed that day, - Now frowning clouds hid far away. - No tinted rays could burst the veil, - Which falling thick in showers of hail, - And stinging sleet, that blew so fierce, - The smallest floweret seemed to pierce; - And tossed aside the golden sheaf, - Or cut like steel each tiny leaf. - The breeze arose, but not to jest, - Or soothe those fears which breathe unrest; - It sprang up strong--not lightly gay-- - Nor deigned with one rose-leaf to play; - But rushing madly to the wood, - Uprooted trees as there they stood, - Then threw them down among the gorse, - And crushed the ferns with cruel force. - When, whistling by the sea-girt dale, - It caused the fisherwife to pale; - And made the worn-out rafters quake, - The sleepers suddenly awake. - The busy smacksmen set their sail, - And trim their boats to ride the gale; - While aged seamen creep in sight - To glean the dangers of the night. - They long to join the gallant band, - Though wan of face and weak of hand, - And gaze upon the angry sea, - Which stirs the fading memory - To bring some peril past to each, - A lesson new, their age to teach, - When walking back to humble cot, - Each ache and ailment is forgot. - And in their homes the threadbare tale - Of wreck and rescue will not fail - The hours to enliven thro’ the day, - And chase aside the shadows gray, - Which, round their lives’ uncertain sea, - Now deepen where the warnings be - Of one last voyage which must be made - Ere sailings be for ever stayed. - - - NOON. - - At noon’s sweet hour came peace once more, - Wide open Nature laid her store - Of fragrant flowers--the birds sang gay, - To blot the sins of dawn away. - The sea herself, though foaming still, - Acknowledged then a stronger will, - Altho’ at night the mourner’s tear - Fell thick and fast. Yet ever here - Tears dew the sorrow-stricken eyes, - While grief sits by to foster sighs. - Men only learn in Heaven above - The wisdom of our Father’s love. - - - - - THE FISH-GIRL’S SONG. - - - Clang! Clang! Clang! - I set my basket down; - The bells hang high in the belfry tower, - And tell the folk ’tis the evening hour, - Through in and out the town. - - Clang! Clang! Clang! - O hush my wooden shoon! - When gently I swing the sacred door, - And kneel me down on the marble floor - To beg a heavenly boon. - - Clang! Clang! Clang! - Be silent, wooden shoon; - And cease your noise while I say my prayers, - When vespers soar through the winding stairs, - Up to the lonely moon. - - Clang! Clang! Clang! - Good things all end too soon; - I bow the knee as I say good-bye, - To holy place, with its spire on high: - Such restless wooden shoon! - - Clang! Clang! Clang! - Work, morning, night and noon; - For daily bread, and for nightly rest! - My heart is cheered and my soul is blest, - Ring out, O wooden shoon! - - - - - PHANTOMS OF THE SEA. - - - Black phantoms gather o’er the sea, - And move in groups mysteriously; - With shears in hand they watching wait. - The night grows old; the hour is late; - The ocean foams with angry glee, - Its waters roll tempestuously, - And dash the white salt-spangled spray - Against the rocks, in rudest play. - - The glimmering light around, below, - A sad wan face there fain would show; - But darkness claims the night’s last hour, - Enchaining it with mystic power. - In rugged outlines where they stand, - Tall, spectral cliffs shut out the land, - And shelter lend those forms who creep - On evil wings above the deep. - - All noiselessly, with one consent, - Their work but on one object bent, - They carry out a sovereign will, - And never rest, and ne’er are still. - They look like beings who frequent - A nether world--their time is spent - In weaving sorrow, grief, and pain - For those who sail the boundless main. - - Quite unaware, from out the night, - A ship glides forth so tall and white - Amid the darkness. Straightway she - Steers headlong to Eternity. - The vessel bears across the deep - A freight, who all unconscious sleep. - Gray gloom hath topped each frowning height - Which rising phantoms hide from sight; - With outstretched hands in air they loom, - The ship to beckon to its doom. - But no, not yet; ’tis not to be; - Thou’rt cheated! Look, thou angry sea! - Above the heights, there doth appear - A form, upholding high a spear - Of sparkling light! It is the morn! - The night is dead! The day is born! - “Begone!” she cries, her hand she rears; - “Bend low your heads, let fall your shears! - Away, you evil-meaning bands! - Aye! Hide your faces in your hands. - Together link yourselves and flee, - And leave the brave in peace with me.” - - The ship is stayed. The helm they turn, - While sailors’ hearts within them burn - To see the rocks, the seething foam, - The whirlpool eddying round its home, - And giant cliffs so near at hand. - A treacherous path those spirits planned, - To lead them onward to their doom. - There soon they must have found a tomb, - Had not the morning’s early light - Reclaimed them from the clutch of night. - - - - - THE WATER FROG. - - - I wander far by bank and stream, - Then paddle back thro’ wave and foam, - Cross pebble stones, where waters leap; - A froth-clad doorway hides my home. - ’Neath fern leaves’ shade I gently dream, - While circling weeds around me throng; - The restless waters softly flow, - Their babbling sounds like some sweet song. - - When stronger grows the northern breeze, - The driven stream with noisy roar, - Blown foremost by the boisterous wind, - Bursts headlong thro’ my shivered door. - A twisted twig I hop or climb, - ’Tis maddening pace at times we ride; - First, twirling gaily round in air, - Then smoothly on the waters glide. - - Great frowning rocks above look down: - With scornful glance they watch my glee, - Aloud I croak, and broadly smile. - What matter if they angry be? - Our fleeting life is far too short, - Tho’ merry as it well can be; - The good, together with the bad, - Can sweeten still this world for me. - - And when I reach my cosy home, - The bubbling waters shout “Hurrah,” - And hurrying onward, tell the tale - To other streams both near and far; - How I have braved the tempest’s din. - And now beneath the lofty pine, - While angry thunders make reply, - In sweet contentment I recline. - - - - - THE FOREST KING’S LAMENT. - - - Where linger the people I once called my own? - In depths of the forest I stand here alone; - Where waits my beloved one, my queen and my bride? - ’Twas seldom she wandered thus far from my side. - I hear not, I see not the world where they live; - No day-dream reveals it, or comfort will give - To passionate longing; hope dies in the heart - Of man when he dwells from his fellows apart. - With weary complaining I question again; - ’Mid rivers and mountains I hear a refrain - From cliff to the valley seem clearly to ring-- - “Alone in thy kingdom where once thou wert king!” - - From over wide seas the white chieftains had come - To rest in our mountains and claim our dear home; - ’Twas morn in the vale when we rose up to fight, - ’Twas darker than darkness, that fell ere the night. - Our farewells were short, as thro’ thicket we sprang, - All armed with sharp spears and the curved boomerang; - My people loud shouted their battle-cry old, - A quick answer came, by the bullet soon told! - I prayed as I fell, “May I speedily die - With those who, around me, now silently lie - Like reeds in a tempest, struck low by the rain, - Who never to life will awaken again!” - - I dragged myself back, yet scarce knew it was day, - Or if any escaped from the heat of the fray; - No voice there I heard, not a sigh, not a sound, - As fainting, I lay on the grass-trodden ground. - But morning brought life, and the noonday gave strength, - The day slowly passed, and with evening at length - (Kind Nature had nourished my famishing frame) - I found I could rise, though enfeebled and lame. - Though why should I value that newly found breath? - For bitter is life to me, sweeter is death, - And if I felt sure I should find them at last, - With joy would I join those true friends of the past. - - I’ve sought the deep hollows, the gorge, and ravine, - From mallee to plain not a creature is seen. - White chieftains have journeyed and left me to rest, - They scour all the country from east to the west. - Alone in my camp, now, when fadeth the day, - I sit in the firelight the lizard to flay; - Tho’ nights are as fine as were those we could choose - To dance the corroboree, feast or carouse - Around the bush fire piled with myall and pine, - And box, red and white, or the cedar-wood fine! - Once danced we the war-dance from dark till the dawn, - And stayed not to rest until sunlight was born. - - Warm sunshine still plays among myriad leaves, - Where silver-like thread the tarantula weaves; - I see thro’ the green the bright web he hath spun, - And kingfishers dazzling the light of the sun; - From nests in the banks quick they flash in and out. - While jackass sits laughing with comical shout - ’Mid branches o’erhead, wearing plumage of brown, - The river beneath floweth steadily down. - Thus murmuring, the ripples bring tears to my eye, - They sound like the tones of my loved one’s reply; - I turn right away, just to stifle the pain - Of knowing she never will hear them again. - - Alone on the marshes the water-hens float, - With cresses and rushes surrounding their throat, - They pluck at the circles of mud-coloured slime, - Which harden and bake in the summer’s sweet time. - If water be scarce, or if river run dry, - There sandpiper, too, on occasion will hie, - And heron or pelican often be seen, - Food patiently seeking in silence serene. - At times I do wonder if haply they know - What power has arisen my sway to o’erthrow?-- - What memories they stir! When they rise on the wing - I dream of the days when I reigned here as king. - - The wattle’s scent mingles with that of the briar, - Where tower the white gum trees in noble attire: - In days when we hunted the emu abreast, - ’Twas under their shade we would lie down and rest, - Till curlew at evening poured wail upon wail - That circled the forest and crept thro’ the vale, - Then, meeting the echoes amid the wide plain, - Would rise there and fall there, and circle again. - Do yearnings increasing disturb the strong breeze, - That moans in the brushwood and grieves in the trees? - Its sob overcomes me, no more can I sing, - But bend low in anguish where once I stood king! - - - - - THE DROVER’S VISION. - - - The drover’s camp one evening in hushful calm lay still, - Its fitful flickering firelight made bright the western hill; - The bronzed and bearded drover had stretched himself to rest, - In childlike peaceful slumber, his arms across his breast. - His saddle formed a pillow, the thick, coarse grass his bed, - While mounting sparks were casting a halo round his head. - - Then sweetest dreams came pouring to charm the weary brain, - He saw his mob of cattle outspread upon the plain; - But curling whip lay silent, and watchful dog slept sound, - As deeper grew the stillness which held its sway around: - Thro’ forest paths an angel had sped with hurried haste, - The twining leaves he forced apart until he reached the waste. - - Past many growing townships, o’er tracks of sun-dried plain, - And rocky hills and rivers, he brought his tale of pain. - Long shadows rose to meet him; in groups they gathered round, - While trees unbent and listened in reverence o’er the ground, - Where hallowed steps had fallen, where an angel late had trod, - Whose holy feet with pity, and love, and faith were shod. - - The drover heard those footsteps; he felt an icy breath, - And, turning round in greeting, beheld the face of Death, - A vision bending o’er him, and holding, gently down, - A tiny suffering infant whose life had well-nigh flown. - It raised its fragile body, and softly turned to rest - Beside him, closely nestling against his massive breast. - - And, as the shadows parted, the small wan features smiled - Upon him, oh! so sweetly, and he saw it was his child. - A moment more, it left him, and thro’ the dimness fled - Back to the Angel vision, with tiny hands outspread. - The white-robed arms enfold it, and glances sweet and rare - Fall on the stricken drover, who lies in darkness there. - - When morning breaks, the sunshine streams over a moving throng - Of cattle pressing onward, while breezes bear along - The sound of parrots’ chattering; and sweet toned bell-pbirds sing, - Like chimes on a Sabbath morning, their notes through the bushland ring, - And tall trees wave their branches athwart the rosy light, - Forgetting in their pleasure, the sorrow of the night. - - The drover’s world is darkened, his heart is wrung with pain, - As gazing o’er the hill-side where his ash-strewn camp had lain, - He thinks of the vanished spirit and heavily droops his head, - While sadness sits in his saddle--he knows his child is dead. - He prays with fervent pleadings that his babe may stay its flight - In God’s own Heavenly Kingdom--His home of love and light. - - - - - THE HOMESTEAD. - - - There stands the homestead; white amid the trees - So lowly set, where stirs a faint warm breeze. - Across the sward the thronging cattle pass, - Their colours blurred, as, in one moving mass, - Loosed from the yard, the panting creatures seek - Their restful pastures by the flowing creek. - Yet sunlight lingers in the crimson leaves, - And, where it touches, softer beauty weaves. - It plays around the open entrance-door, - And casts its glowing radiance on the floor. - See on each drooping flower whose heavy head - Bows the tired stalk, the dying sunbeams shed - A faded splendour, lending deeper grace - To all those colours which their rays embrace. - All through the day the busy droning bee - Has music made by every flowering tree, - And sipped the goodness from the blossom sweet, - Which bursting full bloomed in refulgent heat. - Now where the shaded corner screens the hive, - The laden workers one by one arrive, - With merry hum and din, the tiny throng - Fill the cool garden with their evensong. - Long slanting shadows creep from out the shade, - And clouds above accumulate and fade. - In one short breath, like foam upon the sea, - When rising winds the ocean bubbles free, - They shape themselves and vanish into space, - And others quickly follow in their place. - The heated day departs, yet gentle night, - Though venturing nearer, veils her face from sight, - Patient awaiting that belovèd hour - When like a queen, she rises, full of power, - To grasp the fallen sceptre of the day, - And calm her subjects, casting care away, - While freshening dewdrops cool the fevered land, - With gentle touch as of a mother’s hand. - The great brown eagle hurries home to rest, - Amid the rugged mountains in the west: - Where yawning space asserts herself, between - The towering cliff, deep gorge and dark ravine, - Where ferns and bracken grow, and interlace - Their beauteous fronds across the rock’s stern face, - He lives a king, within a regal nest - The feathered monarch of the lonely west. - Above him sombre flocks of ibis fly, - On drooping wing, across the tinted sky, - And mar the beauty of its golden light - By their uneven lines and lengthened flight. - Upon the hillside, motionless and calm, - Like sentinels who shelter all from harm; - The stalwart trees extend their branches white - And keep their silent watches through the night. - - Behold, like glistening silver, quickly glide, - Yet farther off, the river’s hurrying tide! - By sandy shores and widening banks it flows, - Till tranquil to the open sky it shows - A gleaming face, reflecting dear and true - Its answering gaze from out the deepening blue. - One spot alone defiles the sand’s white breast, - Where some foul crawling snake a track imprest, - Recording by the broken mud-stained trail, - The linked contortions of its twisting tail. - A solitary horse surmounts the steep, - Bringing its rider home to well-earned sleep. - The threatening troubles which his hand must stay, - The heavy toil, the worries of the day, - Are all forgotten, as upon the plain - He sees his homestead rise to view again. - A happy smile lights up his sunburnt face, - When on the breeze sweet voices he can trace, - Of those he loves who watch for him, and wait - To give him welcome at the open gate. - - Upon the giant boulder’s flattened stone, - Which bars the stream, in ages that have gone, - Where cool soft shade the river oak tree throws, - ’Twas there the black man’s spear uplifted rose, - And pierced the darting fish with matchless aim, - Then stooped his dusky arm his spoil to claim. - When summer evening too his world made bright, - And bathed the trees and flowers in crimson light, - The sunset tingeing red each leaf and bough, - And all the bush was beautiful as now, - Often he rose and wandered by the bank; - Where grew the native thistles tall and rank, - With blithesome step, and sure unfaltering tread, - He traced a winding road; about his head - The trailing creepers from the trees hung low, - And snow-white petals brushed his swarthy brow. - The hazy sun-spots danced and round him played, - While silken cobwebs shimmered through the shade. - And here and there the fragrant wattle leant - Across his path, as leisurely he went, - To where the open plains their limits kept, - Above the dense growth which the hillside swept. - Fleet would his dogs, with noisy bark, pursue - The bustard wild or startled kangaroo. - But time has changed! The black man’s race is run: - No more at even, when the dying sun - Is sinking to its rest, will he be seen - In that fair spot: the tufted rushes green - May conclaves form upon the wide expanse, - Still in the river-bend the fish may glance, - And waters chant their rhyming lullaby; - But not for him. He never will descry - The painted plumage on the parrot’s wing, - Nor listen where the woodland echoes ring, - With shouts of laughter from that peering bird - Who sits, convulsed, in attitude absurd, - Amid the leaves which crown the shrunken limb - That slanting reaches to the waters’ brim. - Advancing Time has turned another page, - And gives the land a new, a greater age. - - Already too that young land, having past - Her childhood, stands to claim her place at last, - Already walks at her great Mother’s side - Among the nations in majestic pride, - While Britain glances on that comely face - Whose every feature bears her stamp of race. - She guidance gave her through her infant days, - And lit her path with all ungrudging rays. - In early years the daughter learnt full well - To whom to trust her steps when darkness fell; - While knowledge of the help and love she drew - From out her Mother’s breast woke fondness true. - Yet still the daughter wore a listless air, - Dependent, and too young for thought or care, - Till came o’er foaming seas a rude alarm, - “Foes taunt thy Mother with uplifted arm!” - The strength of her great parent she knew well - Could all unaided threats and foes repel! - But now she starts, stung by the hostile words - Of those who stand around with naked swords! - Upstirred, the ancient pride within her veins, - And courage quick, from caution snatched the reins. - She called her sons, the towns, the bushland through; - Called them to arms! Australians brave and true! - Resentment fierce, which could no longer hold - Itself in check, burned wild and uncontrolled, - That covert acts a noble queen distrest, - Or robbed fair England of her quiet rest. - Her sons obey, striplings and men full-grown - Prepare for war, and conflicts yet unknown. - With fearless mien, and flashing angry eye, - Each girds a soldier’s sword upon his thigh. - A heightened blush o’erspreads his glowing cheek, - Erect he stands, though passing young to speak, - While from his brow he sweeps the kiss of sleep, - Which lingered there in languid rapture deep, - And filled his senses, letting him forget - The duty manhood made a sacred debt. - Quickly he sends across the billows wild - This message to the Mother from her child: - “Think not that I can dwell in calm repose - While friends around thee waver, and rude foes - Goad thee to anger with coarse gibe and leer, - And flaunt before thine eyes the lifted spear. - From thee I rose: for thee I can but fall! - Thy need suffices for my battle-call.” - The tones all quickly tell the sword gleams bare - Within the youthful hand uplifted there. - Her fond smile deepens as the Mother hears - Still further comfort which the ocean bears. - Her proudest glory is her children’s love, - Who with their life-blood loyalty would prove. - When thro’ the arid desert’s sandy waste - The Royal standard presses in its haste - Around the Mother’s flag, the foeman sees - Her daughter’s banner floating in the breeze: - Those soldier-children in a southern clime - Sacred will hold that heritage sublime. - Let England’s enemies remember well - The fortunes which the elder flag befell - On battle-fields, in troubled days of old, - Nor think her ancient spirit has waxed cold. - The past, the present, and the days to come, - Will show how sons of England guard their home! - - Great England! not thy sea-girt shore alone, - That stretches round the Queenly Sovereign’s throne, - But all the widening sway, and boundless grace, - Of those vast countries which a world embrace, - Where dwell the sons of Britain. Ill betide - Who speaks against their country strong and wide! - Throughout the world one patriotic zeal - Binds the vast empire, as with links of steel, - To that sweet peaceful Isle we call our home. - Thither, from mountain top, or crested foam, - We turn our thoughts (as flowers turn to the sun), - And cherish high what there our fathers won. - If far away we watch the sunlight fade, - Beyond the range (where in past years, dismayed - The tired explorer stood, with weary brow, - And gazed across the mallee high and low), - We thrust the shadows back, and think the while - How men forget their fears to win her smile. - What danger will they face if to her name - Twill add new lustre, or still wider fame! - Or if we stand within the city’s pale - Where once rode armoured knights in coated mail, - Of those we think beneath its sacred dome, - So long since gone, who also called it home! - And proud we feel in this brief passing hour, - That God with bounteous grace has given us power - To call it ours! His strong far-reaching hand - Has kept a faithful watch above this land. - - Light has departed! In the western hills - Its place around the homestead darkness fills; - Save in the windows, whence the smiling lamp - Outshines the gloom and cheers the distant camp, - Where with their flocks the drovers spend the night - In restful slumber until morning light. - One stage is finished! stars gleam in the sky - As weary heads on pillowing saddles lie. - Around the men sweet dreams their cobwebs spin, - And soon shut out the day’s unrestful din. - All through the air a new-born stillness grows - As sleep, around, a mystic thraldom throws: - Above, below, her soothing angels spread, - On beast, and bird, o’er things alive and dead, - Their blissful wings, while voices never cease - To chant in silvery tones a song of peace. - - - - - THE BUSHMAN’S WOOING. - - - “Short grows my leave,” the bushman said, - “My love I will avow; - When I come back, the maid I’ll wed, - If she will hear me now.” - So fair this maiden was, and bright, - She’d suitors more than one, - But when the bushman rode in sight, - She met him there alone. - - She heard him speak of golden love, - A blessing, deep and true, - Such love was theirs, he fain would prove - If she would let him woo - And claim her there, when work was done. - The maiden glanced adown; - “Not thus,” she said, “must I be won,” - And smoothed her silken gown. - - Then angry spake the man aloud; - He saw the hand, so small; - While o’er his face there came a cloud, - These words his lips let fall, - “A stockman may seem rough or rude, - Yet all the while be bold, - ’Tis not because the quartz is crude, - It can’t contain the gold. - - “A bushman’s life is wild and free,-- - That easy is to read,-- - Don’t live to learn just what you see, - But take the will for deed. - Now all this time I know you meant, - Not ‘No’ to say, but ‘Yes!’” - Then as he spake, the tall man bent - His head, her hand to press. - - The maiden would not seem to see, - But drew her hand aside, - “The man I love must courteous be, - Ere I will be his bride. - You say the life is rough and wild, - You think the man is bold; - I still could wish the stone were filed - That one might see the gold! - - “To-morrow morn I’ll hear your tale, - And then, perhaps, I’ll say - A word of comfort if you fail - To win my love to-day. - My heart is not a paltry toy, - Just worn upon the sleeve, - To give away to man or boy, - Who barely asks my leave.” - - “At morn,” he said, “I take the sheep - Beyond the Queensland line; - We start before you wake from sleep; - Just place your hand on mine, - And say, ‘God bless you, Jim, to-night, - And bring you safely back;’ - I then can face the hottest fight - Or meet the fiercest black.” - - All anger from his face had fled, - His eyes with sweetness shone, - The maiden’s cheek went white, then red, - She stood as turned to stone. - Her lips they moved, as if to say - Some words to reach his ear, - But minutes pass, and still they stay - Pressed close as if with fear. - - One moment more, and then he knelt - Low at her feet to ask - The blessing sweet, for still he felt - ’Twould lighten all his task. - Her hand so small was stretched out there, - And laid between his own, - And while he held it, white and fair, - This maiden’s pride had flown. - - He felt her trembling fingers move, - Yet low he humbly bent - Before her there to prove his love, - The while she grew content. - And then she spoke, he scarce could hear, - Her voice fell soft and sweet, - “Twas ‘Yes’ I meant, I cannot bear - To see you at my feet.” - - - - - THE VIOLET’S MESSAGE. - - - All radiant was the garden with choice and precious flowers; - Rare blossoms in their “houses” enwove resplendent bowers. - They were the rich man’s treasures, he gave them every care, - And yet the dew of heaven could never reach them there. - They did not feel the raindrops, or sunshine warmly bright, - Nor winced beneath the dangers of a cold and frosty night. - For all were closely tended and spared from every ill, - A gardener’s hand had planted each flower with dainty skill. - - Now outside in the meadow, a modest violet grew, - And no one ever watched it, for no one ever knew; - Still there it lived and flourished, and scent of flowerets small - Was carried by the breezes across the high stone wall. - It reached the great man’s window, was wafted thro’ the door, - And made the air seem fresher than ever it was before. - It reached the great man’s heart, too, and whispered in his ear, - To tell a loving message, in accents sweet and clear. - - He saw once more his birthplace and childhood’s happy years; - ’Tis not a vision only, the brain both sees and hears. - There stands the old white cottage, long vanished from his sight, - He feels the cool wind blowing across the fields at night. - In waters of the streamlet that graced the woodland scene, - He seemed to see reflected the man he might have been. - He sighed, “O gentle violet, so tender and so true! - Of all my rich collection, not one compares with you. - Your coming here has taught me, how I may walk each day, - The paths where you are lovely in your sweet simple way.” - - - - - TO A FAR DISTANT FRIEND. - - - Eyes that are true, - Shadowed with blue, - Speak her sweet mind: - Out of her face, - Calm in its grace, - Looks the spirit behind. - - Swift ocean tide, - Steep mountain side, - Stand now between: - Yet will my heart, - Sacred, apart, - Treasure days that have been. - - No sunlight plays - With the same rays - On her and me: - Time’s shortening wing - Troubles may bring, - Clouding Life’s restless sea. - - Still I will pray - Her heavenward way - Thrice may be blest; - Angels to guide, - Walk by her side, - Love her ever the best. - - - - - THE PROMISE. - - - Where are the angel-fingers - That traced the road I trod, - And pointed out so clearly - The heavenly way to God? - - Where are the noble faces, - The eyes, quick flashing light, - That warned me there was danger - Before it came in sight? - - Where are the cheerful voices - I knew in days of youth? - Through every tone came ringing - A thrill of earnest truth. - - Why did they tire and vanish, - And leave me here alone, - To stumble on a pathway - Beset with jagged stone? - - I hear no sound to bless me, - I see no hand to guide - My feet o’er thorny places, - Or point where ways divide, - - Though every sign-post tells me, - That I have gone astray, - And arms for ever beckon, - Yet, further lengths away. - - My heart grows hot and weary, - My soul is filled with care, - And thoughts around me thronging, - Have quenched all wish for prayer. - - I wail in keenest anguish, - Must I sink beneath the sod, - On earth, not find my Father, - In death, not reach my God? - - The clouds above me open, - And a glorious ray of light - Comes streaming out of darkness, - A voice speaks thro’ the night, - - “You have a faithful promise, - Escape for you is near, - When grows the tempter’s presence - Too great for you to bear. - - “Arise and journey onward: - A two-edged, flaming sword - Directs you to your Saviour, - Through His Almighty Word.” - - - - - WHERE LILIES GROW. - - - Where lilies grow; - The dewdrops linger on the flowers, - The birds’ sweet singing chimes the hours, - I love to sit there listening, - And watch the fish there glistening. - They glance and dart both in and out, - And turn themselves all round about, - Where lilies grow. - - Where lilies grow; - A pace or two the violets sweet - Spread like a carpet ’neath my feet; - The rushes tall in clusters stand; - I reach and touch them with my hand; - And yellow kingcups there unfold, - They circle like a band of gold - Where lilies grow. - - Where lilies grow; - So calm, so still it is, and deep, - Around the edge green fringes peep, - Just up above the trailing weeds - Entwining, spread among the reeds, - Then hang them down along the pool, - Which lies beneath so calm and cool, - Where lilies grow. - - - - - NATURE’S LESSONS. - - - Tell me whether you have ridden - Gallant steed a lengthy mile! - As he galloped, in your saddle - Could you sit and calmly smile, - For you hardly felt the motion, - Tho’ his feet fell firm and strong, - Sending sparks in feathery flashes - From the flint-strewn road along? - - Then did forests flit and vanish, - Lofty trees like spectres pass? - Looked the mountain in the distance - Like some wavering shapeless mass? - Could you only see distinctly - Fine-cut ears and flowing mane, - While your fingers felt the snaffle - Pulling doubly on the rein? - - Have you ever watched the river, - Bounding onward to the sea, - Have you heard the restless throbbing - Of the waters’ joyous glee, - From the upland to the valley - Still so bravely battling on, - Turning not for gain, or pleasure, - Till its goal is safely won? - - Have you seen the kingly eagle, - Rising, leave his nest on high, - Wings outstretched, eyes glancing sunward, - As he cleaves the azure sky? - Quite as glorious as the river - (For one hand has made the two), - Reared and dwelling near the heavens, - Linking those blue heights with you. - - When we sail across the ocean, - Far from sight or reach of land, - Feel we then the vessel fighting - White sea-horses in a band? - Fierce and wild they turn and double, - Waves of water wildly moan. - Joining there they lash the bulwarks - Till the ship will creak and groan. - - Tho’ the joy lay yet unconscious, - Time in after days will bring, - Out of all such scenes, a token, - Breathing of some better thing. - Our tired senses will awaken - From their slumberings, fresh and strong, - While a holier spirit bids us, - Love the right, and hate the wrong. - - ’Tis not thought of fame or fortune - That rebounds within the mind, - Stifling every earthly passion, - Opening eyes which long were blind. - There, revealed, lie noble secrets, - What is greatest, noblest, best, - In our natures, then uprising, - Make such scenes for ever blest. - - - THE END. - - [Illustration: text decoration] - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Bush Fire, by -Ida, (Ida Louisa), (1865-1943) Lee - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BUSH FIRE *** - -***** This file should be named 61762-0.txt or 61762-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/7/6/61762/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif, MFR and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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