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@@ -0,0 +1,16628 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poems of Henry Kendall, by Henry Kendall + +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 + + +Title: The Poems of Henry Kendall + +Author: Henry Kendall + +Posting Date: August 2, 2008 [EBook #962] +Release Date: July, 1997 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF HENRY KENDALL *** + + + + +Produced by Alan R. Light + + + + + +THE POEMS OF HENRY KENDALL + +by Henry Kendall + +[Native-born Australian Poet--1841-1882.] + + + + + +[Note on text: +Lines longer than 78 characters have been broken according to metre, +and the continuation is indented two spaces. A few obvious errors +have been corrected.] + + + + + +This edition of Kendall contains: (i) The poems included in +the three volumes published during the author's lifetime; +(ii) Those not reprinted by Kendall, but included in the collected editions +of 1886, 1890 and 1903; (iii) Early pieces not hitherto reprinted; +(iv) Poems, now first printed, from the Kendall MSS. in the Mitchell Library, +the use of which has been kindly permitted by the Trustees. +Certain topical skits and other pieces of no value have been omitted. + + +With biographical note by Bertram Stevens + + + + + +Contents + + + + Poems and Songs + + The Muse of Australia + Mountains + Kiama + Etheline + Aileen + Kooroora + Fainting by the Way + Song of the Cattle-Hunters + Footfalls + God Help Our Men at Sea + Sitting by the Fire + Bellambi's Maid + The Curlew Song + The Ballad of Tanna + The Rain Comes Sobbing to the Door + Urara + Evening Hymn + Stanzas + The Wail in the Native Oak + Harps We Love + Waiting and Wishing + The Wild Kangaroo + Clari + Wollongong + Ella with the Shining Hair + The Barcoo + Bells Beyond the Forest + Ulmarra + The Maid of Gerringong + Watching + The Opossum-Hunters + In the Depths of a Forest + To Charles Harpur + The River and the Hill + The Fate of the Explorers + Lurline + Under the Figtree + Drowned at Sea + Morning in the Bush + The Girl I Left Behind Me + Amongst the Roses + Sunset + Doubting + Geraldine + Achan + + + Leaves from Australian Forests + + Dedication + Prefatory Sonnets + The Hut by the Black Swamp + September in Australia + Ghost Glen + Daphne + The Warrigal + Euroclydon + Araluen + At Euroma + Illa Creek + Moss on a Wall + Campaspe + On a Cattle Track + To Damascus + Bell-Birds + A Death in the Bush + A Spanish Love Song + The Last of His Tribe + Arakoon + The Voyage of Telegonus + Sitting by the Fire + Cleone + Charles Harpur + Coogee + Ogyges + By the Sea + King Saul at Gilboa + In the Valley + Twelve Sonnets-- + A Mountain Spring + Laura + By a River + Attila + A Reward + To---- + The Stanza of Childe Harold + A Living Poet + Dante and Virgil + Rest + After Parting + Alfred Tennyson + Sutherland's Grave + Syrinx + On the Paroo + Faith in God + Mountain Moss + The Glen of Arrawatta + Euterpe + Ellen Ray + At Dusk + Safi + Daniel Henry Deniehy + Merope + After the Hunt + Rose Lorraine + + + Songs from the Mountains + + To a Mountain + Mary Rivers + Kingsborough + Beyond Kerguelen + Black Lizzie + Hy-Brasil + Jim the Splitter + Mooni + Pytheas + Bill the Bullock-Driver + Cooranbean + When Underneath the Brown Dead Grass + The Voice in the Wild Oak + Billy Vickers + Persia + Lilith + Bob + Peter the Piccaninny + Narrara Creek + In Memory of John Fairfax + Araluen + The Sydney International Exhibition + Christmas Creek + Orara + The Curse of Mother Flood + On a Spanish Cathedral + Rover + The Melbourne International Exhibition + By the Cliffs of the Sea + Galatea + Black Kate + A Hyde Park Larrikin + Names Upon a Stone + Leichhardt + After Many Years + + + Early Poems, 1859-70 + + The Merchant Ship + Oh, Tell Me, Ye Breezes + The Far Future + Silent Tears + Extempore Lines + The Old Year + Tanna + The Earth Laments for Day + The Late W. V. Wild, Esq. + Astarte + Australian War Song + The Ivy on the Wall + The Australian Emigrant + To My Brother, Basil E. Kendall + The Waterfall + The Song of Arda + The Helmsman + To Miss Annie Hopkins + Foreshadowings + Sonnets on the Discovery of Botany Bay by Captain Cook + To Henry Halloran + Lost in the Flood + Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Four + To ---- + At Long Bay + For Ever + Sonnets + The Bereaved One + Dungog + Deniehy's Lament + Deniehy's Dream + Cui Bono? + In Hyde Park + Australia Vindex + Ned the Larrikin + _In Memoriam_--Nicol Drysdale Stenhouse + Rizpah + Kiama Revisited + Passing Away + James Lionel Michael + Elijah + Manasseh + Caroline Chisholm + Mount Erebus + Our Jack + Camped by the Creek + Euterpe + Sedan + + + Other Poems, 1871-82 + + Adam Lindsay Gordon + In Memory of Edward Butler + How the Melbourne Cup was Won + Blue Mountain Pioneers + Robert Parkes + At Her Window + William Bede Dalley + To the Spirit of Music + John Dunmore Lang + On a Baby Buried by the Hawkesbury + Song of the Shingle-Splitters + On a Street + Heath from the Highlands + The Austral Months + Aboriginal Death-Song + Sydney Harbour + A Birthday Trifle + Frank Denz + Sydney Exhibition Cantata + Hymn of Praise + Basil Moss + Hunted Down + Wamberal + _In Memoriam_--Alice Fane Gunn Stenhouse + From the Forests + John Bede Polding + Outre Mer + + + + +Biographical Note + + + +Henry Kendall was the first Australian poet to draw his inspiration from +the life, scenery and traditions of the country. In the beginnings of +Australian poetry the names of two other men stand with his--Adam +Lindsay Gordon, of English parentage and education, and Charles Harpur, +born in Australia a generation earlier than Kendall. Harpur's work, +though lacking vitality, shows fitful gleams of poetic fire suggestive +of greater achievement had the circumstances of his life been more +favourable. Kendall, whose lot was scarcely more fortunate, is a true +singer; his songs remain, and are likely long to remain, attractive to +poetry lovers. + +The poet's grandfather, Thomas Kendall, a Lincolnshire schoolmaster, met +the Revd. Samuel Marsden when the latter was in England seeking +assistants for his projected missionary work in New Zealand. Kendall +offered his services to the Church Missionary Society of London and came +out to Sydney in 1809. Five years later he was sent to the Bay of +Islands as a lay missionary, holding also the first magistrate's +commission issued for New Zealand. He soon made friends with the Maoris +and learnt their language well enough to compile a primer in +pidgin-Maori, 'A Korao no New Zealand; or, the New Zealander's First +Book', which George Howe printed for Marsden at Sydney in 1815. In 1820 +Thomas Kendall went to England with some Maori chiefs, and while there +helped Professor Lee, of Cambridge, to "fix" the Maori language--the +outcome of their work being Lee and Kendall's 'Grammar and Vocabulary of +the Language of New Zealand', published in the same year. + +Returning to New Zealand, Kendall, in 1823, left the Missionary Society +and went with his son Basil to Chile. In 1826 he came back to +Australia, and for his good work as a missionary received from the New +South Wales Government a grant of 1280 acres at Ulladulla, on the South +Coast. There he entered the timber trade and became owner and master of +a small vessel used in the business. About 1832 this vessel was wrecked +near Sydney, and all on board, including the owner, were drowned. + +Of Basil Kendall's early career little is known. While in South America +he saw service under Lord Cochrane, the famous tenth Earl of Dundonald, +who, after five brilliant years in the Chilean service, was, between +1823 and 1825, fighting on behalf of Brazil. Basil returned to +Australia, but disappears from view until 1840. One day in that year he +met a Miss Melinda McNally, and next day they were married. Soon +afterwards they settled on the Ulladulla grant, farming land at +Kirmington, two miles from the little town of Milton. There, in a +primitive cottage Basil had built, twin sons--Basil Edward and +Henry--were born on the 18th April, 1841. Five years later the family +moved to the Clarence River district and settled near the Orara. Basil +Kendall had practically lost one lung before his marriage, and failing +health made it exceedingly difficult for him to support his family, to +which by this time three daughters had been added. On the Orara he grew +steadily weaker, and died somewhere about 1851. + +Basil Kendall was well educated, and had done what he could to educate +his children. After his death the family was scattered, and the two +boys were sent to a relative on the South Coast. The scenery of this +district made a profound impression upon Henry, and is often referred to +in his early poems. In 1855 his uncle Joseph took him as cabin boy in +his brig, the 'Plumstead', for a two years' cruise in the Pacific, +during which they touched at many of the Islands and voyaged as far +north as Yokohama. The beauty of the scenes he visited lived in the +boy's memory, but the rigours of ship life were so severe that in after +years he looked back on the voyage with horror. + +Henry Kendall returned to Sydney in March, 1857, and at once obtained +employment in the city and set about making a home for his mother and +sisters. Mrs. Kendall, granddaughter of Leonard McNally, a Dublin +notable of his day, was a clever, handsome woman with a strong +constitution and a volatile temperament. Henry was always devoted to +her, and considered that from her he inherited whatever talent he +possessed. She helped in his education, and encouraged him to write +verse. + +The first verses of his known to have been printed were "O tell me, ye +breezes"--signed "H. Kendall"--which appeared in 'The Australian Home +Companion and Band of Hope Journal' in 1859. A number of other poems by +Kendall appeared in the same magazine during 1860 and 1861. But in a +letter written years afterwards to Mr. Sheridan Moore, Kendall says "My +first essay in writing was sent to 'The Southern Cross' at the time you +were sub-editor. You, of course, lit your pipe with it. It was on the +subject of the 'Dunbar'. After a few more attempts in prose and +verse--attempts only remarkable for their being clever imitations--I hit +upon the right vein and wrote the Curlew Song. Then followed the crude, +but sometimes happy verses which made up my first volume." + +The verses on the wreck of the 'Dunbar', written at the age of sixteen, +were eventually printed in 'The Empire' in 1860 as "The Merchant Ship". +Henry Parkes, the editor of that newspaper, had already welcomed some of +the boy's poems, and in 'The Empire' of the 8th December, 1859, had +noticed as just published a song--"Silent Tears"--the words of which +were written by "a young native poet, Mr. H. Kendall, N.A.P." These +initials, which puzzled Parkes, as well they might, meant no more than +Native Australian Poet. + +Kendall also sent some poems to 'The Sydney Morning Herald'; there they +attracted the attention of Henry Halloran, a civil servant and a +voluminous amateur writer, who sought out the poet and tried to help +him. + +Kendall's mother brought him to Mr. Sheridan Moore, who had some +reputation as a literary critic. He was greatly interested in the +poems, and promised to try to raise money for their publication. +Subscriptions were invited by advertisement in January, 1861, but came +in so slowly that, after a year's delay, Kendall almost despaired of +publication. + +Meanwhile Moore had introduced Kendall to James Lionel Michael, through +whom he came to know Nicol D. Stenhouse, Dr. Woolley, and others of the +small group of literary men in Sydney. Michael, a London solicitor, had +been a friend of some of the Pre-Raphaelite group of artists, and was +much more interested in literature than in the law when the lure of gold +brought him to Australia in 1853. Himself a well-read man and a writer +of very fair verse, he recognized the decided promise of Kendall's work +and gave him a place in his office. In spite of their disparity in years +they became friends, and Kendall undoubtedly derived great benefit from +Michael's influence and from the use of his library. When in 1861 +Michael left Sydney for Grafton, Kendall either accompanied him or +joined him soon afterwards. He did not, however, stay long at Grafton. +He found employment at Dungog on the Williams River; afterwards went to +Scone, where he worked for a month or two, and then made his way back to +Sydney. + +Restive over the long delay in publication, and anxious to get a +critical estimate of his work, Kendall in January, 1862, made copies of +some pieces and sent them to the 'Cornhill Magazine' with a letter +pleading for special consideration on account of the author's youth and +the indifference of Australians to anything produced in their own +country. A reduced facsimile of this interesting letter is printed +here. {In this etext, the letter has been transcribed and is included +at the end of this section.} Thackeray was editor of 'Cornhill' up to +April, 1862, but may not have seen this pathetic appeal from the other +side of the world. At any rate, no notice of it was taken by +'Cornhill', and in July of the same year Kendall sent a similar letter +with copies of his verses to the 'Athenaeum'. The editor printed the +letter and some of the poems, with very kindly comments, in the issue of +27th September, 1862. + +In October, 1862, before this powerful encouragement reached the young +writer, 'Poems and Songs' was published in Sydney by Mr. J. R. Clarke. +'The Empire' published a favourable review. Further notice of his work +appeared in the 'Athenaeum' during the next four years, and in 1866 it +was generously praised by Mr. G. B. Barton in his 'Poets and Prose +Writers of New South Wales'. + +Meanwhile in August, 1863, Kendall was, through Parkes' influence, +appointed to a clerkship in the Surveyor-General's Department at one +hundred and fifty pounds a year, and three years later was transferred +to the Colonial Secretary's Office at two hundred pounds a year. During +this period he read extensively, and wrote much verse. By 1867 he had so +far overcome his natural shyness that he undertook to deliver a series +of lectures at the Sydney School of Arts. One of these, on "Love, +Courtship and Marriage", precipitated him into experience of all three; +for he walked home after the lecture with Miss Charlotte Rutter, +daughter of a Government medical officer, straightway fell in love, and, +after a brief courtship, they were married in the following year. + +The year 1868 was a memorable one for Kendall in other ways. In April, +James Lionel Michael was found dead in the Clarence River, and in June +Charles Harpur died at Euroma. Kendall had a great admiration for +Harpur's poems and wrote to him in the spirit of a disciple. They +corresponded for some years, but did not meet until a few months before +the elder poet's death. Kendall describes Harpur as then "a noble +ruin--scorched and wasted by the fire of sorrow." + +In 1868, also, a prize was offered in Melbourne for the best Australian +poem, the judge being Richard Hengist Horne, author of 'Orion'. Kendall +sent in three poems and Horne awarded the prize to "A Death in the +Bush". In an article printed in Melbourne and Sydney newspapers he +declared that the author was a true poet, and that had there been three +prizes, the second and third would have gone to Kendall's other +poems--"The Glen of Arrawatta" and "Dungog". + +The result of winning this prize was that Kendall decided to abandon +routine work and try to earn his living as a writer. He resigned his +position in the Colonial Secretary's Office on the 31st March, 1869, and +shortly afterwards left for Melbourne, where his wife and daughter soon +joined him. Melbourne was then a centre of greater literary activity +than Sydney. Neither then, however, nor for a long time to come, was +any number of people in Australia sufficiently interested in local +literature (apart from journalism) to warrant the most gifted writer in +depending upon his pen for support. Still, Kendall managed to persuade +Mr. George Robertson, the principal Australian bookseller of those days, +to undertake the risk of his second book of poems--'Leaves from +Australian Forests'--which was published towards the end of 1869. +But though the volume showed a great advance in quality upon its +predecessor, it was a commercial failure, and the publisher lost ninety +pounds over it. + +In Melbourne, Kendall wrote prose, as well as satirical and serious +verse, for most of the papers. The payment was small; in fact, only a +few newspapers then paid anything for verse. He made a little money by +writing the words for a cantata, "Euterpe", sung at the opening of the +Melbourne Town Hall in 1870. At the office of 'The Colonial Monthly', +edited by Marcus Clarke, he met the best of the Melbourne literati, and, +though his reserved manner did not encourage intimacy, one of +them--George Gordon McCrae--became a close and true friend. Lindsay +Gordon, too, admired Kendall's poems, and learned to respect a man whose +disposition was in some ways like his own. 'Bush Ballads and Galloping +Rhymes' appeared in June, 1870, and Kendall received an advance copy and +wrote a laudatory review for 'The Australasian'. He and Gordon spent +some hours on the day of publication, discussing the book and poetry in +general. Both were depressed by the apparent futility of literary effort +in Australia, where nearly everyone was making haste to be rich. Next +morning Gordon shot himself--tired of life at thirty-seven! Kendall knew +how Harpur's last long illness had been saddened by the knowledge that +the public was utterly indifferent to his poems; he had seen the wreck +of the once brilliant Deniehy; and now the noble-hearted Gordon had +given up the struggle. + +To these depressing influences, and the hardships occasioned by a meagre +and uncertain income, was added a new grief--the loss of his first-born, +Araluen, whose memory he enshrined years afterwards in a poem of +pathetic tenderness. He returned to Sydney early in 1871, broken in +health and spirit. The next two years were a time of tribulation, +during which, as he said later on, he passed into the shadow, and +emerged only through the devotion of his wife and the help of the +brothers Fagan, timber merchants, of Brisbane Water. Kendall was the +Fagans' guest at Narrara Creek, near Gosford, and afterwards filled a +clerical position in the business which one of the brothers established +at Camden Haven. There he spent seven tranquil years with his wife and +family, and wrote the best of his poems. In some of these he said all +that need be said against himself, for he was always frankly critical of +his conduct and work. + +In his later years Kendall tasted some of the sweets of success. He +wrote the words of the opening Cantata sung at the Sydney International +Exhibition in 1879, and won a prize of one hundred pounds offered by +'The Sydney Morning Herald' for a poem on the Exhibition. His third +collection--'Songs from the Mountains'--was published at Sydney in 1880, +and realized a substantial profit. In 1881 Sir Henry Parkes made a +position for him, an Inspectorship of State Forests at five hundred +pounds a year. Kendall's experience in the timber business well fitted +him for this, though his health was not equal to the exposure attendant +on the work. He moved to Cundletown, on the Manning River, before +receiving the appointment, and from that centre rode out on long tours +of inspection. During one of these he caught a chill; his lungs were +affected, and rapid consumption followed. He went to Sydney for +treatment and was joined by his wife at Mr. Fagan's house in Redfern, +where he died in her arms on the 1st August, 1882. He was buried at +Waverley, overlooking the sea. + +Kendall, it should be remembered, did not prepare a collected edition of +his poems, and it will be noticed that in the present volume some lines +and passages appear more than once. The student and lover of Kendall +will be interested to see how these lines and passages were taken from +his own previous work and turned to better account in later poems, and +to note the gradual improvement of his style. In his last book, 'Songs +from the Mountains', there are fewer echoes; the touch is surer, and the +imaginative level at his highest. The shining wonder is that, under the +conditions of Australian life between 1860 and 1880, he should have +written so much that is so good. + +As our first sweet singer of "native woodnotes wild", Kendall has an +enduring place in the regard of all Australians; and his best work is +known and admired wherever English poetry is read. + +Bertram Stevens + + +{This is the transcription of the letter previously mentioned.} + + +Newtown, Sydney, New South Wales. + +January 21, 1862 + +To the Editor of the "Cornhill Magazine". + +Sir, + +Will you oblige me by reading this letter, and the accompanying verses? +Remember that they will have travelled sixteen thousand miles, and on +that account will be surely worth a few moments of your time. I think +that there is merit in the verses, and have sent them to you, hoping +that you--yourself, will be of the same opinion. If one can be +selected--one up to the standard of the 'Cornhill Magazine', insert it, +and you will be helping me practically. I do not hint of pecuniary +remuneration however, for your recognition would be sufficient reward. + +Let me say a few words about myself: I was born in this colony; +and am now in the nineteenth year of my age. My education has been +neglected--hence you will very likely find that some of these effusions are +immature. At present the most of my time is occupied at an attorney's +office, but I do not earn enough there to cover expenses; considering +that I have to support my mother and three sisters. I want to rise, and +if my poems are anywhere near the mark you can assist me by noticing +them. + +They recognise me in this country as the "first Australian poet". If the +men who load me with their fulsome, foolish praises, really believed +{that I have talent (crossed out)} in my talents, and cared a whit about +fostering a native literature, they would give me a good situation; and +I should not have to appeal to you. + +If one of the poems is found to be good enough, and you publish it, +someone here will _then_ surely do the rest. On the other hand if +nothing can be gleaned from them, let the effusions and their author be +forgotten. Hoping that you will not forget to read the verses, I remain + +Yours, Respectfully, + +H. Kendall. + + + + + +POEMS AND SONGS + + + + + + The Muse of Australia + + + + Where the pines with the eagles are nestled in rifts, + And the torrent leaps down to the surges, + I have followed her, clambering over the clifts, + By the chasms and moon-haunted verges. + I know she is fair as the angels are fair, + For have I not caught a faint glimpse of her there; + A glimpse of her face and her glittering hair, + And a hand with the Harp of Australia? + + I never can reach you, to hear the sweet voice + So full with the music of fountains! + Oh! when will you meet with that soul of your choice, + Who will lead you down here from the mountains? + A lyre-bird lit on a shimmering space; + It dazzled mine eyes and I turned from the place, + And wept in the dark for a glorious face, + And a hand with the Harp of Australia! + + + + +Mountains + + + + Rifted mountains, clad with forests, girded round by gleaming pines, + Where the morning, like an angel, robed in golden splendour shines; + Shimmering mountains, throwing downward on the slopes a mazy glare + Where the noonday glory sails through gulfs of calm and glittering air; + Stately mountains, high and hoary, piled with blocks of amber cloud, + Where the fading twilight lingers, when the winds are wailing loud; + Grand old mountains, overbeetling brawling brooks and deep ravines, + Where the moonshine, pale and mournful, flows on rocks and evergreens. + + Underneath these regal ridges--underneath the gnarly trees, + I am sitting, lonely-hearted, listening to a lonely breeze! + Sitting by an ancient casement, casting many a longing look + Out across the hazy gloaming--out beyond the brawling brook! + Over pathways leading skyward--over crag and swelling cone, + Past long hillocks looking like to waves of ocean turned to stone; + Yearning for a bliss unworldly, yearning for a brighter change, + Yearning for the mystic Aidenn, built beyond this mountain range. + + Happy years, amongst these valleys, happy years have come and gone, + And my youthful hopes and friendships withered with them one by one; + Days and moments bearing onward many a bright and beauteous dream, + All have passed me like to sunstreaks flying down a distant stream. + Oh, the love returned by loved ones! Oh, the faces that I knew! + Oh, the wrecks of fond affection! Oh, the hearts so warm and true! + But their voices I remember, and a something lingers still, + Like a dying echo roaming sadly round a far off hill. + + I would sojourn here contented, tranquil as I was of yore, + And would never wish to clamber, seeking for an unknown shore; + I have dwelt within this cottage twenty summers, and mine eyes + Never wandered erewhile round in search of undiscovered skies; + But a spirit sits beside me, veiled in robes of dazzling white, + And a dear one's whisper wakens with the symphonies of night; + And a low sad music cometh, borne along on windy wings, + Like a strain familiar rising from a maze of slumbering springs. + + And the Spirit, by my window, speaketh to my restless soul, + Telling of the clime she came from, where the silent moments roll; + Telling of the bourne mysterious, where the sunny summers flee + Cliffs and coasts, by man untrodden, ridging round a shipless sea. + There the years of yore are blooming--there departed life-dreams dwell, + There the faces beam with gladness that I loved in youth so well; + There the songs of childhood travel, over wave-worn steep and strand-- + Over dale and upland stretching out behind this mountain land. + + "Lovely Being, can a mortal, weary of this changeless scene, + Cross these cloudy summits to the land where man hath never been? + Can he find a pathway leading through that wildering mass of pines, + So that he shall reach the country where ethereal glory shines; + So that he may glance at waters never dark with coming ships; + Hearing round him gentle language floating from angelic lips; + Casting off his earthly fetters, living there for evermore; + All the blooms of Beauty near him, gleaming on that quiet shore? + + "Ere you quit this ancient casement, tell me, is it well to yearn + For the evanescent visions, vanished never to return? + Is it well that I should with to leave this dreary world behind, + Seeking for your fair Utopia, which perchance I may not find? + Passing through a gloomy forest, scaling steeps like prison walls, + Where the scanty sunshine wavers and the moonlight seldom falls? + Oh, the feelings re-awakened! Oh, the hopes of loftier range! + Is it well, thou friendly Being, well to wish for such a change?" + + But the Spirit answers nothing! and the dazzling mantle fades; + And a wailing whisper wanders out from dismal seaside shades! + "Lo, the trees are moaning loudly, underneath their hood-like shrouds, + And the arch above us darkens, scarred with ragged thunder clouds!" + But the spirit answers nothing, and I linger all alone, + Gazing through the moony vapours where the lovely Dream has flown; + And my heart is beating sadly, and the music waxeth faint, + Sailing up to holy Heaven, like the anthems of a Saint. + + + + +Kiama + + + + Towards the hills of Jamberoo + Some few fantastic shadows haste, + Uplit with fires + Like castle spires + Outshining through a mirage waste. + Behold, a mournful glory sits + On feathered ferns and woven brakes, + Where sobbing wild like restless child + The gusty breeze of evening wakes! + Methinks I hear on every breath + A lofty tone go passing by, + That whispers--"Weave, + Though wood winds grieve, + The fadeless blooms of Poesy!" + + A spirit hand has been abroad-- + An evil hand to pluck the flowers-- + A world of wealth, + And blooming health + Has gone from fragrant seaside bowers. + The twilight waxeth dim and dark, + The sad waves mutter sounds of woe, + But the evergreen retains its sheen, + And happy hearts exist below; + But pleasure sparkles on the sward, + And voices utter words of bliss, + And while my bride + Sits by my side, + Oh, where's the scene surpassing this? + + Kiama slumbers, robed with mist, + All glittering in the dewy light + That, brooding o'er + The shingly shore, + Lies resting in the arms of Night; + And foam-flecked crags with surges chill, + And rocks embraced of cold-lipped spray, + Are moaning loud where billows crowd + In angry numbers up the bay. + The holy stars come looking down + On windy heights and swarthy strand, + And Life and Love-- + The cliffs above-- + Are sitting fondly hand in hand. + + I hear a music inwardly, + That floods my soul with thoughts of joy; + Within my heart + Emotions start + That Time may still but ne'er destroy. + An ancient Spring revives itself, + And days which made the past divine; + And rich warm gleams from golden dreams, + All glorious in their summer shine; + And songs of half forgotten hours, + And many a sweet melodious strain, + Which still shall rise + Beneath the skies + When all things else have died again. + + A white sail glimmers out at sea-- + A vessel walking in her sleep; + Some Power goes past + That bends the mast, + While frighted waves to leeward leap. + The moonshine veils the naked sand + And ripples upward with the tide, + As underground there rolls a sound + From where the caverned waters glide. + A face that bears affection's glow, + The soul that speaks from gentle eyes, + And joy which slips + From loving lips + Have made this spot my Paradise! + + + + +Etheline + + + + The heart that once was rich with light, + And happy in your grace, + Now lieth cold beneath the scorn + That gathers on your face; + And every joy it knew before, + And every templed dream, + Is paler than the dying flash + On yonder mountain stream. + The soul, regretting foundered bliss + Amid the wreck of years, + Hath mourned it with intensity + Too deep for human tears! + + The forest fadeth underneath + The blast that rushes by-- + The dripping leaves are white with death, + But Love will never die! + We both have seen the starry moss + That clings where Ruin reigns, + And _one_ must know _his_ lonely breast + Affection still retains; + Through all the sweetest hopes of life, + That clustered round and round, + Are lying now, like withered things, + Forsaken--on the ground. + + 'Tis hard to think of what we were, + And what we might have been, + Had not an evil spirit crept + Across the tranquil scene: + Had fervent feelings in your soul + Not failed nor ceased to shine + As pure as those existing on, + And burning still in mine. + Had every treasure at your feet + That I was wont to pour, + Been never thrown like worthless weeds + Upon a barren shore! + + The bitter edge of grief has passed, + I would not now upbraid; + Or count to you the broken vows, + So often idly made! + I would not cross your path to chase + The falsehood from your brow-- + I _know_, with all that borrowed light, + You are not happy now: + Since those that once have trampled down + Affection's early claim, + Have lost a peace they need not hope + To find on earth again. + + + + +Aileen + + + + A splendid sun betwixt the trees + Long spikes of flame did shoot, + When turning to the fragrant South, + With longing eyes and burning mouth, + I stretched a hand athwart the drouth, + And plucked at cooling fruit. + + So thirst was quenched, and hastening on + With strength returned to me, + I set my face against the noon, + And reached a denser forest soon; + Which dipped into a still lagoon + Hard by the sooming sea. + + All day the ocean beat on bar + And bank of gleaming sand; + Yet that lone pool was always mild, + It never moved when waves were wild, + But slumbered, like a quiet child, + Upon the lap of land. + + And when I rested on the brink, + Amongst the fallen flowers, + I lay in calm; no leaves were stirred + By breath of wind, or wing of bird; + It was so still, you might have heard + The footfalls of the hours. + + Faint slumbrous scents of roses filled + The air which covered me: + My words were low--"she loved them so, + In Eden vales such odours blow: + How strange it is that roses grow + So near the shores of Sea!" + + A sweeter fragrance never came + Across the Fields of Yore! + And when I said--"we here would dwell,"-- + A low voice on the silence fell-- + "Ah! if you loved the roses well, + You loved Aileen the more." + + "Ay, that I did, and now would turn, + And fall and worship her! + But Oh, you dwell so far--so high! + One cannot reach, though he may try, + The Morning land, and Jasper sky-- + The balmy hills of Myrrh. + + "Why vex me with delicious hints + Of fairest face, and rarest blooms; + You Spirit of a darling Dream + Which links itself with every theme + And thought of mine by surf or stream, + In glens--or caverned glooms?" + + She said, "thy wishes led me down, + From amaranthine bowers: + And since my face was haunting thee + With roses (dear which used to be), + They all have hither followed me, + The scents and shapes of flowers." + + "Then stay, mine own evangel, stay! + Or, going, take me too; + But let me sojourn by your side, + If here we dwell or there abide, + It matters not!" I madly cried-- + "I only care for you." + + Oh, glittering Form that would not stay!-- + Oh, sudden, sighing breeze! + A fainting rainbow dropped below + Far gleaming peaks and walls of snow + And there, a weary way, I go, + Towards the Sunrise seas. + + + + +Kooroora + + + + The gums in the gully stand gloomy and stark, + A torrent beneath them is leaping, + And the wind goes about like a ghost in the dark + Where a chief of Wahibbi lies sleeping! + He dreams of a battle--of foes of the past, + But he hears not the whooping abroad on the blast, + Nor the fall of the feet that are travelling fast. + Oh, why dost thou slumber, Kooroora? + + They come o'er the hills in their terrible ire, + And speed by the woodlands and water; + They look down the hills at the flickering fire, + All eager and thirsty for slaughter. + Lo! the stormy moon glares like a torch from the vale, + And a voice in the belah grows wild in its wail, + As the cries of the Wanneroos swell with the gale-- + Oh! rouse thee and meet them, Kooroora! + + He starts from his sleep and he clutches his spear, + And the echoes roll backward in wonder, + For a shouting strikes into the hollow woods near, + Like the sound of a gathering thunder. + He clambers the ridge, with his face to the light, + The foes of Wahibbi come full in his sight-- + The waters of Mooki will redden to-night. + Go! and glory awaits thee, Kooroora! + + Lo! yeelamans splinter and boomerangs clash, + And a spear through the darkness is driven-- + It whizzes along like a wandering flash + From the heart of a hurricane riven. + They turn to the mountains, that gloomy-browed band; + The rain droppeth down with a moan to the land, + And the face of a chieftain lies buried in sand-- + Oh, the light that was quenched with Kooroora! + + To-morrow the Wanneroo dogs will rejoice, + And feast in this desolate valley; + But where are his brothers--the friends of his choice, + And why art thou absent, Ewalli? + Now silence draws back to the forest again, + And the wind, like a wayfarer, sleeps on the plain, + But the cheeks of a warrior bleach in the rain. + Oh! where are thy mourners, Kooroora? + + + + +Fainting by the Way + + + + Swarthy wastelands, wide and woodless, glittering miles and miles away, + Where the south wind seldom wanders and the winters will not stay; + Lurid wastelands, pent in silence, thick with hot and thirsty sighs, + Where the scanty thorn-leaves twinkle with their haggard, hopeless eyes; + Furnaced wastelands, hunched with hillocks, like to stony billows rolled, + Where the naked flats lie swirling, like a sea of darkened gold; + Burning wastelands, glancing upward with a weird and vacant stare, + Where the languid heavens quiver o'er red depths of stirless air! + + "Oh, my brother, I am weary of this wildering waste of sand; + In the noontide we can never travel to the promised land! + Lo! the desert broadens round us, glaring wildly in my face, + With long leagues of sunflame on it,--oh! the barren, barren place! + See, behind us gleams a green plot, shall we thither turn and rest + Till a cold wind flutters over, till the day is down the west? + I would follow, but I cannot! Brother, let me here remain, + For the heart is dead within me, and I may not rise again." + + "Wherefore stay to talk of fainting?--rouse thee for awhile, my friend; + Evening hurries on our footsteps, and this journey soon will end. + Wherefore stay to talk of fainting, when the sun, with sinking fire, + Smites the blocks of broken thunder, blackening yonder craggy spire? + Even now the far-off landscape broods and fills with coming change, + And a withered moon grows brighter bending o'er that shadowed range; + At the feet of grassy summits sleeps a water calm and clear-- + There is surely rest beyond it! Comrade, wherefore tarry here? + + "Yet a little longer struggle; we have walked a wilder plain, + And have met more troubles, trust me, than we e'er shall meet again! + Can you think of all the dangers you and I are living through + With a soul so weak and fearful, with the doubts _I_ never knew? + Dost thou not remember that the thorns are clustered with the rose, + And that every Zin-like border may a pleasant land enclose? + Oh, across these sultry deserts many a fruitful scene we'll find, + And the blooms we gather shall be worth the wounds they leave behind!" + + "Ah, my brother, it is useless! See, o'erburdened with their load, + All the friends who went before us fall or falter by the road! + We have come a weary distance, seeking what we may not get, + And I think we are but children, chasing rainbows through the wet. + Tell me not of vernal valleys! Is it well to hold a reed + Out for drowning men to clutch at in the moments of their need? + Go thy journey on without me; it is better I should stay, + Since my life is like an evening, fading, swooning fast away! + + "Where are all the springs you talked of? Have I not with pleading mouth + Looked to Heaven through a silence stifled in the crimson drouth? + Have I not, with lips unsated, watched to see the fountains burst, + Where I searched the rocks for cisterns? And they only mocked my thirst! + Oh, I dreamt of countries fertile, bright with lakes and flashing rills + Leaping from their shady caverns, streaming round a thousand hills! + Leave me, brother, all is fruitless, barren, measureless, and dry, + And my God will _never_ help me though I pray, and faint, and die!" + + "Up! I tell thee this is idle! Oh, thou man of little faith! + Doubting on the verge of Aidenn, turning now to covet death! + By the fervent hopes within me, by the strength which nerves my soul, + By the heart that yearns to help thee, we shall live and reach the goal! + Rise and lean thy weight upon me. Life is fair, and God is just, + And He yet will show us fountains, if we only look and trust! + Oh, I know it, and He leads us to the glens of stream and shade, + Where the low, sweet waters gurgle round the banks which cannot fade!" + + Thus he spake, my friend and brother! and he took me by the hand, + And I think we walked the desert till the night was on the land; + Then we came to flowery hollows, where we heard a far-off stream + Singing in the moony twilight, like the rivers of my dream. + And the balmy winds came tripping softly through the pleasant trees, + And I thought they bore a murmur like a voice from sleeping seas. + So we travelled, so we reached it, and I never more will part + With the peace, as calm as sunset, folded round my weary heart. + + + + +Song of the Cattle-Hunters + + + + While the morning light beams on the fern-matted streams, + And the water-pools flash in its glow, + Down the ridges we fly, with a loud ringing cry-- + Down the ridges and gullies we go! + And the cattle we hunt--they are racing in front, + With a roar like the thunder of waves, + As the beat and the beat of our swift horses' feet + Start the echoes away from their caves! + As the beat and the beat + Of our swift horses' feet + Start the echoes away from their caves! + + Like a wintry shore that the waters ride o'er, + All the lowlands are filling with sound; + For swiftly we gain where the herds on the plain, + Like a tempest, are tearing the ground! + And we'll follow them hard to the rails of the yard, + O'er the gulches and mountain-tops grey, + Where the beat and the beat of our swift horses' feet + Will die with the echoes away! + Where the beat and the beat + Of our swift horses' feet + Will die with the echoes away! + + + + +Footfalls + + + + The embers were blinking and clinking away, + The casement half open was thrown; + There was nothing but cloud on the skirts of the Day, + And I sat on the threshold alone! + + And said to the river which flowed by my door + With its beautiful face to the hill, + "I have waited and waited, all wearied and sore, + But my love is a wanderer still!" + + And said to the wind, as it paused in its flight + To look through the shivering pane, + "There are memories moaning and homeless to-night + That can never be tranquil again!" + + And said to the woods, as their burdens were borne + With a flutter and sigh to the eaves, + "They are wrinkled and wasted, and tattered and torn, + And we too have our withering leaves." + + Did I hear a low echo of footfalls about, + Whilst watching those forest trees stark? + Or was it a dream that I hurried without + To clutch at and grapple the dark? + + In the shadow I stood for a moment and spake-- + "Bright thing that was loved in the past, + Oh! am I asleep--or abroad and awake? + And are you so near me at last? + + "Oh, roamer from lands where the vanished years go, + Oh, waif from those mystical zones, + Come here where I long for you, broken and low, + On the mosses and watery stones! + + "Come out of your silence and tell me if Life + Is so fair in that world as they say; + Was it worth all this yearning, and weeping, and strife + When you left it behind you to-day? + + "Will it end all this watching, and doubting, and dread? + Do these sorrows die out with our breath? + Will they pass from our souls like a nightmare," I said, + "While we glide through the mazes of Death? + + "Come out of that darkness and teach me the lore + You have learned since I looked on your face; + By the summers that blossomed and faded of yore-- + By the lights which have fled to that place! + + "You answer me not when I know that you could-- + When I know that you could and you should; + Though the storms be abroad on the wave; + Though the rain droppeth down with a wail to the wood, + And my heart is as cold as your grave!" + + + + +God Help Our Men at Sea + + + + The wild night comes like an owl to its lair, + The black clouds follow fast, + And the sun-gleams die, and the lightnings glare, + And the ships go heaving past, past, past-- + The ships go heaving past! + Bar the doors, and higher, higher + Pile the faggots on the fire: + Now abroad, by many a light, + Empty seats there are to-night-- + Empty seats that none may fill, + For the storm grows louder still: + How it surges and swells through the gorges and dells, + Under the ledges and over the lea, + Where a watery sound goeth moaning around-- + God help our men at sea! + + Oh! never a tempest blew on the shore + But that some heart did moan + For a darling voice it would hear no more + And a face that had left it lone, lone, lone-- + A face that had left it lone! + I am watching by a pane + Darkened with the gusty rain, + Watching, through a mist of tears, + Sad with thoughts of other years, + For a brother I did miss + In a stormy time like this. + Ah! the torrent howls past, like a fiend on the blast, + Under the ledges and over the lea; + And the pent waters gleam, and the wild surges scream-- + God help our men at sea! + + Ah, Lord! they may grope through the dark to find + Thy hand within the gale; + And cries may rise on the wings of the wind + From mariners weary and pale, pale, pale-- + From mariners weary and pale! + 'Tis a fearful thing to know, + While the storm-winds loudly blow, + That a man can sometimes come + Too near to his father's home; + So that he shall kneel and say, + "Lord, I would be far away!" + Ho! the hurricanes roar round a dangerous shore, + Under the ledges and over the lea; + And there twinkles a light on the billows so white-- + God help our men at sea! + + + + +Sitting by the Fire + + + + Barren Age and withered World! + Oh! the dying leaves, + Like a drizzling rain, + Falling round the roof-- + Pattering on the pane! + Frosty Age and cold, cold World! + Ghosts of other days, + Trooping past the faded fire, + Flit before the gaze. + Now the wind goes soughing wild + O'er the whistling Earth; + And we front a feeble flame, + Sitting round the hearth! + Sitting by the fire, + Watching in its glow, + Ghosts of other days + Trooping to and fro. + + . . . . . + + Oh, the nights--the nights we've spent, + Sitting by the fire, + Cheerful in its glow; + Twenty summers back-- + Twenty years ago! + If the days were days of toil + Wherefore should we mourn; + There were shadows near the shine, + Flowers with the thorn? + And we still can recollect + Evenings spent in mirth-- + Fragments of a broken life, + Sitting round the hearth: + Sitting by the fire, + Cheerful in its glow, + Twenty summers back-- + Twenty years ago. + + Beauty stooped to bless us once, + Sitting by the fire, + Happy in its glow; + Forty summers back-- + Forty years ago. + Words of love were interchanged, + Maiden hearts we stole; + And the light affection throws + Slept on every soul. + Oh, the hours went flying past-- + Hours of priceless worth; + But we took no note of Time, + Sitting round the hearth: + Sitting by the fire, + Happy in its glow, + Forty summers back-- + Forty years ago. + + Gleesome children were we not? + Sitting by the fire, + Ruddy in its glow, + Sixty summers back-- + Sixty years ago. + Laughing voices filled the room; + Oh, the songs we sung, + When the evenings hurried by-- + When our hearts were young! + Pleasant faces watched the flame-- + Eyes illumed with mirth-- + And we told some merry tales, + Sitting round the hearth: + Sitting by the fire, + Ruddy in its glow, + Sixty summers back-- + Sixty years ago. + + . . . . . + + Barren Age and withered World! + Oh, the dying leaves, + Like a drizzling rain, + Falling round the roof-- + Pattering on the pane! + Frosty Age and cold, cold World! + Ghosts of other days, + Trooping past the faded fire, + Flit before the gaze. + Now the wind goes soughing wild + O'er the whistling Earth; + And we front a feeble flame, + Sitting round the hearth: + Sitting by the fire, + Watching, in its glow, + Ghosts of other days + Trooping to and fro! + + + + +Bellambi's Maid + + + + Amongst the thunder-splintered caves + On Ocean's long and windy shore, + I catch the voice of dying waves + Below the ridges old and hoar; + The spray descends in silver showers, + And lovely whispers come and go, + Like echoes from the happy hours + I never more may hope to know! + The low mimosa droops with locks + Of yellow hair, in dewy glade, + While far above the caverned rocks + I hear the dark Bellambi's Maid! + + The moonlight dreams upon the sail + That drives the restless ship to sea; + The clouds troop past the mountain vale, + And sink like spirits down the lee; + The foggy peak of Corrimal, + Uplifted, bears the pallid glow + That streams from yonder airy hall + And robes the sleeping hills below; + The wandering meteors of the sky + Beneath the distant waters wade, + While mystic music hurries by-- + The songs of dark Bellambi's Maid! + + Why comes your voice, you lonely One, + Along the wild harp's wailing strings? + Have not our hours of meeting gone, + Like fading dreams on phantom wings? + Are not the grasses round your grave + Yet springing green and fresh to view? + And does the gleam on Ocean's wave + Tide gladness now to me and you? + Oh! cold and cheerless falls the night + On withered hearts and hopes decayed: + And I have seen but little light + Since died the dark Bellambi's Maid! + + + + +The Curlew Song + + + + The viewless blast flies moaning past, + Away to the forest trees, + Where giant pines and leafless vines + Bend 'neath the wandering breeze! + From ferny streams, unearthly screams + Are heard in the midnight blue; + As afar they roam to the shepherd's home, + The shrieks of the wild Curlew! + As afar they roam + To the shepherd's home, + The shrieks of the wild Curlew! + + The mists are curled o'er a dark-faced world, + And the shadows sleep around, + Where the clear lagoon reflects the moon + In her hazy glory crowned; + While dingoes howl, and wake the growl + Of the watchdog brave and true; + Whose loud, rough bark shoots up in the dark, + With the song of the lone Curlew! + Whose loud, rough bark + Shoots up in the dark, + With the song of the lone Curlew! + + Near herby banks the dark green ranks + Of the rushes stoop to drink; + And the ripples chime, in a measured time, + On the smooth and mossy brink; + As wind-breaths sigh, and pass, and die, + To start from the swamps anew, + And join again o'er ridge and plain + With the wails of the sad Curlew! + And join again + O'er ridge and plain + With the wails of the sad Curlew! + + The clouds are thrown around the cone + Of the mountain bare and high, + (Whose craggy peak uprears to the cheek-- + To the face of the sombre sky) + When down beneath the foggy wreath, + Full many a gully through, + They rend the air, like cries of despair, + The screams of the wild Curlew! + They rend the air, + Like cries of despair, + The screams of the wild Curlew! + + The viewless blast flies moaning past, + Away to the forest trees; + Where giant pines and leafless vines + Bend 'neath the wandering breeze! + From ferny streams, unearthly screams + Are heard in the midnight blue; + As afar they roam to the shepherd's home, + The shrieks of the wild Curlew! + As afar they roam + To the shepherd's home, + The shrieks of the wild Curlew! + + + + +The Ballad of Tanna + + + + She knelt by the dead, in her passionate grief, + Beneath a weird forest of Tanna; + She kissed the stern brow of her father and chief, + And cursed the dark race of Alkanna. + With faces as wild as the clouds in the rain, + The sons of Kerrara came down to the plain, + And spoke to the mourner and buried the slain. + Oh, the glory that died with Deloya! + + "Wahina," they whispered, "Alkanna lies low, + And the ghost of thy sire hath been gladdened, + For the men of his people have fought with the foe + Till the rivers of Warra are reddened!" + She lifted her eyes to the glimmering hill, + Then spoke, with a voice like a musical rill, + "The time is too short; can I sojourn here still?" + Oh, the Youth that was sad for Deloya! + + "Wahina, why linger," Annatanam said, + "When the tent of a chieftain is lonely? + There are others who grieve for the light that has fled, + And one who waits here for you only!" + "Go--leave me!" she cried. "I would fain be alone; + I must stay where the trees and the wild waters moan; + For my heart is as cold as a wave-beaten stone." + Oh, the Beauty that was broke for Deloya! + + "Wahina, why weep o'er a handful of dust, + When the souls of the brave are approaching? + Oh, look to the fires that are lit for the just, + And the mighty who sleep in Arrochin!" + But she turned from the glare of the flame-smitten sea, + And a cry, like a whirlwind, came over the lea-- + "Away to the mountains and leave her with me!" + Oh, the heart that was broke for Deloya! + + + + +The Rain Comes Sobbing to the Door + + + + The night grows dark, and weird, and cold; and thick drops patter on the pane; + There comes a wailing from the sea; the wind is weary of the rain. + The red coals click beneath the flame, and see, with slow and silent feet + The hooded shadows cross the woods to where the twilight waters beat! + Now, fan-wise from the ruddy fire, a brilliance sweeps athwart the floor; + As, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door: + As, streaming down the lattices, + The rain comes sobbing to the door. + + Dull echoes round the casement fall, and through the empty chambers go, + Like forms unseen whom we can hear on tip-toe stealing to and fro. + But fill your glasses to the brims, and, through a mist of smiles and tears, + Our eyes shall tell how much we love to toast the shades of other years! + And hither they will flock again, the ghosts of things that are no more, + While, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door: + While, streaming down the lattices, + The rain comes sobbing to the door. + + The tempest-trodden wastelands moan--the trees are threshing at the blast; + And now they come, the pallid shapes of Dreams that perished in the past; + And, when we lift the windows up, a smothered whisper round us strays, + Like some lone wandering voice from graves + that hold the wrecks of bygone days. + I tell ye that I _love_ the storm, for think we not of _thoughts_ of yore, + When, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door? + When, streaming down the lattices, + The rain comes sobbing to the door? + + We'll drink to those we sadly miss, and sing some mournful song we know, + Since they may chance to hear it all, and muse on friends they've left below. + Who knows--if souls in bliss can leave the borders of their Eden-home-- + But that some loving one may now about the ancient threshold roam? + Oh, like an exile, he would hail a glimpse of the familiar floor, + Though, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door! + Though, streaming down the lattices, + The rain comes sobbing to the door! + + + + +Urara + + -- + * Another spelling of Orara, a tributary of the river Clarence. + -- + + + + Euroka, go over the tops of the hill, + For the _Death-clouds_ have passed us to-day, + And we'll cry in the dark for the foot-falls still, + And the tracks which are fading away! + Let them yell to their lubras, the Bulginbah dogs, + And say how our brothers were slain, + We shall wipe out our grief in the blood of their chief, + And twenty more dead on the plain-- + On the blood-spattered spurs of the plain! + But the low winds sigh, + And the dead leaves fly, + Where our warriors lie, + In the dingoes' den--in the white-cedar glen + On the banks of the gloomy Urara! + Urara! Urara! + On the banks of the gloomy Urara! + + The Wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass, + And crawl to their coverts for fear; + But we'll sit in the ashes and let them pass + Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear! + Oh! our hearts will be lonely and low to-night + When we think of the hunts of yore; + And the foes that we sought, and the fights which we fought, + With those who will battle no more-- + Who will go to the battle no more! + For the dull winds sigh, + And the dead leaves fly, + Where our warriors lie, + In the dingoes' den--in the white-cedar glen + On the banks of the gloomy Urara! + Urara! Urara! + On the banks of the gloomy Urara! + + Oh! the gorges and gullies are black with crows, + And they feast on the flesh of the brave; + But the forest is loud with the howls of our foes + For those whom they never can save! + Let us crouch with our faces down to our knees, + And hide in the dark of our hair; + For we will not return where the camp-fires burn, + And see what is smouldering there-- + What is smouldering, mouldering there! + Where the sad winds sigh-- + The dead leaves fly, + And our warriors lie; + In the dingoes' den--in the white-cedar glen + On the banks of the gloomy Urara! + Urara! Urara! + On the banks of the gloomy Urara! + + + + +Evening Hymn + + + + The crag-pent breezes sob and moan where hidden waters glide; + And twilight wanders round the earth with slow and shadowy stride. + The gleaming clouds, above the brows of western steeps uphurled, + Look like the spires of some fair town that bounds a brighter world. + Lo, from the depths of yonder wood, where many a blind creek strays, + The pure Australian moon comes forth, enwreathed with silver haze. + The rainy mists are trooping down the folding hills behind, + And distant torrent-voices rise like bells upon the wind. + The echeu's* songs are dying, with the flute-bird's mellow tone, + And night recalls the gloomy owl to rove the wilds alone; + Night, holy night, in robes of blue, with golden stars encrowned, + Ascending mountains like to walls that hem an Eden round. + + -- + * The rufous-breasted thickhead. + -- + + Oh, lovely moon! oh, holy night! how good your God must be, + When, through the glories of your light, He stoops to look at me! + Oh, glittering clouds and silvery shapes, that vanish one by one! + Is not the kindness of our Lord too great to think upon? + If human song could flow as free as His created breeze, + When, sloping from some hoary height, it sweeps the vacant seas, + Then should my voice to heaven ascend, my tuneful lyre be strung, + And music sweeter than the winds should roam these glens among. + Go by, ye golden-footed hours, to your mysterious bourne, + And hide the sins ye bear from hence, so that they ne'er return. + Teach me, ye beauteous stars, to kiss kind Mercy's chastening rod, + And, looking up from Nature's face, to worship Nature's God. + + + + +Stanzas + + + + The sunsets fall and the sunsets fade, + But still I walk this shadowy land; + And grapple the dark and only the dark + In my search for a loving hand. + + For it's here a still, deep woodland lies, + With spurs of pine and sheaves of fern; + But I wander wild, and wail like a child + For a face that will never return! + + And it's here a mighty water flows, + With drifts of wind and wimpled waves; + But the darling head of a dear one dead + Is hidden beneath its caves. + + + + +The Wail in the Native Oak + + + + Where the lone creek, chafing nightly in the cold and sad moonshine, + Beats beneath the twisted fern-roots and the drenched and dripping vine; + Where the gum trees, ringed and ragged, from the mazy margins rise, + Staring out against the heavens with their languid gaping eyes; + There I listened--there I heard it! Oh, that melancholy sound, + Wandering like a ghostly whisper, through the dreaming darkness round! + Wandering, like a fearful warning, where the withered twilight broke + Through a mass of mournful tresses, drooping down the Native Oak. + + And I caught a glimpse of sunset fading from a far-off wild, + As I sat me down to fancy, like a thoughtful, wistful child-- + Sat me down to fancy what might mean those hollow, hopeless tones, + Sooming round the swooning silence, dying out in smothered moans! + What might mean that muffled sobbing? Did a lonely phantom wail, + Pent amongst those tangled branches barring out the moonlight pale? + Wept it for that gleam of glory wasting from the forest aisles; + For that fainting gleam of glory sad with flickering, sickly smiles? + + In these woodlands I was restless! I had seen a light depart, + And an ache for something vanished filled and chilled my longing heart, + And I linked my thoughts together--"All seemed still and dull to-day, + But a painful symbol groweth from the shine that pales away! + This may not be idle dreaming; if the spirit roams," I said, + "This is surely one, a wanderer from the ages which have fled! + Who can look beyond the darkness; who can see so he may tell + Where the sunsets all have gone to; where the souls that leave us dwell? + + "This might be a loving exile, full with faded thoughts returned, + Seeking for familiar faces, friends for whom he long had yearned. + Here his fathers must have sojourned--here his people may have died, + Or, perchance, to distant forests all were scattered far and wide. + So he moans and so he lingers! weeping o'er the wasted wild; + Weeping o'er the desolation, like a lost, benighted child! + So he moans, and so he lingers! Hence these fitful, fretful sighs, + Deep within the oak tree solemn! Hence these weary, weary cries! + + "Or who knows but that some secret lies beneath yon dismal mound? + Ha! a dreary, dreadful secret must be buried underground! + Not a ragged blade of verdure--not one root of moss is there; + Who hath torn the grasses from it--wherefore is that barrow bare? + Darkness shuts the forest round me. Here I stand and, O my God! + This may be some injured spirit raving round and round the sod. + Hush! the tempest, how it travels! Blood hath here been surely shed-- + Hush! the thunder, how it mutters! Oh, the unrequited Dead!" + + Came a footfall past the water--came a wild man through the gloom, + Down he stooped and faced the current, silent as the silent tomb; + Down he stooped and lapped the ripples: not a single word he spoke, + But I whispered, "He can tell me of the Secret in the Oak? + Very thoughtful seems that forehead; many legends he may know; + Many tales and old traditions linked to what is here below! + I must ask him--rest I cannot--though my life upon it hung-- + Though these wails are waxing louder, I must give my thoughts a tongue. + + "Shake that silence from you, wild man! I have looked into your face, + Hoping I should learn the story there about this fearful place. + Slake your thirst, but stay and tell me: did your heart with terror beat, + When you stepped across the bare and blasted hillock at your feet? + Hearken to these croons so wretched deep within the dusk boughs pent! + Hold you not some strange tradition coupled with this strange lament? + When your tribe about their camp-fires hear that hollow, broken cry, + _Do they hint of deeds mysterious, hidden in the days gone by?_" + + But he rose like one bewildered, shook his head and glided past; + Huddling whispers hurried after, hissing in the howling blast! + Now a sheet of lurid splendour swept athwart the mountain spire, + And a midnight squall came trumping down on zigzag paths of fire! + Through the tumult dashed a torrent flanking out in foaming streams, + Whilst the woodlands groaned and muttered like a monster vexed with dreams. + Then I swooned away in horror. Oh! that shriek which rent the air, + Like the voice of some fell demon harrowed by a mad despair. + + + + +Harps We Love + + + + The harp we love hath a royal burst! + Its strings are mighty forest trees; + And branches, swaying to and fro, + Are fingers sounding symphonies. + + The harp we love hath a solemn sound! + And rocks amongst the shallow seas + Are strings from which the rolling waves + Draw forth their stirring harmonies. + + The harp we love hath a low sweet voice! + Its strings are in the bosom deep, + And Love will press those hidden chords + When all the baser passions sleep. + + + + +Waiting and Wishing + + + + I loiter by this surging sea, + Here, by this surging, sooming sea, + Here, by this wailing, wild-faced sea, + Dreaming through the dreamy night; + Yearning for a strange delight! + Will it ever, ever, ever fly to me, + By this surging sea, + By this surging, sooming sea, + By this wailing, wild-faced sea? + + I know some gentle spirit lives, + Some loving, lonely spirit lives, + Some melancholy spirit lives, + Walking o'er the earth for me, + Searching round the world for me! + Will she ever, ever, ever hither come? + Where the waters roam, + Where the sobbing waters roam! + Where the raving waters roam! + + All worn and wasted by the storms, + All gapped and fractured by the storms, + All split and splintered by the storms, + Overhead the caverns groan, + Gloomy, ghastly caverns groan!-- + Will she ever, ever, ever fill this heart? + Peace, O longing heart! + Peace, O longing, beating heart! + Peace, O beating, weary heart! + + + + +The Wild Kangaroo + + + + The rain-clouds have gone to the deep-- + The East like a furnace doth glow; + And the day-spring is flooding the steep, + And sheening the landscape below. + Oh, ye who are gifted with souls + That delight in the music of birds, + Come forth where the scattered mist rolls, + And listen to eloquent words! + Oh, ye who are fond of the sport, + And would travel yon wilderness through, + Gather--each to his place--for a life-stirring chase, + In the wake of the wild Kangaroo! + Gather--each to his place-- + For a life-stirring chase + In the wake of the wild Kangaroo! + + Beyond the wide rents of the fog, + The trees are illumined with gold; + And the bark of the shepherd's brave dog + Shoots away from the sheltering fold. + Down the depths of yon rock-border'd glade, + A torrent goes foaming along; + And the blind-owls retire into shade, + And the bell-bird beginneth its song. + By the side of that yawning abyss, + Where the vapours are hurrying to, + We will merrily pass, looking down to the grass + For the tracks of the wild Kangaroo! + We will merrily pass, + Looking down to the grass + For the tracks of the wild Kangaroo. + + Ho, brothers, away to the woods; + Euroka hath clambered the hill; + But the morning there seldom intrudes, + Where the night-shadows slumber on still. + We will roam o'er these forest-lands wild, + And thread the dark masses of vines, + Where the winds, like the voice of a child, + Are singing aloft in the pines. + We must keep down the glee of our hounds; + We must _steal_ through the glittering dew; + And the breezes shall sleep as we cautiously creep + To the haunts of the wild Kangaroo. + And the breezes shall sleep, + As we cautiously creep + To the haunts of the wild Kangaroo. + + When we pass through a stillness like death + The swamp fowl and timorous quail, + Like the leaves in a hurricane's breath, + Will start from their nests in the vale; + And the forester,* snuffing the air, + Will bound from his covert so dark, + While we follow along in the rear, + As arrows speed on to their mark! + Then the swift hounds shall bring him to bay, + And we'll send forth a hearty halloo, + As we gather them all to be in at the fall-- + At the death of the wild Kangaroo! + As we gather them all + To be in at the fall-- + At the death of the wild Kangaroo! + + -- + * The Kangaroo. + -- + + + + +Clari + + + + Too cold, O my brother, too cold for my wife + Is the Beauty you showed me this morning: + Nor yet have I found the sweet dream of my life, + And good-bye to the sneering and scorning. + Would you have me cast down in the dark of her frown, + Like others who bend at her shrine; + And would barter their souls for a statue-like face, + And a heart that can never be mine? + That can never be theirs nor mine. + + Go after her, look at her, kneel at her feet, + And mimic the lover romantic; + I have hated deceit, and she misses the treat + Of driving me hopelessly frantic! + Now watch her, as deep in her carriage she lies, + And love her, my friend, if you dare! + She would wither your life with her beautiful eyes, + And strangle your soul with her hair! + With a mesh of her splendid hair. + + + + +Wollongong + + + + Let me talk of years evanished, let me harp upon the time + When we trod these sands together, in our boyhood's golden prime; + Let me lift again the curtain, while I gaze upon the past, + As the sailor glances homewards, watching from the topmost mast. + Here we rested on the grasses, in the glorious summer hours, + When the waters hurried seaward, fringed with ferns and forest flowers; + When our youthful eyes, rejoicing, saw the sunlight round the spray + In a rainbow-wreath of splendour, glittering underneath the day; + Sunlight flashing past the billows, falling cliffs and crags among, + Clothing hopeful friendship basking on the shores of Wollongong. + + Echoes of departed voices, whispers from forgotten dreams, + Come across my spirit, like the murmurs of melodious streams. + Here we both have wandered nightly, when the moonshine cold and pale + Shimmer'd on the cone of Keira, sloping down the sleeping vale; + When the mournful waves came sobbing, sobbing on the furrowed shore, + Like to lone hearts weeping over loved ones they shall see no more; + While the silver ripples, stealing past the shells and slimy stones, + Broke beneath the caverns, dying, one by one, in muffled moans; + As the fragrant wood-winds roaming, with a fitful cadence sung + 'Mid the ghostly branches belting round the shores of Wollongong. + + Lovely faces flit before us, friendly forms around us stand; + Gleams of well-remembered gladness trip along the yellow sand. + Here the gold-green waters glistened underneath our dreaming gaze, + As the lights of Heaven slanted down the pallid ether haze; + Here the mossy rock-pool, like to one that stirs himself in sleep, + Trembled every moment at the roaring of the restless deep; + While the stately vessels swooping to the breezes fair and free, + Passed away like sheeted spectres, fading down the distant sea; + And our wakened fancies sparkled, and our soul-born thoughts we strung + Into joyous lyrics, singing with the waves of Wollongong. + + Low-breathed strains of sweetest music float about my raptured ears; + Angel-eyes are glancing at me hopeful smiles and happy tears. + Merry feet go scaling up the old and thunder-shattered steeps, + And the billows clamber after, and the surge to ocean leaps, + Scattered into fruitless showers, falling where the breakers roll, + Baffled like the aspirations of a proud ambitious soul. + Far off sounds of silvery laughter through the hollow caverns ring, + While my heart leaps up to catch reviving pleasure on the wing; + And the years come trooping backward, and we both again are young, + Walking side by side upon the lovely shores of Wollongong. + + Fleeting dreams and idle fancies! Lo, the gloomy after Age + Creepeth, like an angry shadow, over life's eventful stage! + Joy is but a mocking phantom, throwing out its glitter brief-- + Short-lived as the western sunbeam dying from the cedar leaf. + Here we linger, lonely-hearted, musing over visions fled, + While the sickly twilight withers from the arches overhead. + Semblance of a bliss delusive are those dull, receding rays; + Semblance of the faint reflection left to us of other days; + Days of vernal hope and gladness, hours when the blossoms sprung + Round the feet of blithesome ramblers by the shores of Wollongong. + + + + +Ella with the Shining Hair + + + + Through many a fragrant cedar grove + A darkened water moans; + And there pale Memory stood with Love + Amongst the moss-green stones. + + The shimmering sunlight fell and kissed + The grasstree's golden sheaves; + But we were troubled with a mist + Of music in the leaves. + + One passed us, like a sudden gleam; + Her face was deadly fair. + "Oh, go," we said, "you homeless Dream + Of Ella's shining hair! + + "We halt, like one with tired wings, + And we would fain forget + That there are tempting, maddening things + Too high to clutch at yet! + + "Though seven Springs have filled the Wood + With pleasant hints and signs, + Since faltering feet went forth and stood + With Death amongst the pines." + + From point to point unwittingly + We wish to clamber still, + Till we have light enough to see + The summits of the hill. + + "O do not cry, my sister dear," + Said beaming Hope to Love, + "Though we have been so troubled here + The Land is calm above; + + "Beyond the regions of the storm + We'll find the golden gates, + Where, all the day, a radiant Form, + Our Ella, sits and waits." + + And Memory murmured: "She was one + Of God's own darlings lent; + And Angels wept that she had gone, + And wondered why she went. + + "I know they came, and talked to her, + Through every garden breeze, + About eternal Hills of Myrrh, + And quiet Jasper Seas. + + "For her the Earth contained no charms; + All things were strange and wild; + And I believe a Seraph's arms + Caught up the sainted Child." + + And Love looked round, and said: "Oh, you + That sit by Beulah's streams, + Shake on this thirsty life the dew + Which brings immortal dreams! + + "Ah! turn to us, and greet us oft + With looks of pitying balm, + And hints of heaven, in whispers soft, + To make our troubles calm. + + "My Ella with the shining hair, + Behold, these many years, + We've held up wearied hands in prayer; + And groped about in tears." + + But Hope sings on: "Beyond the storm + We'll find the golden gates + Where, all the day, a radiant Form, + Our Ella, sits and waits." + + + + +The Barcoo + + (The Squatters' Song) + + + + From the runs of the Narran, wide-dotted with sheep, + And loud with the lowing of cattle, + We speed for a land where the strange forests sleep + And the hidden creeks bubble and brattle! + Now call on the horses, and leave the blind courses + And sources of rivers that all of us know; + For, crossing the ridges, and passing the ledges, + And running up gorges, we'll come to the verges + Of gullies where waters eternally flow. + Oh! the herds they will rush down the spurs of the hill + To feed on the grasses so cool and so sweet; + And I think that my life with delight will stand still + When we halt with the pleasant Barcoo at our feet. + + Good-bye to the Barwon, and brigalow scrubs, + Adieu to the Culgoa ranges, + But look for the mulga and salt-bitten shrubs, + Though the face of the forest-land changes. + The leagues we may travel down beds of hot gravel, + And clay-crusted reaches where moisture hath been, + While searching for waters, may vex us and thwart us, + Yet who would be quailing, or fainting, or failing? + Not you, who are men of the Narran, I ween! + When we leave the dry channels away to the south, + And reach the far plains we are journeying to, + We will cry, though our lips may be glued with the drouth, + Hip, hip, and hurrah for the pleasant Barcoo! + + + + +Bells Beyond the Forest + + + + Wild-eyed woodlands, here I rest me, underneath the gaunt and ghastly trees; + Underneath fantastic-fronted caverns crammed with many a muffled breeze. + Far away from dusky towns and cities twinkling with the feet of men; + Listening to a sound of mellow music fleeting down the gusty glen; + Sitting by a rapid torrent, with the broken sunset in my face; + By a rapid, roaring torrent, tumbling through a dark and lonely place! + And I hear the bells beyond the forest, and the voice of distant streams; + And a flood of swelling singing, wafting round a world of ruined dreams. + + Like to one who watches daylight dying from a lofty mountain spire, + When the autumn splendour scatters like a gust of faintly-gleaming fire; + So the silent spirit looketh through a mist of faded smiles and tears, + While across it stealeth all the sad and sweet divinity of years-- + All the scenes of shine and shadow; light and darkness sleeping side by side + When my heart was wedded to existence, as a bridegroom to his bride: + While I travelled gaily onward with the vapours crowding in my wake, + Deeming that the Present hid the glory where the promised Morn would break. + + Like to one who, by the waters standing, marks the reeling ocean wave + Moaning, hide his head all torn and shivered underneath his lonely cave, + So the soul within me glances at the tides of Purpose where they creep, + Dashed to fragments by the yawning ridges circling Life's tempestuous Deep! + Oh! the tattered leaves are dropping, dropping round me like a fall of rain; + While the dust of many a broken aspiration sweeps my troubled brain; + With the yearnings after Beauty, and the longings to be good and great; + And the thoughts of catching Fortune, flying on the tardy wings of Fate. + + Bells, beyond the forest chiming, where is all the inspiration now + That was wont to flush my forehead, and to chase the pallor from my brow? + Did I not, amongst these thickets, weave my thoughts and passions into rhyme, + Trusting that the words were golden, hoping for the praise of after-time? + Where have all those fancies fled to? Can the fond delusion linger still, + When the Evening withers o'er me, and the night is creeping up the hill? + If the years of strength have left me, and my life begins to fail and fade, + Who will learn my simple ballads; who will stay to sing the songs I've made? + + Bells, beyond the forest ringing, lo, I hasten to the world again; + For the sun has smote the empty windows, and the day is on the wane! + Hear I not a dreamy echo, soughing through the rafters of the tree; + Like a sound of stormy rivers, or the ravings of a restless sea? + Should I loiter here to listen, while this fitful wind is on the wing? + No, the heart of Time is sobbing, and my spirit is a withered thing! + Let the rapid torrents tumble, let the woodlands whistle in the blast; + Mighty minstrels sing behind me, but the promise of my youth is past. + + + + +Ulmarra + + + + Alone--alone! + With a heart like a stone, + She maketh her moan + At the feet of the trees, + With her face on her knees, + And her hair streaming over; + Wildly, and wildly, and wildly; + For she misses the tracks of her lover! + Do you hear her, Ulmarra? + Oh, where are the tracks of her lover? + + Go by--go by! + They have told her a lie, + Who said he was nigh, + In the white-cedar glen-- + In the camps of his men: + And she sitteth there weeping-- + Weeping, and weeping, and weeping, + For the face of a warrior sleeping! + Do you hear her, Ulmarra? + Oh! where is her warrior sleeping? + + A dream! a dream! + That they saw a bright gleam + Through the dusk boughs stream, + Where wild bees dwell, + And a tomahawk fell, + In moons which have faded; + Faded, and faded, and faded, + From woods where a chieftain lies shaded! + Do you hear her, Ulmarra? + Oh! where doth her chieftain lie shaded? + + Bewail! bewail! + Who whispered a tale, + That they heard on the gale, + Through the dark and the cold, + The voice of the bold; + And a boomerang flying; + Flying, and flying, and flying? + Ah! her heart it is wasted with crying-- + Do you hear her, Ulmarra? + Oh! her heart it is wasted with crying! + + + + +The Maid of Gerringong + + + + Rolling through the gloomy gorges, comes the roaring southern blast, + With a sound of torrents flying, like a routed army, past, + And, beneath the shaggy forelands, strange fantastic forms of surf + Fly, like wild hounds, at the darkness, crouching over sea and earth; + Swooping round the sunken caverns, with an aggravated roar; + Falling where the waters tumble foaming on a screaming shore! + In a night like this we parted. Eyes were wet though speech was low, + And our thoughts were all in mourning for the dear, dead Long Ago! + In a night like this we parted. Hearts were sad though they were young, + And you left me very lonely, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong. + + Said my darling, looking at me, through the radiance of her tears: + "Many changes, O my loved One, we will meet in after years; + Changes like to sudden sunbursts flashing down a rainy steep-- + Changes like to swift-winged shadows falling on a moony deep! + And they are so cheerless sometimes, leaving, when they pass us by, + Deepening dolours on the sweet, sad face of our Humanity. + But you'll hope, and fail and faint not, with that heart so warm and true, + Watching for the coming Morning, that will flood the World for you; + Listening through a thirsty silence, till the low winds bear along + Eager footfalls--pleasant voices," said the Maid of Gerringong. + + Said my darling, when the wind came sobbing wildly round the eaves: + "Oh, the Purpose scattered from me, like the withered autumn leaves! + Oh, the wreck of Love's ambition! Oh, the fond and full belief + That I yet should hear them hail you in your land a God-made chief! + In the loud day they may slumber, but my thoughts will not be still + When the weary world is sleeping, and the moon is on the hill; + Then your form will bend above me, then your voice will rise and fall, + Though I turn and hide in darkness, with my face against the wall, + And my Soul must rise and listen while those homeless memories throng + Moaning in the night for shelter," said the Maid of Gerringong. + + Ay, she passed away and left me! Rising through the dusk of tears, + Came a vision of that parting every day for many years! + Every day, though she had told me not to court the strange sweet pain, + Something whispered--something led me to our olden haunts again: + And I used to wander nightly, by the surges and the ships, + Harping on those last fond accents that had trembled from her lips: + Till a vessel crossed the waters, and I heard a stranger say, + "One you loved has died in silence with her dear face turned away." + Oh! the eyes that flash upon me, and the voice that comes along-- + Oh! my light, my life, my darling dark-haired Maid of Gerringong. + + . . . . . + + Some one saith, "Oh, you that mock at Passion with a worldly whine, + Would you change the face of Nature--would you limit God's design? + Hide for shame from well-raised clamour, moderate fools who would be wise; + Hide for shame--the World will hoot you! Love is Love, and never dies" + And another asketh, doubting that my brother speaks the truth, + "Can we love in age as fondly as we did in days of youth? + Will dead faces always haunt us, in the time of faltering breath? + Shall we yearn, and we so feeble?" Ay, for Love is Love in Death. + Oh! the Faith with sure foundation!--let the Ages roll along, + You are mine, and mine for ever, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong. + + Last night, dear, I dreamt about you, and I thought that far from men + We were walking, both together, in a fragrant seaside glen; + Down where we could hear the surges wailing round the castled cliffs, + Down where we could see the sunset reddening on the distant skiffs; + There a fall of mountain waters tumbled through the knotted bowers + Bright with rainbow colours reeling on the purple forest flowers. + And we rested on the benches of a cavern old and hoar; + And I whispered, "this is surely her I loved in days of yore! + False he was who brought sad tidings! Why were you away so long, + When you knew who waited for you, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong? + + "Did the strangers come around you, in the far-off foreign land? + Did they lead you out of sorrow, with kind face and loving hand? + Had they pleasant ways to court you--had they silver words to bind? + Had they souls more fond and loyal than the soul you left behind? + Do not think I blame you, dear one! Ah! my heart is gushing o'er + With the sudden joy and wonder, thus to see your face once more. + Happy is the chance which joins us after long, long years of pain: + And, oh, blessed was whatever sent you back to me again! + Now our pleasure will be real--now our hopes again are young: + Now we'll climb Life's brightest summits, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong. + + "In the sound of many footfalls, did you falter with regret + For a step which used to gladden in the time so vivid yet? + When they left you in the night-hours, did you lie awake like me, + With the thoughts of what we had been--what we never more could be? + Ah! you look but do not answer while I halt and question here, + Wondering why I am so happy, doubting that you are so near. + Sure these eyes with love are blinded, for your form is waxing faint; + And a dreamy splendour crowns it, like the halo round a saint! + When I talk of what we will be, and new aspirations throng, + Why are you so sadly silent, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong?" + + But she faded into sunset, and the sunset passed from sight; + And I followed madly after, through the misty, moony night, + Crying, "do not leave me lonely! Life has been so cold and drear, + You are all that God has left me, and I want you to be near! + Do not leave me in the darkness! I have walked a weary way, + Listening for your truant footsteps--turn and stay, my darling, stay!" + But she came not though I waited, watching through a splendid haze, + Where the lovely Phantom halted ere she vanished from my gaze. + Then I thought that rain was falling, for there rose a stormy song, + And I woke in gloom and tempest, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong! + + + + +Watching + + + + Like a beautiful face looking ever at me + A pure bright moon cometh over the sea; + And I stand on the crags, and hear the falls + Go tumbling down, through the black river-walls; + And the heart of the gorge is rent with the cry + Of the pent-up winds in their agony! + You are far from me, dear, where I watch and wait, + Like a weary bird for a long-lost mate, + And my life is as dull as the sluggish stream + Feeling its way through a world of dream; + For here is a waste of darkness and fear, + And I call and I call, but no one will hear! + O darling of mine, do you ever yearn + For a something lost, which will never return? + + O darling of mine, on the grave of dead Hours, + Do you feel, like me, for a handful of flowers? + Through the glens of the Past, do you wander along, + Like a restless ghost that hath done a wrong? + And, lying alone, do you look from the drouth + Of a thirsty Life with a pleading mouth? + When the rain's on the roof, and the gales are abroad, + Do you wash with your tears the feet of your God? + Oh! I know you do, and he sitteth alone, + Your wounded Love, while you mourn and moan-- + Oh! I know you do, and he never will leap + From his silence with smiles, while you weep--and weep! + + Your coolness shake down, ye gathered green leaves, + For my spirit is faint with the love that it grieves! + Is there aught on the summit, O yearner through Night, + Aught on the summit which looks like the light; + When my soul is a-wearied and lone in the land, + Groping around will it touch a kind hand? + There are chasms between us as black as a pall, + But bring us together, O God over all! + And let me cast from me these fetters of Fear, + When I hear the glad singing of Faith so near; + For I know by the cheeks, which are pallid and wet, + And a listening life we shall mingle yet! + Oh! then I will turn to those eloquent eyes, + And clasp thee close, with a sweet surprise; + And a guest will go in by the heart's holy door, + And the chambers of Love shall be left no more. + + + + +The Opossum-Hunters + + + + Hear ye not the waters beating where the rapid rivers, meeting + With the winds above them fleeting, hurry to the distant seas, + And a smothered sound of singing from old Ocean upwards springing, + Sending hollow echoes ringing like a wailing on the breeze? + For the tempest round us brewing, cometh with the clouds pursuing, + And the bright Day, like a ruin, crumbles from the mournful trees. + + When the thunder ceases pealing, and the stars up heaven are stealing, + And the Moon above us wheeling throws her pleasant glances round, + From our homes we boldly sally 'neath the trysting tree to rally, + For a night-hunt up the valley, with our brothers and the hound! + Through a wild-eyed Forest, staring at the light above it glaring, + We will travel, little caring for the dangers where we bound. + + Twisted boughs shall tremble o'er us, hollow woods shall moan before us, + And the torrents like a chorus down the gorges dark shall sing; + And the vines shall shake and shiver, and the startled grasses quiver, + Like the reeds beside a river in the gusty days of Spring; + While we forward haste delighted, through a region seldom lighted-- + Souls impatient, hearts excited--like a wind upon the wing! + + Oh! the solemn tones of Ocean, like the language of devotion, + Or a voice of deep emotion, wander round the evening scene. + Oh! the ragged shadows cluster where, my brothers, we must muster + Ere the warm moon lends her lustre to the cedars darkly green; + And the lights like flowers shall blossom, in high Heaven's kindly bosom, + While we hunt the wild opossum, underneath its leafy screen; + + Underneath the woven bowers, where the gloomy night-hawk cowers, + Through a lapse of dreamy hours, in a stirless solitude! + And the hound--that close beside us still will stay whate'er betide us-- + Through a 'wildering waste shall guide us-- + through a maze where few intrude, + Till the game is chased to cover, till the stirring sport is over, + Till we bound, each happy rover, homeward down the laughing wood. + + Oh, the joy in wandering thither, when fond friends are all together + And our souls are like the weather--cloudless, clear and fresh and free! + Let the sailor sing the story of the ancient ocean's glory, + Forests golden, mountains hoary--can he look and love like we? + Sordid worldling, haunt thy city with that heart so hard and gritty! + There are those who turn with pity when they turn to think of thee! + + + + +In the Depths of a Forest + + + + In the depths of a Forest secluded and wild, + The night voices whisper in passionate numbers; + And I'm leaning again, as I did when a child, + O'er the grave where my father so quietly slumbers. + + The years have rolled by with a thundering sound + But I knew, O ye woodlands, affection would know it, + And the spot which I stand on is sanctified ground + By the love that I bear to him sleeping below it. + + Oh! well may the winds with a saddening moan + Go fitfully over the branches so dreary; + And well may I kneel by the time-shattered stone, + And rejoice that a rest has been found for the weary. + + + + +To Charles Harpur + + + + I would sit at your feet for long days, + To hear the sweet Muse of the Wild + Speak out through the sad and the passionate lays + Of her first and her favourite Child. + + I would sit at your feet, for my soul + Delights in the solitudes free; + And I stand where the creeks and the cataracts roll + Whensoever I listen to thee! + + I would sit at your feet, for I love + By the gulches and torrents to roam; + And I long in this city for woodland and grove, + And the peace of a wild forest home. + + I would sit at your feet, and we'd dwell + On the scenes of a long-vanished time, + While your thoughts into music would surge and would swell + Like a breeze of our beautiful clime. + + I would sit at your feet, for I know, + Though the World in the Present be blind, + That the amaranth blossoms of Promise will blow + When the Ages have left you behind. + + I would sit at your feet, for I feel + I am one of a glorious band + That ever will own you and hold you their Chief, + And a Monarch of Song in the land! + + + + +The River and the Hill + + + + And they shook their sweetness out in their sleep, + On the brink of that beautiful stream, + But it wandered along with a wearisome song + Like a lover that walks in a dream: + So the roses blew + When the winds went through, + In the moonlight so white and so still; + But the river it beat + All night at the feet + Of a cold and flinty hill-- + Of a hard and senseless hill! + + I said, "We have often showered our loves + Upon something as dry as the dust; + And the faith that is crost, and the hearts that are lost-- + Oh! how can we wittingly trust? + Like the stream which flows, + And wails as it goes, + Through the moonlight so white and so still, + To beat and to beat + All night at the feet + Of a cold and flinty hill-- + Of a hard and senseless hill? + + "River, I stay where the sweet roses blow, + And drink of their pleasant perfumes! + Oh, why do you moan, in this wide world alone, + When so much affection here blooms? + The winds wax faint, + And the Moon like a Saint + Glides over the woodlands so white and so still! + But you beat and you beat + All night at the feet + Of that cold and flinty hill-- + Of that hard and senseless hill!" + + + + +The Fate of the Explorers + + (A Fragment) + + + + Set your face toward the darkness--tell of deserts weird and wide, + Where unshaken woods are huddled, and low, languid waters glide; + Turn and tell of deserts lonely, lying pathless, deep and vast, + Where in utter silence ever Time seems slowly breathing past-- + Silence only broken when the sun is flecked with cloudy bars, + Or when tropic squalls come hurtling underneath the sultry stars! + Deserts thorny, hot and thirsty, where the feet of men are strange, + And eternal Nature sleeps in solitudes which know no change. + + Weakened with their lengthened labours, past long plains of stone and sand, + Down those trackless wilds they wandered, travellers from a far-off land, + Seeking now to join their brothers, struggling on with faltering feet, + For a glorious work was finished, and a noble task complete. + And they dreamt of welcome faces--dreamt that soon unto their ears + Friendly greetings would be thronging, with a nation's well-earned cheers; + Since their courage never failed them, but with high, unflinching soul + Each was pressing forward, hoping, trusting all should reach the goal. + + . . . . . + + Though he rallied in the morning, long before the close of day + He had sunk, the worn-out hero, fainting, dying by the way! + But with Death he wrestled hardly; three times rising from the sod, + Yet a little further onward o'er the weary waste he trod. + Facing Fate with heart undaunted, still the chief would totter on + Till the evening closed about him--till the strength to move was gone; + Then he penned his latest writings, and, before his life was spent, + Gave the records to his comrade--gave the watch he said was lent-- + Gave them with his last commandments, charging him that night to stay + And to let him lie unburied when the soul had passed away. + + Through that night he uttered little, rambling were the words he spoke: + And he turned and died in silence, when the tardy morning broke. + Many memories come together whilst in sight of death we dwell, + Much of sweet and sad reflection through the weary mind must well. + As those long hours glided past him, till the east with light was fraught, + Who may know the mournful secret--who can tell us what he thought? + + Very lone and very wretched was the brave man left behind, + Wandering over leagues of waste-land, seeking, hoping help to find; + Sleeping in deserted wurleys, fearful many nightfalls through + Lest unfriendly hands should rob him of his hoard of wild nardoo. + + . . . . . + + Ere he reached their old encampment--ere the well-known spot was gained, + Something nerved him--something whispered that his other chief remained. + So he searched for food to give him, trusting they might both survive + Till the aid so long expected from the cities should arrive; + So he searched for food and took it to the gunyah where he found + Silence broken by his footfalls--death and darkness on the ground. + + Weak and wearied with his journey, there the lone survivor stooped, + And the disappointment bowed him and his heart with sadness drooped, + And he rose and raked a hollow with his wasted, feeble hands, + Where he took and hid the hero, in the rushes and the sands; + But he, like a brother, laid him out of reach of wind and rain, + And for many days he sojourned near him on that wild-faced plain; + Whilst he stayed beside the ruin, whilst he lingered with the dead, + Oh! he must have sat in shadow, gloomy as the tears he shed. + + . . . . . + + Where our noble Burke was lying--where his sad companion stood, + Came the natives of the forest--came the wild men of the wood; + Down they looked, and saw the stranger--he who there in quiet slept-- + Down they knelt, and o'er the chieftain bitterly they moaned and wept: + Bitterly they mourned to see him all uncovered to the blast-- + All uncovered to the tempest as it wailed and whistled past; + And they shrouded him with bushes, so in death that he might lie, + Like a warrior of their nation, sheltered from the stormy sky. + + . . . . . + + Ye must rise and sing their praises, O ye bards with souls of fire, + For the people's voice shall echo through the wailings of your lyre; + And we'll welcome back their comrade, though our eyes with tears be blind + At the thoughts of promise perished, and the shadow left behind; + Now the leaves are bleaching round them--now the gales above them glide, + But the end was all accomplished, and their fame is far and wide. + Though this fadeless glory cannot hide a grateful nation's grief, + And their laurels have been blended with the gloomy cypress leaf. + + Let them rest where they have laboured! but, my country, mourn and moan; + We must build with human sorrow grander monuments than stone. + Let them rest, for oh! remember, that in long hereafter time + Sons of Science oft shall wander o'er that solitary clime! + Cities bright shall rise about it, Age and Beauty there shall stray, + And the fathers of the people, pointing to the graves, shall say: + "Here they fell, the glorious martyrs! when these plains were woodlands deep; + Here a friend, a brother, laid them; here the wild men came to weep." + + + + +Lurline + + (Inscribed to Madame Lucy Escott.) + + + + As you glided and glided before us that time, + A mystical, magical maiden, + We fancied we looked on a face from the clime + Where the poets have builded their Aidenn! + And oh, the sweet shadows! And oh, the warm gleams + Which lay on the land of our beautiful dreams, + While we walked by the margins of musical streams + And heard your wild warbling around us! + + We forgot what we were when we stood with the trees + Near the banks of those silvery waters; + As ever in fragments they came on the breeze, + The songs of old Rhine and his daughters! + And then you would pass with those radiant eyes + Which flashed like a light in the tropical skies-- + And ah! the bright thoughts that would sparkle and rise + While we heard your wild warbling around us. + + Will you ever fly back to this city of ours + With your harp and your voice and your beauty? + God knows we rejoice when we meet with such flowers + On the hard road of Life and of Duty! + Oh! come as you did, with that face and that tone, + For we wistfully look to the hours which have flown, + And long for a glimpse of the gladness that shone + When we heard your wild warbling around us. + + + + +Under the Figtree + + + + Like drifts of balm from cedared glens, those darling memories come, + With soft low songs, and dear old tales, familiar to our home. + Then breathe again that faint refrain, so tender, sad, and true, + My soul turns round with listening eyes unto the harp and you! + The fragments of a broken Past are floating down the tide, + And she comes gleaming through the dark, my love, my life, my bride! + Oh! sit and sing--I know her well, that phantom deadly fair + With large surprise, and sudden sighs, and streaming midnight hair! + I know her well, for face to face we stood amongst the sheaves, + Our voices mingling with a mist of music in the leaves! + I know her well, for hand in hand we walked beside the sea, + And heard the huddling waters boom beneath this old Figtree. + + God help the man that goes abroad amongst the windy pines, + And wanders, like a gloomy bat, where never morning shines! + That steals about amidst the rout of broken stones and graves, + When round the cliffs the merry skiffs go scudding through the waves; + When, down the bay, the children play, and scamper on the sand, + And Life and Mirth illume the Earth, and Beauty fills the Land! + God help the man! He only hears and fears the sleepless cries + Of smitten Love--of homeless Love and moaning Memories. + Oh! when a rhyme of olden time is sung by one so dear, + I feel again the sweetest pain I've known for many a year; + And from a deep, dull sea of sleep faint fancies come to me, + And I forget how lone we sit beneath this old Figtree. + + + + +Drowned at Sea + + + + Gloomy cliffs, so worn and wasted with the washing of the waves, + Are ye not like giant tombstones round those lonely ocean graves? + Are ye not the sad memorials, telling of a mighty grief-- + Dark with records ground and lettered into caverned rock and reef? + Oh! ye show them, and I know them, and my thoughts in mourning go + Down amongst your sunless chasms, deep into the surf below! + Oh! ye bear them, and declare them, and o'er every cleft and scar, + I have wept for dear dead brothers perished in the lost Dunbar! + Ye smitten--ye battered, + And splintered and shattered + Cliffs of the Sea! + + Restless waves, so dim with dreams of sudden storms and gusty surge, + Roaring like a gathered whirlwind reeling round a mountain verge, + Were ye not like loosened maniacs, in the night when Beauty pale + Called upon her God, beseeching through the uproar of the gale? + Were ye not like maddened demons while young children faint with fear + Cried and cried and cried for succour, and no helping hand was near? + Oh, the sorrow of the morrow!--lamentations near and far!-- + Oh, the sobs for dear dead sisters perished in the lost Dunbar!-- + Ye ruthless, unsated, + And hateful, and hated + Waves of the Sea! + + Ay, we stooped and moaned in darkness-- + eyes might strain and hearts might plead, + For their darlings crying wildly, they would never rise nor heed! + Ay, we yearned into their faces looking for the life in vain, + Wailing like to children blinded with a mist of sudden pain! + Dear hands clenched, and dear eyes rigid in a stern and stony stare, + Dear lips white from past affliction, dead to all our mad despair, + Ah, the groaning and the moaning--ah, the thoughts which rise in tears + When we turn to all those loved ones, looking backward five long years! + The fathers and mothers, + The sisters and brothers + Drowned at Sea! + + + + +Morning in the Bush + + (A Juvenile Fragment.) + + + + Above the skirts of yellow clouds, + The god-like Sun, arrayed + In blinding splendour, swiftly rose, + And looked athwart the glade; + The sleepy dingo watched him break + The bonds that curbed his flight; + And from his golden tresses shake + The fading gems of Night! + And wild goburras laughed aloud + Their merry morning songs, + As Echo answered in the depths + With a thousand thousand tongues; + The gully-depths where many a vine + Of ancient growth had crept, + To cluster round the hoary pine, + Where scanty mosses wept. + + Huge stones, and damp and broken crags, + In wild chaotic heap, + Were lying at the barren base + Of the ferny hillside steep; + Between those fragments hollows lay, + Upfilled with fruitful ground, + Where many a modest floweret grew, + To scent the wind-breaths round; + As fertile patches bloom within + A dried and worldly heart, + When some that look can only see + The cold, the barren part! + The Miser, full with thoughts of gain, + The meanest of his race, + May in his breast some verdure hide, + Though none that verdure trace. + + Where time-worn cliffs were jutting out, + With rough and ragged edges, + The snowy mountain-lily slept + Behind the earthy ledges; + Like some sweet Oriental Maid, + Who blindly deems it duty + To wear a veil before her face, + And hide her peerless beauty; + Or like to Innocence that thrives + In midst of sin and sorrows, + Nor from the cheerless scene around + The least infection borrows, + But stayeth out her mortal life-- + Though in that lifetime lonely-- + With Virtue's lustre round her heart, + And Virtue's lustre only. + + A patch of sunshine here and there + Lay on a leaf-strewn water-pool, + Whose tribute trickled down the rocks + In gurgling ripples, clear and cool! + As iguanas, from the clefts, + Would steal along with rustling sound, + To where the restless eddies roamed + Amongst the arrowy rushes round. + While, scanning them with angry eyes + From off a fallen myrtle log + That branchless bridged the brushy creek, + There stood and barked, a Shepherd's Dog! + And underneath a neighbouring mass + Of wattles intertwining, + His Master lay--his back against + The grassy banks reclining. + + Beneath the shade of ironbarks, + Stretched o'er the valley's sloping bed-- + Half hidden in a tea-tree scrub, + A flock of dusky sheep were spread; + And fitful bleating faintly came + On every joyous breath of wind, + That up the stony hills would fly, + And leave the hollows far behind! + Wild tones of music from the Creek + Were intermingling with the breeze, + The loud, rich lays of countless birds + Perched on the dark mimosa trees; + Those merry birds, with wings of light + Which rival every golden ray + Out-flashing from the lamps of Night, + Or streaming o'er the brow of Day. + + Amongst the gnarly apple-trees, + A gorgeous tribe of parrots came; + And screaming, leapt from bough to bough, + Like living jets of crimson flame! + And where the hillside-growing gums + Their web-like foliage upward threw, + Old Nature rang with echoes from + The loud-voiced mountain cockatoo; + And a thousand nameless twittering things, + Between the rustling sapling sprays, + Were flashing through the fragrant leaves, + And dancing like to fabled fays; + Rejoicing in the glorious light + That beauteous Morning had unfurled + To make the heart of Nature glad, + And clothe with smiles a weeping World. + + + + +The Girl I Left Behind Me + + (New Words to an Old Air.) + + + + With sweet Regret--(the dearest thing that Yesterday has left us)-- + We often turn our homeless eyes to scenes whence Fate has reft us. + Here sitting by a fading flame, wild waifs of song remind me + Of Annie with her gentle ways, the Girl I left behind me. + + I stood beside the surging sea, with lips of silent passion-- + I faced you by the surging sea, O brows of mild repression! + I never said--"my darling, stay!"--the moments seemed to bind me + To something stifling all my words for the Girl I left behind me. + + The pathos worn by common things--by every wayside flower, + Or Autumn leaf on lonely winds, revives the parting hour. + Ye swooning thoughts without a voice--ye tears which rose to blind me, + Why did she fade into the Dark, the Girl I left behind me. + + At night they always come to me, the tender and true-hearted; + And in my dreams we join again the hands which now are parted; + And, looking through the gates of Sleep, the pleasant Moon doth find me + For ever wandering with my Love, the Girl I left behind me. + + You know my life is incomplete, O far-off faint Ideal! + When shall I reach you from a depth of darkness which is real? + So I may mingle, soul in soul, with her that Heaven assigned me; + So she may lean upon my love, the Girl I left behind me. + + + + +Amongst the Roses + + + + I walked through a Forest, beneath the hot noon, + On Etheline calling and calling! + One said: "She will hear you and come to you soon, + When the coolness, my brother, is falling." + But I whispered: "O Darling, I falter with pain!" + And the thirsty leaves rustled, and hissed for the rain, + Where a wayfarer halted and slept on the plain; + And dreamt of a garden of Roses! + Of a cool sweet place, + And a nestling face + In a dance and a dazzle of Roses. + + In the drouth of a Desert, outwearied, I wept, + O Etheline, darkened with dolours! + But, folded in sunset, how long have you slept + By the Roses all reeling with colours? + A tree from its tresses a blossom did shake, + It fell on her face, and I feared she would wake, + So I brushed it away for _her_ sweet sake; + In that garden of beautiful Roses! + In the dreamy perfumes + From ripe-red blooms + In a dance and a dazzle of Roses. + + + + +Sunset + + + + It is better, O day, that you go to your rest, + For you go like a guest who was loth to remain! + Swing open, ye gates of the east and the west, + And let out the wild shadows--the night and the rain. + + Ye winds, ye are dead, with your voices attuned, + That thrilled the green life in the sweet-scented sheaves, + When I touched a warm hand which has faded, and swooned + To a trance of the darkness, and blight on the leaves. + + I had studied the lore in her maiden-like ways, + And the large-hearted love of my Annie was won, + 'Ere Summer had passed into passionate days, + Or Autumn made ready her fruits for the Sun. + + So my life was complete, and the hours that went by, + And the moon and the willow-wooed waters around, + Might have known that we rested, my Annie and I, + In happiness calm as the slumber of sound. + + On Sundays we wandered, as glad as a breeze, + By the rocks and the waves on a glittering beach; + Or we loitered in gardens melodious with bees, + And sucked the sweet pulp of the plum and the peach. + + "The Forest will show me the secrets of Fame," + I said to myself in the gum-shadowed glen, + "I will call every blossom and tree by its name, + And the people shall deem me a man of the men. + + "I will gather Roses of Sharon, my Soul,-- + The Roses of Sharon so cool and so sweet; + And our brothers shall see me entwining the whole + For a garland to drop at my dear Annie's feet." + + It is better, O day, that you go to your rest, + For you go like a guest who was loth to remain! + Swing open, ye gates of the east and the west, + And let out the wild shadows--the night and the rain. + + + + +Doubting + + + + A Brother wandered forth with me, + Beside a barren beach: + He harped on things beyond the sea, + And out of reach. + + He hinted once of unknown skies, + And then I would not hark, + But turned away from steadfast eyes, + Into the dark. + + And said--"an ancient faith is dead + And wonder fills my mind: + I marvel how the blind have led + So long the blind. + + "Behold this truth we only know + That night is on the land! + And we a weary way must go + To find God's hand." + + I wept--"Our fathers told us, Lord, + That Thou wert kind and just, + But lo! our wailings fly abroad + For broken trust. + + "How many evil ones are here + Who mocking go about, + Because we are too faint with fear + To wrestle Doubt! + + "Thy riddles are beyond the ken + Of creatures of the sod: + Remember that we are but men, + And Thou art God! + + "O, doting world, methinks your stay + Is weaker than a reed! + Our Father turns His face away; + 'Tis dark indeed." + + The evening woods lay huddled there, + All wrapped in silence strange: + A sudden wind--and lo! the air + Was filled with change. + + "Your words are wild," my brother said, + "For God's voice fills the breeze; + Go--hide yourself, as Adam did, + Amongst the trees. + + "I pluck the shoes from off my feet, + But dare to look around; + Behold," he said, "my Lord I greet, + On holy ground!" + + And God spake through the wind to me-- + "Shake off that gloom of Fear, + You fainting soul who could not see + That I was near. + + "Why vex me crying day and night?-- + You call on me to hark! + But when I bless your world with light, + Who makes it dark? + + "Is there a ravelled riddle left + That you would have undone? + What other doubts are there to sift?" + I answered--"None." + + "My son, look up, if you would see + The Promise on your way, + And turn a trustful face to me." + I whispered--"Yea." + + + + +Geraldine + + + + My head is filled with olden rhymes beside this moaning sea, + But many and many a day has gone since I was dear to thee! + I know my passion fades away, and therefore oft regret + That some who love indeed can part and in the years forget. + Ah! through the twilights when we stood the wattle trees between, + We did not dream of such a time as this, fair Geraldine. + + I do not say that all has gone of passion and of pain; + I yearn for many happy thoughts I shall not think again! + And often when the wind is up, and wailing round the eaves, + You sigh for withered Purpose shred and scattered like the leaves, + The Purpose blooming when we met each other on the green; + The sunset heavy in your curls, my golden Geraldine. + + I think we lived a loftier life through hours of Long Ago, + For in the largened evening earth our spirits seemed to grow. + Well, that has passed, and here I stand, upon a lonely place, + While Night is stealing round the land, like Time across my face; + But I can calmly recollect our shadowy parting scene, + And swooning thoughts that had no voice--no utterance, Geraldine. + + + + +Achan + + (From "Jephthah".) + + + + Hath he not followed a star through the darkness, + Ye people who sit at the table of Jephthah? + Oh! turn with the face to a light in the mountains, + Behold it is further from Achan than ever! + + "I know how it is with my brothers in Mizpeh," + Said Achan, the swift-footed runner of Zorah, + "They look at the wood they have hewn for the altar; + And think of a shadow in sackcloth and ashes. + + "I know how it is with the daughter of Jephthah, + (O Ada, my love, and the fairest of women!) + She wails in the time when her heart is so zealous + For God who hath stricken the children of Ammon. + + "I said I would bring her the odours of Edom, + And armfuls of spices to set at the banquet! + Behold I have fronted the chieftain her father; + And strong men have wept for the leader of thousands! + + "My love is a rose of the roses of Sharon, + All lonely and bright as the Moon in the myrtles! + Her lips, like to honeycombs, fill with the sweetness + That Achan the thirsty is hindered from drinking. + + "Her women have wept for the love that is wasted + Like wine, which is spilt when the people are wanting, + And hot winds have dried all the cisterns of Elim! + For love that is wasted her women were wailing! + + "The timbrels fall silent! And dost thou not hear it, + A voice, like the sound of a lute when we loiter, + And sit by the pools in the valleys of Arnon, + And suck the cool grapes that are growing in clusters? + + "She glides, like a myrrh-scented wind, through the willows, + O Ada! behold it is Achan that speaketh: + I know thou art near me, but never can see thee, + Because of the horrible drouth in mine eyelids." + + +[End of Poems and Songs.] + + + + + +LEAVES FROM AUSTRALIAN FORESTS + + + + + +Dedication + + + + To her who, cast with me in trying days, + Stood in the place of health and power and praise; + Who, when I thought all light was out, became + A lamp of hope that put my fears to shame; + Who faced for love's sole sake the life austere + That waits upon the man of letters here; + Who, unawares, her deep affection showed + By many a touching little wifely mode; + Whose spirit, self-denying, dear, divine, + Its sorrows hid, so it might lessen mine-- + To her, my bright, best friend, I dedicate + This book of songs--'t will help to compensate + For much neglect. The act, if not the rhyme, + Will touch her heart, and lead her to the time + Of trials past. That which is most intense + Within these leaves is of her influence; + And if aught here is sweetened with a tone + Sincere, like love, it came of love alone. + + + + +Prefatory Sonnets + + + + I + + I purposed once to take my pen and write, + Not songs, like some, tormented and awry + With passion, but a cunning harmony + Of words and music caught from glen and height, + And lucid colours born of woodland light + And shining places where the sea-streams lie. + But this was when the heat of youth glowed white, + And since I've put the faded purpose by. + I have no faultless fruits to offer you + Who read this book; but certain syllables + Herein are borrowed from unfooted dells + And secret hollows dear to noontide dew; + And these at least, though far between and few, + May catch the sense like subtle forest spells. + + + II + + So take these kindly, even though there be + Some notes that unto other lyres belong, + Stray echoes from the elder sons of song; + And think how from its neighbouring native sea + The pensive shell doth borrow melody. + I would not do the lordly masters wrong + By filching fair words from the shining throng + Whose music haunts me as the wind a tree. + Lo, when a stranger in soft Syrian glooms + Shot through with sunset, treads the cedar dells, + And hears the breezy ring of elfin bells + Far down be where the white-haired cataract booms, + He, faint with sweetness caught from forest smells, + Bears thence, unwitting, plunder of perfumes. + + + + +The Hut by the Black Swamp + + + + Now comes the fierce north-easter, bound + About with clouds and racks of rain, + And dry, dead leaves go whirling round + In rings of dust, and sigh like pain + Across the plain. + + Now twilight, with a shadowy hand + Of wild dominionship, doth keep + Strong hold of hollow straits of land, + And watery sounds are loud and deep + By gap and steep. + + Keen, fitful gusts, that fly before + The wings of storm when day hath shut + Its eyes on mountains, flaw by flaw, + Fleet down by whistling box-tree butt, + Against the hut. + + And, ringed and girt with lurid pomp, + Far eastern cliffs start up, and take + Thick steaming vapours from a swamp + That lieth like a great blind lake, + Of face opaque. + + The moss that, like a tender grief, + About an English ruin clings-- + What time the wan autumnal leaf + Faints, after many wanderings + On windy wings-- + + That gracious growth, whose quiet green + Is as a love in days austere, + Was never seen--hath never been-- + On slab or roof, deserted here + For many a year. + + Nor comes the bird whose speech is song-- + Whose songs are silvery syllables + That unto glimmering woods belong, + And deep, meandering mountain dells + By yellow wells. + + But rather here the wild-dog halts, + And lifts the paw, and looks, and howls; + And here, in ruined forest vaults, + Abide dim, dark, death-featured owls, + Like monks in cowls. + + Across this hut the nettle runs, + And livid adders make their lair + In corners dank from lack of suns, + And out of foetid furrows stare + The growths that scare. + + Here Summer's grasp of fire is laid + On bark and slabs that rot, and breed + Squat ugly things of deadly shade, + The scorpion, and the spiteful seed + Of centipede. + + Unhallowed thunders, harsh and dry, + And flaming noontides, mute with heat, + Beneath the breathless, brazen sky, + Upon these rifted rafters beat + With torrid feet. + + And night by night the fitful gale + Doth carry past the bittern's boom, + The dingo's yell, the plover's wail, + While lumbering shadows start, and loom, + And hiss through gloom. + + No sign of grace--no hope of green, + Cool-blossomed seasons marks the spot; + But chained to iron doom, I ween, + 'Tis left, like skeleton, to rot + Where ruth is not. + + For on this hut hath murder writ, + With bloody fingers, hellish things; + And God will never visit it + With flower or leaf of sweet-faced Springs, + Or gentle wings. + + + + +September in Australia + + + + Grey Winter hath gone, like a wearisome guest, + And, behold, for repayment, + September comes in with the wind of the West + And the Spring in her raiment! + The ways of the frost have been filled of the flowers, + While the forest discovers + Wild wings, with the halo of hyaline hours, + And the music of lovers. + + September, the maid with the swift, silver feet! + She glides, and she graces + The valleys of coolness, the slopes of the heat, + With her blossomy traces; + Sweet month, with a mouth that is made of a rose, + She lightens and lingers + In spots where the harp of the evening glows, + Attuned by her fingers. + + The stream from its home in the hollow hill slips + In a darling old fashion; + And the day goeth down with a song on its lips, + Whose key-note is passion. + Far out in the fierce, bitter front of the sea + I stand, and remember + Dead things that were brothers and sisters of thee, + Resplendent September! + + The West, when it blows at the fall of the noon + And beats on the beaches, + Is filled with a tender and tremulous tune + That touches and teaches; + The stories of Youth, of the burden of Time, + And the death of Devotion, + Come back with the wind, and are themes of the rhyme + In the waves of the ocean. + + We, having a secret to others unknown, + In the cool mountain-mosses, + May whisper together, September, alone + Of our loves and our losses! + One word for her beauty, and one for the grace + She gave to the hours; + And then we may kiss her, and suffer her face + To sleep with the flowers. + + High places that knew of the gold and the white + On the forehead of Morning + Now darken and quake, and the steps of the Night + Are heavy with warning. + Her voice in the distance is lofty and loud + Through the echoing gorges; + She hath hidden her eyes in a mantle of cloud, + And her feet in the surges. + + On the tops of the hills, on the turreted cones-- + Chief temples of thunder-- + The gale, like a ghost, in the middle watch moans, + Gliding over and under. + The sea, flying white through the rack and the rain, + Leapeth wild at the forelands; + And the plover, whose cry is like passion with pain, + Complains in the moorlands. + + Oh, season of changes--of shadow and shine-- + September the splendid! + My song hath no music to mingle with thine, + And its burden is ended; + But thou, being born of the winds and the sun, + By mountain, by river, + Mayst lighten and listen, and loiter and run, + With thy voices for ever! + + + + +Ghost Glen + + + + "Shut your ears, stranger, or turn from Ghost Glen now, + For the paths are grown over, untrodden by men now; + Shut your ears, stranger," saith the grey mother, crooning + Her sorcery runic, when sets the half-moon in. + + To-night the north-easter goes travelling slowly, + But it never stoops down to that hollow unholy; + To-night it rolls loud on the ridges red-litten, + But it cannot abide in that forest, sin-smitten. + + For over the pitfall the moon-dew is thawing, + And, with never a body, two shadows stand sawing-- + The wraiths of two sawyers (_step under and under_), + Who did a foul murder and were blackened with thunder! + + Whenever the storm-wind comes driven and driving, + Through the blood-spattered timber you may see the saw striving-- + You may see the saw heaving, and falling, and heaving, + Whenever the sea-creek is chafing and grieving! + + And across a burnt body, as black as an adder, + Sits the sprite of a sheep-dog (was ever sight sadder?) + For, as the dry thunder splits louder and faster, + This sprite of a sheep-dog howls for his master. + + "Oh, count your beads deftly," saith the grey mother, crooning + Her sorcery runic, when sets the half-moon in. + And well may she mutter, for the dark, hollow laughter + You will hear in the sawpits and the bloody logs after. + + Ay, count your beads deftly, and keep your ways wary, + For the sake of the Saviour and sweet Mother Mary. + Pray for your peace in these perilous places, + And pray for the laying of horrible faces. + + One starts, with a forehead wrinkled and livid, + Aghast at the lightnings sudden and vivid; + One telleth, with curses, the gold that they drew there + (Ah! cross your breast humbly) from him whom they slew there: + + The stranger, who came from the loved, the romantic + Island that sleeps on the moaning Atlantic, + Leaving behind him a patient home, yearning + For the steps in the distance--never returning; + + Who was left in the forest, shrunken and starkly, + Burnt by his slayers (so men have said, darkly), + With the half-crazy sheep-dog, who cowered beside there, + And yelled at the silence, and marvelled, and died there. + + Yea, cross your breast humbly and hold your breath tightly, + Or fly for your life from those shadows unsightly, + From the set staring features (cold, and so young, too), + And the death on the lips that a mother hath clung to. + + I tell you--that bushman is braver than most men + Who even in daylight doth go through the Ghost Glen, + Although in that hollow, unholy and lonely, + He sees the dank sawpits and bloody logs only. + + + + +Daphne + + + + Daphne! Ladon's daughter, Daphne! Set thyself in silver light, + Take thy thoughts of fairest texture, weave them into words of white-- + Weave the rhyme of rose-lipped Daphne, nymph of wooded stream and shade, + Flying love of bright Apollo,--fleeting type of faultless maid! + She, when followed from the forelands by the lord of lyre and lute, + Sped towards far-singing waters, past deep gardens flushed with fruit; + Took the path against Peneus, panted by its yellow banks; + Turned, and looked, and flew the faster through grey-tufted thicket ranks; + Flashed amongst high flowered sedges: leaped across the brook, and ran + Down to where the fourfold shadows of a nether glade began; + There she dropped, like falling Hesper, heavy hair of radiant head + Hiding all the young abundance of her beauty's white and red. + + Came the yellow-tressed Far-darter--came the god whose feet are fire, + On his lips the name of Daphne, in his eyes a great desire; + Fond, full lips of lord and lover, sad because of suit denied; + Clear, grey eyes made keen by passion, panting, pained, unsatisfied. + Here he turned, and there he halted, now he paused, and now he flew, + Swifter than his sister's arrows, through soft dells of dreamy dew. + Vext with gleams of Ladon's daughter, dashed along the son of Jove, + Fast upon flower-trammelled Daphne fleeting on from grove to grove; + Flights of seawind hard behind him, breaths of bleak and whistling straits; + Drifts of driving cloud above him, like a troop of fierce-eyed Fates! + So he reached the water-shallows; then he stayed his steps, and heard + Daphne drop upon the grasses, fluttering like a wounded bird. + + Was there help for Ladon's daughter? Saturn's son is high and just: + Did he come between her beauty and the fierce Far-darter's lust? + As she lay, the helpless maiden, caught and bound in fast eclipse, + Did the lips of god drain pleasure from her sweet and swooning lips? + Now that these and all Love's treasures blushed, before the spoiler, bare, + Was the wrong that shall be nameless done, and seen, and suffered there? + No! for Zeus is King and Father. Weary nymph and fiery god, + Bend the knee alike before him--he is kind, and he is lord! + Therefore sing how clear-browed Pallas--Pallas, friend of prayerful maid, + Lifted dazzling Daphne lightly, bore her down the breathless glade, + Did the thing that Zeus commanded: so it came to pass that he + Who had chased a white-armed virgin, caught at her, and clasped a tree. + + + + +The Warrigal + + -- + * The Dingo, or Wild Dog of Australia. + -- + + + + The warrigal's lair is pent in bare, + Black rocks at the gorge's mouth; + It is set in ways where Summer strays + With the sprites of flame and drouth; + But when the heights are touched with lights + Of hoar-frost, sleet, and shine, + His bed is made of the dead grass-blade + And the leaves of the windy pine. + + Through forest boles the storm-wind rolls, + Vext of the sea-driv'n rain; + And, up in the clift, through many a rift, + The voices of torrents complain. + The sad marsh-fowl and the lonely owl + Are heard in the fog-wreaths grey, + When the warrigal wakes, and listens, and takes + To the woods that shelter the prey. + + In the gully-deeps the blind creek sleeps, + And the silver, showery moon + Glides over the hills, and floats, and fills, + And dreams in the dark lagoon; + While halting hard by the station yard, + Aghast at the hut-flame nigh, + The warrigal yells--and flats and fells + Are loud with his dismal cry. + + On the topmost peak of mountains bleak + The south wind sobs, and strays + Through moaning pine and turpentine, + And the rippling runnel ways; + And strong streams flow, and great mists go, + Where the warrigal starts to hear + The watch-dog's bark break sharp in the dark, + And flees like a phantom of fear. + + The swift rains beat, and the thunders fleet + On the wings of the fiery gale, + And down in the glen of pool and fen, + The wild gums whistle and wail, + As over the plains and past the chains + Of waterholes glimmering deep, + The warrigal flies from the shepherd's cries, + And the clamour of dogs and sheep. + + He roves through the lands of sultry sands, + He hunts in the iron range, + Untamed as surge of the far sea verge, + And fierce and fickle and strange. + The white man's track and the haunts of the black + He shuns, and shudders to see; + For his joy he tastes in lonely wastes + Where his mates are torrent and tree. + + + + +Euroclydon + + + + On the storm-cloven Cape + The bitter waves roll, + With the bergs of the Pole, + And the darks and the damps of the Northern Sea: + For the storm-cloven Cape + Is an alien Shape + With a fearful face; and it moans, and it stands + Outside all lands + Everlastingly! + + When the fruits of the year + Have been gathered in Spain, + And the Indian rain + Is rich on the evergreen lands of the Sun, + There comes to this Cape + To this alien Shape, + As the waters beat in and the echoes troop forth, + The Wind of the North, + Euroclydon! + + And the wilted thyme, + And the patches past + Of the nettles cast + In the drift of the rift, and the broken rime, + Are tumbled and blown + To every zone + With the famished glede, and the plovers thinned + By this fourfold Wind-- + This Wind sublime! + + On the wrinkled hills, + By starts and fits, + The wild Moon sits; + And the rindles fill and flash and fall + In the way of her light, + Through the straitened night, + When the sea-heralds clamour, and elves of the war, + In the torrents afar, + Hold festival! + + From ridge to ridge + The polar fires + On the naked spires, + With a foreign splendour, flit and flow; + And clough and cave + And architrave + Have a blood-coloured glamour on roof and on wall, + Like a nether hall + In the hells below! + + The dead, dry lips + Of the ledges, split + By the thunder fit + And the stress of the sprites of the forked flame, + Anon break out, + With a shriek and a shout, + Like a hard, bitter laughter, cracked and thin, + From a ghost with a sin + Too dark for a name! + + And all thro' the year, + The fierce seas run + From sun to sun, + Across the face of a vacant world! + And the Wind flies forth + From the wild, white North, + That shivers and harries the heart of things, + And shapes with its wings + A chaos uphurled! + + Like one who sees + A rebel light + In the thick of the night, + As he stumbles and staggers on summits afar-- + Who looks to it still, + Up hill and hill, + With a steadfast hope (though the ways be deep, + And rough, and steep), + Like a steadfast star-- + + So I, that stand + On the outermost peaks + Of peril, with cheeks + Blue with the salts of a frosty sea, + Have learnt to wait, + With an eye elate + And a heart intent, for the fuller blaze + Of the Beauty that rays + Like a glimpse for me-- + + Of the Beauty that grows + Whenever I hear + The winds of Fear + From the tops and the bases of barrenness call; + And the duplicate lore + Which I learn evermore, + Is of Harmony filling and rounding the Storm, + And the marvellous Form + That governs all! + + + + +Araluen + + -- + * A stream in the Braidwood district, New South Wales. + -- + + + + River, myrtle rimmed, and set + Deep amongst unfooted dells-- + Daughter of grey hills of wet, + Born by mossed and yellow wells; + + Now that soft September lays + Tender hands on thee and thine, + Let me think of blue-eyed days, + Star-like flowers and leaves of shine! + + Cities soil the life with rust; + Water banks are cool and sweet; + River, tired of noise and dust, + Here I come to rest my feet. + + Now the month from shade to sun + Fleets and sings supremest songs, + Now the wilful wood-winds run + Through the tangled cedar throngs. + + Here are cushioned tufts and turns + Where the sumptuous noontide lies: + Here are seen by flags and ferns + Summer's large, luxurious eyes. + + On this spot wan Winter casts + Eyes of ruth, and spares its green + From his bitter sea-nursed blasts, + Spears of rain and hailstones keen. + + Rather here abideth Spring, + Lady of a lovely land, + Dear to leaf and fluttering wing, + Deep in blooms--by breezes fanned. + + Faithful friend beyond the main, + Friend that time nor change makes cold; + Now, like ghosts, return again + Pallid, perished days of old. + + Ah, the days!--the old, old theme, + Never stale, but never new, + Floating like a pleasant dream, + Back to me and back to you. + + Since we rested on these slopes + Seasons fierce have beaten down + Ardent loves and blossoming hopes-- + Loves that lift and hopes that crown. + + But, believe me, still mine eyes + Often fill with light that springs + From divinity, which lies + Ever at the heart of things. + + Solace do I sometimes find + Where you used to hear with me + Songs of stream and forest wind, + Tones of wave and harp-like tree. + + Araluen--home of dreams, + Fairer for its flowerful glade + Than the face of Persian streams + Or the slopes of Syrian shade; + + Why should I still love it so, + Friend and brother far away? + Ask the winds that come and go, + What hath brought me here to-day. + + Evermore of you I think, + When the leaves begin to fall, + Where our river breaks its brink, + And a rest is over all. + + Evermore in quiet lands, + Friend of mine beyond the sea, + Memory comes with cunning hands, + Stays, and paints your face for me. + + + + +At Euroma + + -- + * Charles Harpur was buried at Euroma, N.S.W., but this poem refers + to the grave of a stranger whose name is unknown. + -- + + + + They built his mound of the rough, red ground, + By the dip of a desert dell, + Where all things sweet are killed by the heat, + And scattered o'er flat and fell; + In a burning zone they left him alone, + Past the uttermost western plain, + And the nightfall dim heard his funeral hymn + In the voices of wind and rain. + + The songs austere of the forests drear, + And the echoes of clift and cave, + When the dark is keen where the storm hath been, + Fleet over the far-away grave. + And through the days when the torrid rays + Strike down on a coppery gloom, + Some spirit grieves in the perished leaves, + Whose theme is that desolate tomb. + + No human foot or paw of brute + Halts now where the stranger sleeps; + But cloud and star his fellows are, + And the rain that sobs and weeps. + The dingo yells by the far iron fells, + The plover is loud in the range, + But they never come near to the slumberer here, + Whose rest is a rest without change. + + Ah! in his life, had he mother or wife, + To wait for his step on the floor? + Did beauty wax dim while watching for him + Who passed through the threshold no more? + Doth it trouble his head? He is one with the dead; + He lies by the alien streams; + And sweeter than sleep is death that is deep + And unvexed by the lordship of dreams. + + + + +Illa Creek + + + + A strong sea-wind flies up and sings + Across the blown-wet border, + Whose stormy echo runs and rings + Like bells in wild disorder. + + Fierce breath hath vexed the foreland's face, + It glistens, glooms, and glistens; + But deep within this quiet place + Sweet Illa lies and listens. + + Sweet Illa of the shining sands, + She sleeps in shady hollows, + Where August flits with flowerful hands, + And silver Summer follows. + + Far up the naked hills is heard + A noise of many waters, + But green-haired Illa lies unstirred + Amongst her star-like daughters. + + The tempest, pent in moaning ways, + Awakes the shepherd yonder, + But Illa dreams unknown to days + Whose wings are wind and thunder. + + Here fairy hands and floral feet + Are brought by bright October; + Here, stained with grapes and smit with heat, + Comes Autumn, sweet and sober. + + Here lovers rest, what time the red + And yellow colours mingle, + And daylight droops with dying head + Beyond the western dingle. + + And here, from month to month, the time + Is kissed by peace and pleasure, + While Nature sings her woodland rhyme + And hoards her woodland treasure. + + Ah, Illa Creek! ere evening spreads + Her wings o'er towns unshaded, + How oft we seek thy mossy beds + To lave our foreheads faded! + + For, let me whisper, then we find + The strength that lives, nor falters, + In wood and water, waste and wind, + And hidden mountain altars. + + + + +Moss on a Wall + + + + Dim dreams it hath of singing ways, + Of far-off woodland water-heads, + And shining ends of April days + Amongst the yellow runnel-beds. + + Stoop closer to the ruined wall, + Whereon the wilful wilding sleeps, + As if its home were waterfall + By dripping clefts and shadowy steeps. + + A little waif, whose beauty takes + A touching tone because it dwells + So far away from mountain lakes, + And lily leaves, and lightening fells. + + Deep hidden in delicious floss + It nestles, sister, from the heat-- + A gracious growth of tender moss + Whose nights are soft, whose days are sweet. + + Swift gleams across its petals run + With winds that hum a pleasant tune, + Serene surprises of the sun, + And whispers from the lips of noon. + + The evening-coloured apple-trees + Are faint with July's frosty breath. + But lo! this stranger getteth ease, + And shines amidst the strays of Death. + + And at the turning of the year, + When August wanders in the cold, + The raiment of the nursling here + Is rich with green and glad with gold. + + Oh, friend of mine, to one whose eyes + Are vexed because of alien things, + For ever in the wall moss lies + The peace of hills and hidden springs. + + From faithless lips and fickle lights + The tired pilgrim sets his face, + And thinketh here of sounds and sights + In many a lovely forest-place. + + And when by sudden fits and starts + The sunset on the moss doth burn, + He often dreams, and, lo! the marts + And streets are changed to dells of fern. + + For, let me say, the wilding placed + By hands unseen amongst these stones, + Restores a Past by Time effaced, + Lost loves and long-forgotten tones! + + As sometimes songs and scenes of old + Come faintly unto you and me, + When winds are wailing in the cold, + And rains are sobbing on the sea. + + + + +Campaspe + + + + Turn from the ways of this Woman! Campaspe we call her by name-- + She is fairer than flowers of the fire-- + she is brighter than brightness of flame. + As a song that strikes swift to the heart + with the beat of the blood of the South, + And a light and a leap and a smart, is the play of her perilous mouth. + Her eyes are as splendours that break in the rain at the set of the sun, + But turn from the steps of Campaspe--a Woman to look at and shun! + + Dost thou know of the cunning of Beauty? Take heed to thyself and beware + Of the trap in the droop in the raiment--the snare in the folds of the hair! + She is fulgent in flashes of pearl, the breeze with her breathing is sweet, + But fly from the face of the girl--there is death in the fall of her feet! + Is she maiden or marvel of marble? Oh, rather a tigress at wait + To pounce on thy soul for her pastime--a leopard for love or for hate. + + Woman of shadow and furnace! She biteth her lips to restrain + Speech that springs out when she sleepeth, + by the stirs and the starts of her pain. + As music half-shapen of sorrow, with its wants and its infinite wail, + Is the voice of Campaspe, the beauty at bay with her passion dead-pale. + Go out from the courts of her loving, nor tempt the fierce dance of desire + Where thy life would be shrivelled like stubble + in the stress and the fervour of fire! + + I know of one, gentle as moonlight--she is sad as the shine of the moon, + But touching the ways of her eyes are: she comes to my soul like a tune-- + Like a tune that is filled with faint voices + of the loved and the lost and the lone, + Doth this stranger abide with my silence: like a tune with a tremulous tone. + The leopard, we call her, Campaspe! I pluck at a rose and I stir + To think of this sweet-hearted maiden--what name is too tender for her? + + + + +On a Cattle Track + + + + Where the strength of dry thunder splits hill-rocks asunder, + And the shouts of the desert-wind break, + By the gullies of deepness and ridges of steepness, + Lo, the cattle track twists like a snake! + Like a sea of dead embers, burnt white by Decembers, + A plain to the left of it lies; + And six fleeting horses dash down the creek courses + With the terror of thirst in their eyes. + + The false strength of fever, that deadly deceiver, + Gives foot to each famishing beast; + And over lands rotten, by rain-winds forgotten, + The mirage gleams out in the east. + Ah! the waters are hidden from riders and ridden + In a stream where the cattle track dips; + And Death on their faces is scoring fierce traces, + And the drouth is a fire on their lips. + + It is far to the station, and gaunt Desolation + Is a spectre that glooms in the way; + Like a red smoke the air is, like a hell-light its glare is, + And as flame are the feet of the day. + The wastes are like metal that forges unsettle + When the heat of the furnace is white; + And the cool breeze that bloweth when an English sun goeth, + Is unknown to the wild desert night. + + A cry of distress there! a horseman the less there! + The mock-waters shine like a moon! + It is "Speed, and speed faster from this hole of disaster! + And hurrah for yon God-sent lagoon!" + Doth a devil deceive them? Ah, now let us leave them-- + We are burdened in life with the sad; + Our portion is trouble, our joy is a bubble, + And the gladdest is never too glad. + + From the pale tracts of peril, past mountain heads sterile, + To a sweet river shadowed with reeds, + Where Summer steps lightly, and Winter beams brightly, + The hoof-rutted cattle track leads. + There soft is the moonlight, and tender the noon-light; + There fiery things falter and fall; + And there may be seen, now, the gold and the green, now, + And the wings of a peace over all. + + Hush, bittern and plover! Go, wind, to thy cover + Away by the snow-smitten Pole! + The rotten leaf falleth, the forest rain calleth; + And what is the end of the whole? + Some men are successful after seasons distressful + [Now, masters, the drift of my tale]; + But the brink of salvation is a lair of damnation + For others who struggle, yet fail. + + + + +To Damascus + + + + Where the sinister sun of the Syrians beat + On the brittle, bright stubble, + And the camels fell back from the swords of the heat, + Came Saul, with a fire in the soles of his feet, + And a forehead of trouble. + + And terrified faces to left and to right, + Before and behind him, + Fled away with the speed of a maddening fright + To the cloughs of the bat and the chasms of night, + Each hoping the zealot would fail in his flight + To find him and bind him. + + For, behold you! the strong man of Tarsus came down + With breathings of slaughter, + From the priests of the city, the chiefs of the town + (The lords with the sword, and the sires with the gown), + To harry the Christians, and trample, and drown, + And waste them like water. + + He was ever a fighter, this son of the Jews-- + A fighter in earnest; + And the Lord took delight in the strength of his thews, + For He knew he was one of the few He could choose + To fight out His battles and carry His news + Of a marvellous truth through the dark and the dews, + And the desert lands furnaced! + + He knew he was one of the few He could take + For His mission supernal, + Whose feet would not falter, whose limbs would not ache, + Through the waterless lands of the thorn and the snake, + And the ways of the wild--bearing up for the sake + Of a Beauty eternal. + + And therefore the road to Damascus was burned + With a swift, sudden brightness; + While Saul, with his face in the bitter dust, learned + Of the sin which he did ere he tumbled, and turned + Aghast at God's whiteness! + + Of the sin which he did ere he covered his head + From the strange revelation. + But, thereafter, you know of the life that he led-- + How he preached to the peoples, and suffered, and sped + With the wonderful words which his Master had said, + From nation to nation. + + Now would we be like him, who suffer and see, + If the Chooser should choose us! + For I tell you, brave brothers, whoever you be, + It is right, till all learn to look further, and see, + That our Master should use us! + + It is right, till all learn to discover and class, + That our Master should task us: + For now we may judge of the Truth through a glass; + And the road over which they must evermore pass, + Who would think for the many, and fight for the mass, + Is the road to Damascus. + + + + +Bell-Birds + + + + By channels of coolness the echoes are calling, + And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling; + It lives in the mountain, where moss and the sedges + Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges; + Through brakes of the cedar and sycamore bowers + Struggles the light that is love to the flowers. + And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing, + The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing. + + The silver-voiced bell-birds, the darlings of day-time, + They sing in September their songs of the May-time. + When shadows wax strong and the thunder-bolts hurtle, + They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle; + When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together + They start up like fairies that follow fair weather, + And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden + Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden. + + October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses, + Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses; + Loiters knee-deep in the grasses to listen, + Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten. + Then is the time when the water-moons splendid + Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended + Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning + Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the morning. + + Welcome as waters unkissed by the summers + Are the voices of bell-birds to thirsty far-comers. + When fiery December sets foot in the forest, + And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest, + Pent in the ridges for ever and ever. + The bell-birds direct him to spring and to river, + With ring and with ripple, like runnels whose torrents + Are toned by the pebbles and leaves in the currents. + + Often I sit, looking back to a childhood + Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood, + Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion + Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of passion-- + Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters + Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest rafters; + So I might keep in the city and alleys + The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys, + Charming to slumber the pain of my losses + With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses. + + + + +A Death in the Bush + + + + The hut was built of bark and shrunken slabs, + That wore the marks of many rains, and showed + Dry flaws wherein had crept and nestled rot. + Moreover, round the bases of the bark + Were left the tracks of flying forest fires, + As you may see them on the lower bole + Of every elder of the native woods. + + For, ere the early settlers came and stocked + These wilds with sheep and kine, the grasses grew + So that they took the passing pilgrim in + And whelmed him, like a running sea, from sight. + + And therefore, through the fiercer summer months, + While all the swamps were rotten; while the flats + Were baked and broken; when the clayey rifts + Yawned wide, half-choked with drifted herbage past, + Spontaneous flames would burst from thence and race + Across the prairies all day long. + + At night + The winds were up, and then, with four-fold speed + A harsh gigantic growth of smoke and fire + Would roar along the bottoms, in the wake + Of fainting flocks of parrots, wallaroos, + And 'wildered wild things, scattering right and left, + For safety vague, throughout the general gloom. + + Anon the nearer hillside-growing trees + Would take the surges; thus from bough to bough + Was borne the flaming terror! Bole and spire, + Rank after rank, now pillared, ringed, and rolled + In blinding blaze, stood out against the dead, + Down-smothered dark, for fifty leagues away. + + For fifty leagues; and when the winds were strong + For fifty more! But in the olden time + These fires were counted as the harbingers + Of life-essential storms, since out of smoke + And heat there came across the midnight ways + Abundant comfort, with upgathered clouds + And runnels babbling of a plenteous fall. + + So comes the southern gale at evenfall + (The swift brick-fielder of the local folk), + About the streets of Sydney, when the dust + Lies burnt on glaring windows, and the men + Look forth from doors of drouth and drink the change + With thirsty haste, and that most thankful cry + Of "Here it is--the cool, bright, blessed rain!" + + The hut, I say, was built of bark and slabs, + And stood, the centre of a clearing, hemmed + By hurdle-yards, and ancients of the blacks; + These moped about their lazy fires, and sang + Wild ditties of the old days, with a sound + Of sorrow, like an everlasting wind + Which mingled with the echoes of the noon + And moaned amongst the noises of the night. + + From thence a cattle track, with link to link, + Ran off against the fish-pools to the gap + Which sets you face to face with gleaming miles + Of broad Orara*, winding in amongst + Black, barren ridges, where the nether spurs + Are fenced about by cotton scrub, and grass + Blue-bitten with the salt of many droughts. + + -- + * A tributary of the river Clarence, N.S.W. + -- + + 'Twas here the shepherd housed him every night, + And faced the prospect like a patient soul, + Borne up by some vague hope of better days, + And God's fine blessing in his faithful wife, + Until the humour of his malady + Took cunning changes from the good to bad, + And laid him lastly on a bed of death. + + Two months thereafter, when the summer heat + Had roused the serpent from his rotten lair, + And made a noise of locusts in the boughs, + It came to this, that as the blood-red sun + Of one fierce day of many slanted down + Obliquely past the nether jags of peaks + And gulfs of mist, the tardy night came vexed + By belted clouds and scuds that wheeled and whirled + To left and right about the brazen clifts + Of ridges, rigid with a leaden gloom. + + Then took the cattle to the forest camps + With vacant terror, and the hustled sheep + Stood dumb against the hurdles, even like + A fallen patch of shadowed mountain snow; + And ever through the curlew's call afar, + The storm grew on, while round the stinted slabs + Sharp snaps and hisses came, and went, and came, + The huddled tokens of a mighty blast + Which ran with an exceeding bitter cry + Across the tumbled fragments of the hills, + And through the sluices of the gorge and glen. + + So, therefore, all about the shepherd's hut + That space was mute, save when the fastened dog, + Without a kennel, caught a passing glimpse + Of firelight moving through the lighted chinks, + For then he knew the hints of warmth within, + And stood and set his great pathetic eyes, + In wind and wet, imploring to be loosed. + + Not often now the watcher left the couch + Of him she watched, since in his fitful sleep + His lips would stir to wayward themes, and close + With bodeful catches. Once she moved away, + Half-deafened by terrific claps, and stooped + And looked without--to see a pillar dim + Of gathered gusts and fiery rain. + + Anon + The sick man woke, and, startled by the noise, + Stared round the room with dull, delirious sight, + At this wild thing and that: for through his eyes + The place took fearful shapes, and fever showed + Strange crosswise lights about his pillow-head. + He, catching there at some phantasmic help, + Sat upright on the bolster with a cry + Of "Where is Jesus? It is bitter cold!" + And then, because the thunder-calls outside + Were mixed for him with slanders of the past, + He called his weeping wife by name, and said, + "Come closer, darling! We shall speed away + Across the seas, and seek some mountain home + Shut in from liars and the wicked words + That track us day and night and night and day." + So waned the sad refrain. And those poor lips, + Whose latest phrases were for peace, grew mute, + And into everlasting silence passed. + + As fares a swimmer who hath lost his breath + In 'wildering seas afar from any help-- + Who, fronting Death, can never realize + The dreadful Presence, but is prone to clutch + At every weed upon the weltering wave-- + So fared the watcher, poring o'er the last + Of him she loved, with dazed and stupid stare; + Half conscious of the sudden loss and lack + Of all that bound her life, but yet without + The power to take her mighty sorrow in. + + Then came a patch or two of starry sky, + And through a reef of cloven thunder-cloud + The soft moon looked: a patient face beyond + The fierce impatient shadows of the slopes + And the harsh voices of the broken hills! + A patient face, and one which came and wrought + A lovely silence, like a silver mist, + Across the rainy relics of the storm. + + For in the breaks and pauses of her light + The gale died out in gusts: yet, evermore + About the roof-tree on the dripping eaves, + The damp wind loitered, and a fitful drift + Sloped through the silent curtains, and athwart + The dead. + + There, when the glare had dropped behind + A mighty ridge of gloom, the woman turned + And sat in darkness, face to face with God, + And said, "I know," she said, "that Thou art wise; + That when we build and hope, and hope and build, + And see our best things fall, it comes to pass + For evermore that we must turn to Thee! + And therefore, now, because I cannot find + The faintest token of Divinity + In this my latest sorrow, let Thy light + Inform mine eyes, so I may learn to look + On something past the sight which shuts and blinds + And seems to drive me wholly, Lord, from Thee." + + Now waned the moon beyond complaining depths, + And as the dawn looked forth from showery woods + (Whereon had dropped a hint of red and gold) + There went about the crooked cavern-eaves + Low flute-like echoes, with a noise of wings, + And waters flying down far-hidden fells. + Then might be seen the solitary owl + Perched in the clefts, scared at the coming light, + And staring outward (like a sea-shelled thing + Chased to his cover by some bright, fierce foe), + As at a monster in the middle waste. + + At last the great kingfisher came, and called + Across the hollows, loud with early whips, + And lighted, laughing, on the shepherd's hut, + And roused the widow from a swoon like death. + + This day, and after it was noised abroad + By blacks, and straggling horsemen on the roads, + That he was dead "who had been sick so long", + There flocked a troop from far-surrounding runs, + To see their neighbour, and to bury him; + And men who had forgotten how to cry + (Rough, flinty fellows of the native bush) + Now learned the bitter way, beholding there + The wasted shadow of an iron frame, + Brought down so low by years of fearful pain, + And marking, too, the woman's gentle face, + And all the pathos in her moaned reply + Of "Masters, we have lived in better days." + + One stooped--a stockman from the nearer hills-- + To loose his wallet-strings, from whence he took + A bag of tea, and laid it on her lap; + Then sobbing, "God will help you, missus, yet," + He sought his horse, with most bewildered eyes, + And, spurring, swiftly galloped down the glen. + + Where black Orara nightly chafes his brink, + Midway between lamenting lines of oak + And Warra's Gap, the shepherd's grave was built; + And there the wild dog pauses, in the midst + Of moonless watches, howling through the gloom + At hopeless shadows flitting to and fro, + What time the east wind hums his darkest hymn, + And rains beat heavy on the ruined leaf. + + There, while the autumn in the cedar trees + Sat cooped about by cloudy evergreens + The widow sojourned on the silent road, + And mutely faced the barren mound, and plucked + A straggling shrub from thence, and passed away, + Heart-broken, on to Sydney, where she took + Her passage in an English vessel bound + To London, for her home of other years. + + At rest! Not near, with Sorrow on his grave, + And roses quickened into beauty--wrapt + In all the pathos of perennial bloom; + But far from these, beneath the fretful clay + Of lands within the lone perpetual cry + Of hermit plovers and the night-like oaks, + All moaning for the peace which never comes. + + At rest! And she who sits and waits behind + Is in the shadows; but her faith is sure, + And _one_ fine promise of the coming days + Is breaking, like a blessed morning, far + On hills that "slope through darkness up to God." + + + + +A Spanish Love Song + + + + From Andalusian gardens + I bring the rose and rue, + And leaves of subtle odour, + To weave a gift for you. + You'll know the reason wherefore + The sad is with the sweet; + My flowers may lie, as I would, + A carpet for your feet! + + The heart--the heart is constant; + It holds its secret, Dear! + But often in the night time + I keep awake for fear. + I have no hope to whisper, + I have no prayer to send, + God save you from such passion! + God help you from such end! + + You first, you last, you false love! + In dreams your lips I kiss, + And thus I greet your Shadow, + "Take this, and this, and this!" + When dews are on the casement, + And winds are in the pine, + I have you close beside me-- + In sleep your mouth is mine. + + I never see you elsewhere; + You never think of me; + But fired with fever for you + Content I am to be. + You will not turn, my Darling, + Nor answer when I call; + But yours are soul are body + And love of mine and all! + + You splendid Spaniard! Listen-- + My passion leaps to flame + For neck and cheek and dimple, + And cunning shades of shame! + I tell you, I would gladly + Give Hell myself to keep, + To cling to, half a moment, + The lips I taste in sleep. + + + + +The Last of His Tribe + + + + He crouches, and buries his face on his knees, + And hides in the dark of his hair; + For he cannot look up to the storm-smitten trees, + Or think of the loneliness there-- + Of the loss and the loneliness there. + + The wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass, + And turn to their coverts for fear; + But he sits in the ashes and lets them pass + Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear-- + With the nullah, the sling and the spear. + + Uloola, behold him! The thunder that breaks + On the tops of the rocks with the rain, + And the wind which drives up with the salt of the lakes, + Have made him a hunter again-- + A hunter and fisher again. + + For his eyes have been full with a smouldering thought; + But he dreams of the hunts of yore, + And of foes that he sought, and of fights that he fought + With those who will battle no more-- + Who will go to the battle no more. + + It is well that the water which tumbles and fills, + Goes moaning and moaning along; + For an echo rolls out from the sides of the hills, + And he starts at a wonderful song-- + At the sound of a wonderful song. + + And he sees, through the rents of the scattering fogs, + The corroboree warlike and grim, + And the lubra who sat by the fire on the logs, + To watch, like a mourner, for him-- + Like a mother and mourner for him. + + Will he go in his sleep from these desolate lands, + Like a chief, to the rest of his race, + With the honey-voiced woman who beckons and stands, + And gleams like a dream in his face-- + Like a marvellous dream in his face? + + + + +Arakoon + + -- + * A promontory on the coast of New South Wales. + -- + + + + Lo! in storms, the triple-headed + Hill, whose dreaded + Bases battle with the seas, + Looms across fierce widths of fleeting + Waters beating + Evermore on roaring leas! + + Arakoon, the black, the lonely! + Housed with only + Cloud and rain-wind, mist and damp; + Round whose foam-drenched feet and nether + Depths, together + Sullen sprites of thunder tramp! + + There the East hums loud and surly, + Late and early, + Through the chasms and the caves, + And across the naked verges + Leap the surges! + White and wailing waifs of waves. + + Day by day the sea-fogs gathered-- + Tempest-fathered-- + Pitch their tents on yonder peak, + Yellow drifts and fragments lying + Where the flying + Torrents chafe the cloven creek! + + And at nightfall, when the driven + Bolts of heaven + Smite the rock and break the bluff, + Thither troop the elves whose home is + Where the foam is, + And the echo and the clough. + + Ever girt about with noises, + Stormy voices, + And the salt breath of the Strait, + Stands the steadfast Mountain Giant, + Grim, reliant, + Dark as Death, and firm as Fate. + + So when trouble treads, like thunder, + Weak men under-- + Treads and breaks the thews of these-- + Set thyself to bear it bravely, + Greatly, gravely, + Like the hill in yonder seas; + + Since the wrestling and endurance + Give assurance + To the faint at bay with pain, + That no soul to strong endeavour + Yoked for ever, + Works against the tide in vain. + + + + +The Voyage of Telegonus + + + + Ill fares it with the man whose lips are set + To bitter themes and words that spite the gods; + For, seeing how the son of Saturn sways + With eyes and ears for all, this one shall halt + As on hard, hurtful hills; his days shall know + The plaintive front of sorrow; level looks + With cries ill-favoured shall be dealt to him; + And _this_ shall be that he may think of peace + As one might think of alienated lips + Of sweetness touched for once in kind, warm dreams. + Yea, fathers of the high and holy face, + This soul thus sinning shall have cause to sob + "Ah, ah," for sleep, and space enough to learn + The wan, wild Hyrie's aggregated song + That starts the dwellers in distorted heights, + With all the meaning of perpetual sighs + Heard in the mountain deserts of the world, + And where the green-haired waters glide between + The thin, lank weeds and mallows of the marsh. + But thou to whom these things are like to shapes + That come of darkness--thou whose life slips past + Regarding rather these with mute fast mouth-- + Hear none the less how fleet Telegonus, + The brass-clad hunter, first took oar and smote + Swift eastward-going seas, with face direct + For narrowing channels and the twofold coasts + Past Colchis and the fierce Symplegades, + And utmost islands, washed by streams unknown. + + For in a time when Phasis whitened wide + And drove with violent waters blown of wind + Against the bare, salt limits of the land, + It came to pass that, joined with Cytheraea, + The black-browed Ares, chafing for the wrong + Ulysses did him on the plains of Troy, + Set heart against the king; and when the storms + Sang high in thunder and the Thracian rain, + The god bethought him of a pale-mouthed priest + Of Thebae, kin to ancient Chariclo, + And of an omen which the prophet gave + That touched on death and grief to Ithaca; + Then, knowing how a heavy-handed fate + Had laid itself on Circe's brass-clad son, + He pricked the hunter with a lust that turned + All thoughts to travel and the seas remote; + But chiefly now he stirred Telegonus + To longings for his father's exiled face, + And dreams of rest and honey-hearted love + And quiet death with much of funeral flame + Far in the mountains of a favoured land + Beyond the wars and wailings of the waves. + + So, past the ridges where the coast abrupt + Dips greyly westward, Circe's strong-armed son + Swept down the foam of sharp-divided straits + And faced the stress of opening seas. Sheer out + The vessel drave; but three long moons the gale + Moaned round; and swift, strong streams of fire revealed + The labouring rowers and the lightening surf, + Pale watchers deafened of sonorous storm, + And dipping decks and rents of ruined sails. + Yea, when the hollow ocean-driven ship + Wheeled sideways, like a chariot cloven through + In hard hot battle, and the night came up + Against strange headlands lying east and north, + Behold a black, wild wind with death to all + Ran shoreward, charged with flame and thunder-smoke, + Which blew the waters into wastes of white, + And broke the bark, as lightning breaks the pine; + Whereat the sea in fearful circles showed + Unpitied faces turned from Zeus and light-- + Wan swimmers wasted with their agony, + And hopeless eyes and moaning mouths of men. + But one held by the fragments of the wreck, + And Ares knew him for Telegonus, + Whom heavy-handed Fate had chained to deeds + Of dreadful note with sin beyond a name. + So, seeing this, the black-browed lord of war, + Arrayed about by Jove's authentic light, + Shot down amongst the shattered clouds and called + With mighty strain, betwixt the gaps of storm + "Oceanus! Oceanus!" Whereat + The surf sprang white, as when a keel divides + The gleaming centre of a gathered wave; + And, ringed with flakes of splendid fire of foam, + The son of Terra rose half-way and blew + The triple trumpet of the water-gods, + At which great winds fell back and all the sea + Grew dumb, as on the land a war-feast breaks + When deep sleep falls upon the souls of men. + Then Ares of the night-like brow made known + The brass-clad hunter of the facile feet, + Hard clinging to the slippery logs of pine, + And told the omen to the hoary god + That touched on death and grief to Ithaca; + Wherefore Oceanus, with help of hand, + Bore by the chin the warrior of the North, + A moaning mass, across the shallowing surge, + And cast him on the rocks of alien shores + Against a wintry morning shot with storm. + + Hear also, thou, how mighty gods sustain + The men set out to work the ends of Fate + Which fill the world with tales of many tears + And vex the sad face of humanity: + Six days and nights the brass-clad chief abode + Pent up in caverns by the straitening seas + And fed on ferns and limpets; but the dawn, + Before the strong sun of the seventh, brought + A fume of fire and smells of savoury meat + And much rejoicing, as from neighbouring feasts; + At which the hunter, seized with sudden lust, + Sprang up the crags, and, like a dream of fear, + Leapt, shouting, at a huddled host of hinds + Amongst the fragments of their steaming food; + And as the hoarse wood-wind in autumn sweeps + To every zone the hissing latter leaves, + So fleet Telegonus, by dint of spear + And strain of thunderous voice, did scatter these + East, south, and north. 'Twas then the chief had rest, + Hard by the outer coast of Ithaca, + Unknown to him who ate the spoil and slept. + Nor stayed he hand thereafter; but when noon + Burned dead on misty hills of stunted fir, + This man shook slumber from his limbs and sped + Against hoar beaches and the kindled cliffs + Of falling waters. These he waded through, + Beholding, past the forests of the West, + A break of light and homes of many men, + And shining corn, and flowers, and fruits of flowers. + Yea, seeing these, the facile-footed chief + Grasped by the knot the huge Aeaean lance + And fell upon the farmers; wherefore they + Left hoe and plough, and crouched in heights remote, + Companioned with the grey-winged fogs; but he + Made waste their fields and throve upon their toil-- + As throve the boar, the fierce four-footed curse + Which Artemis did raise in Calydon + To make stern mouths wax white with foreign fear, + All in the wild beginning of the world. + + So one went down and told Laertes' son + Of what the brass-clad stranger from the straits + Had worked in Ithaca; whereat the King + Rose, like a god, and called his mighty heir, + Telemachus, the wisest of the wise; + And these two, having counsel, strode without, + And armed them with the arms of warlike days-- + The helm, the javelin, and the sun-like shield, + And glancing greaves and quivering stars of steel. + Yea, stern Ulysses, rusted not with rest, + But dread as Ares, gleaming on his car + Gave out the reins; and straightway all the lands + Were struck by noise of steed and shouts of men, + And furious dust, and splendid wheels of flame. + Meanwhile the hunter (starting from a sleep + In which the pieces of a broken dream + Had shown him Circe with most tearful face), + Caught at his spear, and stood like one at bay + When Summer brings about Arcadian horns + And headlong horses mixt with maddened hounds; + Then huge Ulysses, like a fire of fight, + Sprang sideways on the flying car, and drave + Full at the brass-clad warrior of the North + His massive spear; but fleet Telegonus + Stooped from the death, but heard the speedy lance + Sing like a thin wind through the steaming air; + Yet he, dismayed not by the dreadful foe-- + Unknown to him--dealt out his strength, and aimed + A strenuous stroke at great Laertes' son, + Which missed the shield, but bit through flesh and bone, + And drank the blood, and dragged the soul from thence. + So fell the King! And one cried "Ithaca! + Ah, Ithaca!" and turned his face and wept. + Then came another--wise Telemachus-- + Who knelt beside the man of many days + And pored upon the face; but lo, the life + Was like bright water spilt in sands of thirst, + A wasted splendour swiftly drawn away. + Yet held he by the dead: he heeded not + The moaning warrior who had learnt his sin-- + Who waited now, like one in lairs of pain, + Apart with darkness, hungry for his fate; + For had not wise Telemachus the lore + Which makes the pale-mouthed seer content to sleep + Amidst the desolations of the world? + So therefore he, who knew Telegonus, + The child of Circe by Laertes' son, + Was set to be a scourge of Zeus, smote not, + But rather sat with moody eyes, and mused, + And watched the dead. For who may brave the gods? + + Yet, O my fathers, when the people came, + And brought the holy oils and perfect fire, + And built the pile, and sang the tales of Troy-- + Of desperate travels in the olden time, + By shadowy mountains and the roaring sea, + Near windy sands and past the Thracian snows-- + The man who crossed them all to see his sire, + And had a loyal heart to give the king, + Instead of blows--this man did little more + Than moan outside the fume of funeral rites, + All in a rushing twilight full of rain, + And clap his palms for sharper pains than swords. + Yea, when the night broke out against the flame, + And lonely noises loitered in the fens, + This man nor stirred nor slept, but lay at wait, + With fastened mouth. For who may brave the gods? + + + + +Sitting by the Fire + + + + Ah! the solace in the sitting, + Sitting by the fire, + When the wind without is calling + And the fourfold clouds are falling, + With the rain-racks intermitting, + Over slope and spire. + Ah! the solace in the sitting, + Sitting by the fire. + + Then, and then, a man may ponder, + Sitting by the fire, + Over fair far days, and faces + Shining in sweet-coloured places + Ere the thunder broke asunder + Life and dear Desire. + Thus, and thus, a man may ponder, + Sitting by the fire. + + Waifs of song pursue, perplex me, + Sitting by the fire: + Just a note, and lo, the change then! + Like a child, I turn and range then, + Till a shadow starts to vex me-- + Passion's wasted pyre. + So do songs pursue, perplex me, + Sitting by the fire. + + Night by night--the old, old story-- + Sitting by the fire, + Night by night, the dead leaves grieve me: + Ah! the touch when youth shall leave me, + Like my fathers, shrunken, hoary, + With the years that tire. + Night by night--that old, old story, + Sitting by the fire. + + Sing for slumber, sister Clara, + Sitting by the fire. + I could hide my head and sleep now, + Far from those who laugh and weep now, + Like a trammelled, faint wayfarer, + 'Neath yon mountain-spire. + Sing for slumber, sister Clara, + Sitting by the fire. + + + + +Cleone + + + + Sing her a song of the sun: + Fill it with tones of the stream,-- + Echoes of waters that run + Glad with the gladdening gleam. + Let it be sweeter than rain, + Lit by a tropical moon: + Light in the words of the strain, + Love in the ways of the tune. + + Softer than seasons of sleep: + Dearer than life at its best! + Give her a ballad to keep, + Wove of the passionate West: + Give it and say of the hours-- + "Haunted and hallowed of thee, + Flower-like woman of flowers, + What shall the end of them be?" + + You that have loved her so much, + Loved her asleep and awake, + Trembled because of her touch, + What have you said for her sake? + Far in the falls of the day, + Down in the meadows of myrrh, + What has she left you to say + Filled with the beauty of her? + + Take her the best of your thoughts, + Let them be gentle and grave, + Say, "I have come to thy courts, + Maiden, with all that I have." + So she may turn with her sweet + Face to your love and to you, + Learning the way to repeat + Words that are brighter than dew. + + + + +Charles Harpur + + + + Where Harpur lies, the rainy streams, + And wet hill-heads, and hollows weeping, + Are swift with wind, and white with gleams, + And hoarse with sounds of storms unsleeping. + + Fit grave it is for one whose song + Was tuned by tones he caught from torrents, + And filled with mountain breaths, and strong, + Wild notes of falling forest currents. + + So let him sleep, the rugged hymns + And broken lights of woods above him! + And let me sing how sorrow dims + The eyes of those that used to love him. + + As April in the wilted wold + Turns faded eyes on splendours waning, + What time the latter leaves are old, + And ruin strikes the strays remaining; + + So we that knew this singer dead, + Whose hands attuned the harp Australian, + May set the face and bow the head, + And mourn his fate and fortunes alien. + + The burden of a perished faith + Went sighing through his speech of sweetness, + With human hints of time and death, + And subtle notes of incompleteness. + + But when the fiery power of youth + Had passed away and left him nameless, + Serene as light, and strong as truth, + He lived his life, untired and tameless. + + And, far and free, this man of men, + With wintry hair and wasted feature, + Had fellowship with gorge and glen, + And learned the loves and runes of Nature. + + Strange words of wind, and rhymes of rain, + And whispers from the inland fountains + Are mingled, in his various strain, + With leafy breaths of piny mountains. + + But as the undercurrents sigh + Beneath the surface of a river, + The music of humanity + Dwells in his forest-psalms for ever. + + No soul was he to sit on heights + And live with rocks apart and scornful: + Delights of men were his delights, + And common troubles made him mournful. + + The flying forms of unknown powers + With lofty wonder caught and filled him; + But there were days of gracious hours + When sights and sounds familiar thrilled him. + + The pathos worn by wayside things, + The passion found in simple faces, + Struck deeper than the life of springs + Or strength of storms and sea-swept places. + + But now he sleeps, the tired bard, + The deepest sleep; and, lo! I proffer + These tender leaves of my regard, + With hands that falter as they offer. + + + + +Coogee + + + + Sing the song of wave-worn Coogee, Coogee in the distance white, + With its jags and points disrupted, gaps and fractures fringed with light; + Haunt of gledes, and restless plovers of the melancholy wail + Ever lending deeper pathos to the melancholy gale. + There, my brothers, down the fissures, chasms deep and wan and wild, + Grows the sea-bloom, one that blushes like a shrinking, fair, blind child; + And amongst the oozing forelands many a glad, green rock-vine runs, + Getting ease on earthy ledges, sheltered from December suns. + + Often, when a gusty morning, rising cold and grey and strange, + Lifts its face from watery spaces, vistas full with cloudy change, + Bearing up a gloomy burden which anon begins to wane, + Fading in the sudden shadow of a dark, determined rain, + Do I seek an eastern window, so to watch the breakers beat + Round the steadfast crags of Coogee, dim with drifts of driving sleet: + Hearing hollow mournful noises sweeping down a solemn shore, + While the grim sea-caves are tideless, and the storm strives at their core. + + Often when the floating vapours fill the silent autumn leas, + Dreaming mem'ries fall like moonlight over silver sleeping seas. + Youth and I and Love together! Other times and other themes + Come to me unsung, unwept for, through the faded evening gleams: + Come to me and touch me mutely--I that looked and longed so well, + Shall I look and yet forget them?--who may know or who foretell? + Though the southern wind roams, shadowed with its immemorial grief, + Where the frosty wings of Winter leave their whiteness on the leaf. + + Friend of mine beyond the waters, here and here these perished days + Haunt me with their sweet dead faces and their old divided ways. + You that helped and you that loved me, take this song, and when you read, + Let the lost things come about you, set your thoughts and hear and heed. + Time has laid his burden on us--we who wear our manhood now, + We would be the boys we have been, free of heart and bright of brow-- + Be the boys for just an hour, with the splendour and the speech + Of thy lights and thunders, Coogee, flying up thy gleaming beach. + + Heart's desire and heart's division! who would come and say to me, + With the eyes of far-off friendship, "You are as you used to be"? + Something glad and good has left me here with sickening discontent, + Tired of looking, neither knowing what it was or where it went. + So it is this sight of Coogee, shining in the morning dew, + Sets me stumbling through dim summers once on fire with youth and you-- + Summers pale as southern evenings when the year has lost its power + And the wasted face of April weeps above the withered flower. + + Not that seasons bring no solace, not that time lacks light and rest; + But the old things were the dearest and the old loves seem the best. + We that start at songs familiar, we that tremble at a tone + Floating down the ways of music, like a sigh of sweetness flown, + We can never feel the freshness, never find again the mood + Left among fair-featured places, brightened of our brotherhood. + This and this we have to think of when the night is over all, + And the woods begin to perish and the rains begin to fall. + + + + +Ogyges + + + + Stand out, swift-footed leaders of the horns, + And draw strong breath, and fill the hollowy cliff + With shocks of clamour,--let the chasm take + The noise of many trumpets, lest the hunt + Should die across the dim Aonian hills, + Nor break through thunder and the surf-white cave + That hems about the old-eyed Ogyges + And bars the sea-wind, rain-wind, and the sea! + + Much fierce delight hath old-eyed Ogyges + (A hairless shadow in a lion's skin) + In tumult, and the gleam of flying spears, + And wild beasts vexed to death; "for," sayeth he, + "Here lying broken, do I count the days + For every trouble; being like the tree-- + The many-wintered father of the trunks + On yonder ridges: wherefore it is well + To feel the dead blood kindling in my veins + At sound of boar or battle; yea to find + A sudden stir, like life, about my feet, + And tingling pulses through this frame of mine + What time the cold clear dayspring, like a bird + Afar off, settles on the frost-bound peaks, + And all the deep blue gorges, darkening down, + Are filled with men and dogs and furious dust!" + + So in the time whereof thou weetest well-- + The melancholy morning of the World-- + He mopes or mumbles, sleeps or shouts for glee, + And shakes his sides--a cavern-hutted King! + But when the ouzel in the gaps at eve + Doth pipe her dreary ditty to the surge + All tumbling in the soft green level light, + He sits as quiet as a thick-mossed rock, + And dreameth in his cold old savage way + Of gliding barges on the wine-dark waves, + And glowing shapes, and sweeter things than sleep, + But chiefly, while the restless twofold bat + Goes flapping round the rainy eaves above, + Where one broad opening letteth in the moon, + He starteth, thinking of that grey-haired man, + His sire: then oftentimes the white-armed child + Of thunder-bearing Jove, young Thebe, comes + And droops above him with her short sweet sighs + For Love distraught--for dear Love's faded sake + That weeps and sings and weeps itself to death + Because of casual eyes, and lips of frost, + And careless mutterings, and most weary years. + + Bethink you, doth the wan Egyptian count + This passion, wasting like an unfed flame, + Of any worth now; seeing that his thighs + Are shrunken to a span and that the blood, + Which used to spin tumultuous down his sides + Of life in leaping moments of desire, + Is drying like a thin and sluggish stream + In withered channels--think you, doth he pause + For golden Thebe and her red young mouth? + + Ah, golden Thebe--Thebe, weeping there, + Like some sweet wood-nymph wailing for a rock, + If Octis with the Apollonian face-- + That fair-haired prophet of the sun and stars-- + Could take a mist and dip it in the West + To clothe thy limbs of shine about with shine + And all the wonder of the amethyst, + He'd do it--kneeling like a slave for thee! + If he could find a dream to comfort thee, + He'd bring it: thinking little of his lore, + But marvelling greatly at those eyes of thine. + Yea, if the Shepherd waiting for thy steps, + Pent down amongst the dank black-weeded rims, + Could shed his life like rain about thy feet, + He'd count it sweetness past all sweets of love + To die by thee--his life's end in thy sight. + + Oh, but he loves the hunt, doth Ogyges! + And therefore should we blow the horn for him: + He, sitting mumbling in his surf-white cave + With helpless feet and alienated eyes, + Should hear the noises nathless dawn by dawn + Which send him wandering swiftly through the days + When like a springing cataract he leapt + From crag to crag, the strongest in the chase + To spear the lion, leopard, or the boar! + Oh, but he loves the hunt; and, while the shouts + Of mighty winds are in this mountained World, + Behold the white bleak woodman, Winter, halts + And bends to him across a beard of snow + For wonder; seeing Summer in his looks + Because of dogs and calls from throats of hair + All in the savage hills of Hyria! + And, through the yellow evenings of the year, + What time September shows her mooned front + And poppies burnt to blackness droop for drouth, + The dear Demeter, splashed from heel to thigh + With spinning vine-blood, often stoops to him + To crush the grape against his wrinkled lips + Which sets him dreaming of the thickening wolves + In darkness, and the sound of moaning seas. + So with the blustering tempest doth he find + A stormy fellowship: for when the North + Comes reeling downwards with a breath like spears, + Where Dryope the lonely sits all night + And holds her sorrow crushed betwixt her palms, + He thinketh mostly of that time of times + When Zeus the Thunderer--broadly-blazing King-- + Like some wild comet beautiful but fierce, + Leapt out of cloud and fire and smote the tops + Of black Ogygia with his red right hand, + At which great fragments tumbled to the Deeps-- + The mighty fragments of a mountain-land-- + And all the World became an awful Sea! + + But, being tired, the hairless Ogyges + Best loveth night and dim forgetfulness! + "For," sayeth he, "to look for sleep is good + When every sleep is as a sleep of death + To men who live, yet know not why they live, + Nor how they live! I have no thought to tell + The people when this time of mine began; + But forest after forest grows and falls, + And rock by rock is wasted with the rime, + While I sit on and wait the end of all; + Here taking every footstep for a sign; + An ancient shadow whiter than the foam!" + + + + +By the Sea + + + + The caves of the sea have been troubled to-day + With the water which whitens, and widens, and fills; + And a boat with our brother was driven away + By a wind that came down from the tops of the hills. + Behold I have seen on the threshold again + A face in a dazzle of hair! + Do you know that she watches the rain, and the main, + And the waves which are moaning there? + Ah, moaning and moaning there! + + Now turn from your casements, and fasten your doors, + And cover your faces, and pray, if you can; + There are wails in the wind, there are sighs on the shores, + And alas, for the fate of a storm-beaten man! + Oh, dark falls the night on the rain-rutted verge, + So sad with the sound of the foam! + Oh, wild is the sweep and the swirl of the surge; + And his boat may never come home! + Ah, never and never come home! + + + + +King Saul at Gilboa + + + + With noise of battle and the dust of fray, + Half hid in fog, the gloomy mountain lay; + But Succoth's watchers, from their outer fields, + Saw fits of flame and gleams of clashing shields; + For, where the yellow river draws its spring, + The hosts of Israel travelled, thundering! + There, beating like the storm that sweeps to sea + Across the reefs of chafing Galilee, + The car of Abner and the sword of Saul + Drave Gaza down Gilboa's southern wall; + But swift and sure the spears of Ekron flew, + Till peak and slope were drenched with bloody dew. + "Shout, Timnath, shout!" the blazing leaders cried, + And hurled the stone and dashed the stave aside. + "Shout, Timnath, shout! Let Hazor hold the height, + Bend the long bow and break the lords of fight!" + + From every hand the swarthy strangers sprang, + Chief leaped on chief, with buckler buckler rang! + The flower of armies! Set in Syrian heat, + The ridges clamoured under labouring feet; + Nor stayed the warriors till, from Salem's road, + The crescent horns of Abner's squadrons glowed. + Then, like a shooting splendour on the wing, + The strong-armed son of Kish came thundering; + And as in Autumn's fall, when woods are bare, + Two adverse tempests meet in middle air, + So Saul and Achish, grim with heat and hate, + Met by the brook and shook the scales of Fate. + For now the struggle swayed, and, firm as rocks + Against the storm-wind of the equinox, + The rallied lords of Judah stood and bore, + All day, the fiery tides of fourfold war. + + But he that fasted in the secret cave + And called up Samuel from the quiet grave, + And stood with darkness and the mantled ghosts + A bitter night on shrill Samarian coasts, + Knew well the end--of how the futile sword + Of Israel would be broken by the Lord; + How Gath would triumph, with the tawny line + That bend the knee at Dagon's brittle shrine; + And how the race of Kish would fall to wreck, + Because of vengeance stayed at Amalek. + Yet strove the sun-like king, nor rested hand + Till yellow evening filled the level land. + Then Judah reeled before a biting hail + Of sudden arrows shot from Achor's vale, + Where Libnah, lapped in blood from thigh to heel, + Drew the tense string, and pierced the quivering steel. + There fell the sons of Saul, and, man by man, + The chiefs of Israel, up to Jonathan; + And while swift Achish stooped and caught the spoil, + Ten chosen archers, red with sanguine toil, + Sped after Saul, who, faint and sick, and sore + With many wounds, had left the thick of war. + He, like a baffled bull by hunters pressed, + Turned sharp about, and faced the flooded west, + And saw the star-like spears and moony spokes + Gleam from the rocks and lighten through the oaks-- + A sea of splendour! How the chariots rolled + On wheels of blinding brightness manifold! + While stumbling over spike and spine and spur + Of sultry lands, escaped the son of Ner + With smitten men. At this the front of Saul + Grew darker than a blasted tower wall; + And seeing how there crouched upon his right, + Aghast with fear, a black Amalekite, + He called, and said: "I pray thee, man of pain, + Red from the scourge, and recent from the chain, + Set thou thy face to mine, and stoutly stand + With yonder bloody sword-hilt in thy hand, + And fall upon me." But the faltering hind + Stood trembling, like a willow in the wind. + Then further Saul: "Lest Ashdod's vaunting hosts + Should bear me captive to their bleak-blown coasts, + I pray thee, smite me! seeing peace has fled, + And rest lies wholly with the quiet dead." + At this a flood of sunset broke, and smote + Keen, blazing sapphires round a kingly throat, + Touched arm and shoulder, glittered in the crest, + And made swift starlights on a jewelled breast. + So, starting forward, like a loosened hound, + The stranger clutched the sword and wheeled it round, + And struck the Lord's Anointed. Fierce and fleet + Philistia came, with shouts and clattering feet; + By gaping gorges and by rough defile + Dark Ashdod beat across a dusty mile; + Hot Hazor's bowmen toiled from spire to spire, + And Gath sprang upwards, like a gust of fire; + On either side did Libnah's lords appear, + And brass-clad Timnath thundered in the rear. + "Mark, Achish, mark!"--South-west and south there sped + A dabbled hireling from the dreadful dead. + "Mark, Achish, mark!"--The mighty front of Saul, + Great in his life and god-like in his fall! + This was the arm that broke Philistia's pride, + Where Kishon chafes his seaward-going tide; + This was the sword that smote till set of sun + Red Gath, from Michmash unto Ajalon, + Low in the dust. And Israel scattered far! + And dead the trumps and crushed the hoofs of war! + + So fell the king, as it was said by him + Who hid his forehead in a mantle dim + At bleak Endor, what time unholy rites + Vexed the long sleep of still Samarian heights; + For, bowed to earth before the hoary priest, + Did he of Kish withstand the smoking feast, + To fast, in darkness and in sackcloth rolled, + And house with wild things in the biting cold, + Because of sharpness lent to Gaza's sword, + And Judah widowed by the angry Lord. + + So silence came. As when the outer verge + Of Carmel takes the white and whistling surge, + Hoarse, hollow noises fill the caves, and roar + Along the margin of the echoing shore, + Thus war had thundered; but as evening breaks + Across the silver of Assyrian lakes, + When reapers rest, and through the level red + Of sunset, peace, like holy oil, is shed, + Thus silence fell. But Israel's daughters crept + Outside their thresholds, waited, watched, and wept. + + Then they that dwell beyond the flats and fens + Of sullen Jordan, and in gelid glens + Of Jabesh-Gilead--chosen chiefs and few-- + Around their loins the hasty girdle drew, + And faced the forests, huddled fold on fold, + And dells of glimmering greenness manifold. + What time Orion in the west did set + A shining foot on hills of wind and wet; + These journeyed nightly till they reached the capes + Where Ashdod revelled over heated grapes; + And while the feast was loud and scouts were turned, + From Saul's bound body cord by cord they burned, + And bore the king athwart the place of tombs, + And hasted eastward through the tufted glooms; + Nor broke the cake nor stayed the step till morn + Shot over Debir's cones and crags forlorn. + + From Jabesh then the weeping virgins came; + In Jabesh then they built the funeral flame; + With costly woods they piled the lordly pyre, + Brought yellow oils and fed the perfect fire; + While round the crescent stately elders spread + The flashing armour of the mighty dead, + With crown and spear, and all the trophies won + From many wars by Israel's dreadful son. + Thence, when the feet of evening paused and stood + On shadowy mountains and the roaring flood, + (As through a rushing twilight, full of rain, + The weak moon looked athwart Gadara's plain), + The younger warriors bore the urn, and broke + The humid turf about a wintering oak, + And buried Saul; and, fasting, went their ways, + And hid their faces seven nights and days. + + + + +In the Valley + + + + Said the yellow-haired Spirit of Spring + To the white-footed Spirit of Snow, + "On the wings of the tempest take wing, + And leave me the valleys, and go." + And, straightway, the streams were unchained, + And the frost-fettered torrents broke free, + And the strength of the winter-wind waned + In the dawn of a light on the sea. + + Then a morning-breeze followed and fell, + And the woods were alive and astir + With the pulse of a song in the dell, + And a whisper of day in the fir. + Swift rings of sweet water were rolled + Down the ways where the lily-leaves grew, + And the green, and the white, and the gold, + Were wedded with purple and blue. + + But the lips of the flower of the rose + Said, "where is the ending hereof? + Is it sweet with you, life, at the close? + Is it sad to be emptied of love?" + And the voice of the flower of the peach + Was tender and touching in tone, + "When each has been grafted on each, + It is sorrow to live on alone." + + Then the leaves of the flower of the vine + Said, "what will there be in the day + When the reapers are red with my wine, + And the forests are yellow and grey?" + And the tremulous flower of the quince + Made answer, "three seasons ago + My sisters were star-like, but since, + Their graves have been made in the snow." + + Then the whispering flower of the fern + Said, "who will be sad at the death, + When Summer blows over the burn, + With the fierceness of fire in her breath?" + And the mouth of the flower of the sedge + Was opened to murmur and sigh, + "Sweet wind-breaths that pause at the edge + Of the nightfall, and falter, and die." + + + + +Twelve Sonnets-- + + + + I + + A Mountain Spring + + + Peace hath an altar there. The sounding feet + Of thunder and the 'wildering wings of rain + Against fire-rifted summits flash and beat, + And through grey upper gorges swoop and strain; + But round that hallowed mountain-spring remain, + Year after year, the days of tender heat, + And gracious nights, whose lips with flowers are sweet, + And filtered lights, and lutes of soft refrain. + A still, bright pool. To men I may not tell + The secret that its heart of water knows, + The story of a loved and lost repose; + Yet this I say to cliff and close-leaved dell: + A fitful spirit haunts yon limpid well, + Whose likeness is the faithless face of Rose. + + + + II + + Laura + + + If Laura--lady of the flower-soft face-- + Should light upon these verses, she may take + The tenderest line, and through its pulses trace + What man can suffer for a woman's sake. + For in the nights that burn, the days that break, + A thin pale figure stands in Passion's place, + And peace comes not, nor yet the perished grace + Of youth, to keep old faiths and fires awake. + Ah! marvellous maid. Life sobs, and sighing saith, + "She left me, fleeting like a fluttered dove; + But I would have a moment of her breath, + So I might taste the sweetest sense thereof, + And catch from blossoming, honeyed lips of love + Some faint, some fair, some dim, delicious death." + + + + III + + By a River + + + By red-ripe mouth and brown, luxurious eyes + Of her I love, by all your sweetness shed + In far, fair days, on one whose memory flies + To faithless lights, and gracious speech gainsaid, + I pray you, when yon river-path I tread, + Make with the woodlands some soft compromise, + Lest they should vex me into fruitless sighs + With visions of a woman's gleaming head! + For every green and golden-hearted thing + That gathers beauty in that shining place, + Beloved of beams and wooed by wind and wing, + Is rife with glimpses of her marvellous face; + And in the whispers of the lips of Spring + The music of her lute-like voice I trace. + + + + IV + + Attila + + + What though his feet were shod with sharp, fierce flame, + And death and ruin were his daily squires, + The Scythian, helped by Heaven's thunders, came: + The time was ripe for God's avenging fires. + Lo! loose, lewd trulls, and lean, luxurious liars + Had brought the fair, fine face of Rome to shame, + And made her one with sins beyond a name-- + That queenly daughter of imperial sires! + The blood of elders like the blood of sheep, + Was dashed across the circus. Once while din + And dust and lightnings, and a draggled heap + Of beast-slain men made lords with laughter leap, + Night fell, with rain. The earth, so sick of sin, + Had turned her face into the dark to weep. + + + + V + + A Reward + + + Because a steadfast flame of clear intent + Gave force and beauty to full-actioned life; + Because his way was one of firm ascent, + Whose stepping-stones were hewn of change and strife; + Because as husband loveth noble wife + He loved fair Truth; because the thing he meant + To do, that thing he did, nor paused, nor bent + In face of poor and pale conclusions; yea! + Because of this, how fares the Leader dead? + What kind of mourners weep for him to-day? + What golden shroud is at his funeral spread? + Upon his brow what leaves of laurel, say? + _About his breast is tied a sackcloth grey, + And knots of thorns deface his lordly head._ + + + + VI + + To---- + + + A handmaid to the genius of thy song + Is sweet, fair Scholarship. 'Tis she supplies + The fiery spirit of the passioned eyes + With subtle syllables, whose notes belong + To some chief source of perfect melodies; + And glancing through a laurelled, lordly throng + Of shining singers, lo! my vision flies + To William Shakespeare! He it is whose strong, + Full, flute-like music haunts thy stately verse. + A worthy Levite of his court thou art! + One sent among us to defeat the curse + That binds us to the Actual. Yea, thy part, + Oh, lute-voiced lover! is to lull the heart + Of love repelled, its darkness to disperse. + + + + VII + + The Stanza of Childe Harold + + + Who framed the stanza of Childe Harold? He + It was who, halting on a stormy shore, + Knew well the lofty voice which evermore, + In grand distress, doth haunt the sleepless sea + With solemn sounds. And as each wave did roll + Till one came up, the mightiest of the whole, + To sweep and surge across the vacant lea, + Wild words were wedded to wild melody. + This poet must have had a speechless sense + Of some dead summer's boundless affluence; + Else, whither can we trace the passioned lore + Of Beauty, steeping to the very core + His royal verse, and that rare light which lies + About it, like a sunset in the skies? + + + + VIII + + A Living Poet + + + He knows the sweet vexation in the strife + Of Love with Time, this bard who fain would stray + To fairer place beyond the storms of life, + With astral faces near him day by day. + In deep-mossed dells the mellow waters flow + Which best he loves; for there the echoes, rife + With rich suggestions of his long ago, + Astarte, pass with thee! And, far away, + Dear southern seasons haunt the dreamy eye: + Spring, flower-zoned, and Summer, warbling low + In tasselled corn, alternate come and go, + While gypsy Autumn, splashed from heel to thigh + With vine-blood, treads the leaves; and, halting nigh, + Wild Winter bends across a beard of snow. + + + + IX + + Dante and Virgil + + + When lost Francesca sobbed her broken tale + Of love and sin and boundless agony, + While that wan spirit by her side did wail + And bite his lips for utter misery-- + The grief which could not speak, nor hear, nor see-- + So tender grew the superhuman face + Of one who listened, that a mighty trace + Of superhuman woe gave way, and pale + The sudden light up-struggled to its place; + While all his limbs began to faint and fail + With such excess of pity. But, behind, + The Roman Virgil stood--the calm, the wise-- + With not a shadow in his regal eyes, + A stately type of all his stately kind. + + + + X + + Rest + + + Sometimes we feel so spent for want of rest, + We have no thought beyond. I know to-day, + When tired of bitter lips and dull delay + With faithless words, I cast mine eyes upon + The shadows of a distant mountain-crest, + And said "That hill must hide within its breast + Some secret glen secluded from the sun. + Oh, mother Nature! would that I could run + Outside to thee; and, like a wearied guest, + Half blind with lamps, and sick of feasting, lay + An aching head on thee. Then down the streams + The moon might swim, and I should feel her grace, + While soft winds blew the sorrows from my face, + So quiet in the fellowship of dreams." + + + + XI + + After Parting + + + I cannot tell what change hath come to you + To vex your splendid hair. I only know + _One_ grief. The passion left betwixt us two, + Like some forsaken watchfire, burneth low. + 'Tis sad to turn and find it dying so, + Without a hope of resurrection! Yet, + O radiant face that found me tired and lone! + I shall not for the dear, dead past forget + The sweetest looks of all the summers gone. + Ah! time hath made familiar wild regret; + For now the leaves are white in last year's bowers, + And now doth sob along the ruined leas + The homeless storm from saddened southern seas, + While March sits weeping over withered flowers. + + + + XII + + Alfred Tennyson + + + The silvery dimness of a happy dream + I've known of late. Methought where Byron moans, + Like some wild gulf in melancholy zones, + I passed tear-blinded. Once a lurid gleam + Of stormy sunset loitered on the sea, + While, travelling troubled like a straitened stream, + The voice of Shelley died away from me. + Still sore at heart, I reached a lake-lit lea. + And then the green-mossed glades with many a grove, + Where lies the calm which Wordsworth used to love, + And, lastly, Locksley Hall, from whence did rise + A haunting song that blew and breathed and blew + With rare delights. 'Twas _there_ I woke and knew + The sumptuous comfort left in drowsy eyes. + + + + +Sutherland's Grave + + -- + * Sutherland: Forby Sutherland, one of Captain Cook's seamen, + who died shortly after the _Endeavour_ anchored in Botany Bay, 1770. + He was the first Englishman buried in Australia. + -- + + + + All night long the sea out yonder--all night long the wailful sea, + Vext of winds and many thunders, seeketh rest unceasingly! + Seeketh rest in dens of tempest, where, like one distraught with pain, + Shouts the wild-eyed sprite, Confusion--seeketh rest, and moans in vain: + Ah! but you should hear it calling, calling when the haggard sky + Takes the darks and damps of Winter with the mournful marsh-fowl's cry; + Even while the strong, swift torrents from the rainy ridges come + Leaping down and breaking backwards--million-coloured shapes of foam! + Then, and then, the sea out yonder chiefly looketh for the boon + Portioned to the pleasant valleys and the grave sweet summer moon: + Boon of Peace, the still, the saintly spirit of the dew-dells deep-- + Yellow dells and hollows haunted by the soft, dim dreams of sleep. + + All night long the flying water breaks upon the stubborn rocks-- + Ooze-filled forelands burnt and blackened, + smit and scarred with lightning shocks; + But above the tender sea-thrift, but beyond the flowering fern, + Runs a little pathway westward--pathway quaint with turn on turn-- + Westward trending, thus it leads to shelving shores and slopes of mist: + Sleeping shores, and glassy bays of green and gold and amethyst! + _There_ tread gently--_gently_, pilgrim; + _there_ with thoughtful eyes look round; + Cross thy breast and bless the silence: lo, the place is holy ground! + Holy ground for ever, stranger! All the quiet silver lights + Dropping from the starry heavens through the soft Australian nights-- + Dropping on those lone grave-grasses--come serene, unbroken, clear, + Like the love of God the Father, falling, falling, year by year! + Yea, and like a Voice supernal, _there_ the daily wind doth blow + In the leaves above the sailor buried ninety years ago. + + + + +Syrinx + + + + A heap of low, dark, rocky coast, + Unknown to foot or feather! + A sea-voice moaning like a ghost; + And fits of fiery weather! + + The flying Syrinx turned and sped + By dim, mysterious hollows, + Where night is black, and day is red, + And frost the fire-wind follows. + + Strong, heavy footfalls in the wake + Came up with flights of water: + The gods were mournful for the sake + Of Ladon's lovely daughter. + + For when she came to spike and spine, + Where reef and river gather, + Her feet were sore with shell and chine; + She could not travel farther. + + Across a naked strait of land + Blown sleet and surge were humming; + But trammelled with the shifting sand, + She heard the monster coming! + + A thing of hoofs and horns and lust: + A gaunt, goat-footed stranger! + She bowed her body in the dust + And called on Zeus to change her; + + And called on Hermes, fair and fleet, + And her of hounds and quiver, + To hide her in the thickets sweet + That sighed above the river. + + So he that sits on flaming wheels, + And rules the sea and thunder, + Caught up the satyr by the heels + And tore his skirts asunder. + + While Arcas, of the glittering plumes, + Took Ladon's daughter lightly, + And set her in the gracious glooms + That mix with moon-mist nightly; + + And touched her lips with wild-flower wine, + And changed her body slowly, + Till, in soft reeds of song and shine, + Her life was hidden wholly. + + + + +On the Paroo + + -- + * The name of a watercourse, often dry, which in flood-time + reaches the river Darling. + -- + + + + As when the strong stream of a wintering sea + Rolls round our coast, with bodeful breaks of storm, + And swift salt rain, and bitter wind that saith + Wild things and woeful of the White South Land + Alone with God and silence in the cold-- + As when this cometh, men from dripping doors + Look forth, and shudder for the mariners + Abroad, so we for absent brothers looked + In days of drought, and when the flying floods + Swept boundless; roaring down the bald, black plains + Beyond the farthest spur of western hills. + + For where the Barwon cuts a rotten land, + Or lies unshaken, like a great blind creek, + Between hot mouldering banks, it came to this, + All in a time of short and thirsty sighs, + That thirty rainless months had left the pools + And grass as dry as ashes: then it was + Our kinsmen started for the lone Paroo, + From point to point, with patient strivings, sheer + Across the horrors of the windless downs, + Blue gleaming like a sea of molten steel. + + But never drought had broke them: never flood + Had quenched them: they with mighty youth and health, + And thews and sinews knotted like the trees-- + _They_, like the children of the native woods, + Could stem the strenuous waters, or outlive + The crimson days and dull, dead nights of thirst + Like camels: yet of what avail was strength + Alone to them--though it was like the rocks + On stormy mountains--in the bloody time + When fierce sleep caught them in the camps at rest, + And violent darkness gripped the life in them + And whelmed them, as an eagle unawares + Is whelmed and slaughtered in a sudden snare. + + All murdered by the blacks; smit while they lay + In silver dreams, and with the far, faint fall + Of many waters breaking on their sleep! + Yea, in the tracts unknown of any man + Save savages--the dim-discovered ways + Of footless silence or unhappy winds-- + The wild men came upon them, like a fire + Of desert thunder; and the fine, firm lips + That touched a mother's lips a year before, + And hands that knew a dearer hand than life, + Were hewn--a sacrifice before the stars, + And left with hooting owls and blowing clouds, + And falling leaves and solitary wings! + + Aye, you may see their graves--you who have toiled + And tripped and thirsted, like these men of ours; + For, verily, I say that _not_ so deep + Their bones are that the scattered drift and dust + Of gusty days will never leave them bare. + O dear, dead, bleaching bones! I know of those + Who have the wild, strong will to go and sit + Outside all things with you, and keep the ways + Aloof from bats, and snakes, and trampling feet + That smite your peace and theirs--who have the heart, + Without the lusty limbs, to face the fire + And moonless midnights, and to be, indeed, + For very sorrow, like a moaning wind + In wintry forests with perpetual rain. + + Because of this--because of sisters left + With desperate purpose and dishevelled hair, + And broken breath, and sweetness quenched in tears-- + Because of swifter silver for the head, + And furrows for the face--because of these + That should have come with age, that come with pain-- + O Master! Father! sitting where our eyes + Are tired of looking, say for once are we-- + Are _we_ to set our lips with weary smiles + Before the bitterness of Life and Death, + And call it honey, while we bear away + A taste like wormwood? + + Turn thyself, and sing-- + Sing, Son of Sorrow! Is there any gain + For breaking of the loins, for melting eyes, + And knees as weak as water?--any peace, + Or hope for casual breath and labouring lips, + For clapping of the palms, and sharper sighs + Than frost; or any light to come for those + Who stand and mumble in the alien streets + With heads as grey as Winter?--any balm + For pleading women, and the love that knows + Of nothing left to love? + + They sleep a sleep + Unknown of dreams, these darling friends of ours. + And we who taste the core of many tales + Of tribulation--we whose lives are salt + With tears indeed--we therefore hide our eyes + And weep in secret, lest our grief should risk + The rest that hath no hurt from daily racks + Of fiery clouds and immemorial rains. + + + + +Faith in God + + + + Have faith in God. For whosoever lists + To calm conviction in these days of strife, + Will learn that in this steadfast stand exists + The scholarship severe of human life. + + This face to face with doubt! I know how strong + His thews must be who fights and falls and bears, + By sleepless nights and vigils lone and long, + And many a woeful wraith of wrestling prayers. + + Yet trust in Him! Not in an old man throned + With thunders on an everlasting cloud, + But in that awful Entity enzoned + By no wild wraths nor bitter homage loud. + + When from the summit of some sudden steep + Of speculation you have strength to turn + To things too boundless for the broken sweep + Of finer comprehension, wait and learn + + That God hath been "His own interpreter" + From first to last. So you will understand + The tribe who best succeed, when men most err, + To suck through fogs the fatness of the land. + + One thing is surer than the autumn tints + We saw last week in yonder river bend-- + That all our poor expression helps and hints, + However vaguely, to the solemn end + + That God is truth; and if our dim ideal + Fall short of fact--so short that we must weep-- + Why shape specific sorrows, though the real + Be not the song which erewhile made us sleep? + + Remember, truth draws upward. This to us + Of steady happiness should be a cause + Beyond the differential calculus + Or Kant's dull dogmas and mechanic laws. + + A man is manliest when he wisely knows + How vain it is to halt and pule and pine; + Whilst under every mystery haply flows + The finest issue of a love divine. + + + + +Mountain Moss + + + + It lies amongst the sleeping stones, + Far down the hidden mountain glade; + And past its brink the torrent moans + For ever in a dreamy shade. + + A little patch of dark-green moss, + Whose softness grew of quiet ways + (With all its deep, delicious floss) + In slumb'rous suns of summer days. + + You know the place? With pleasant tints + The broken sunset lights the bowers; + And then the woods are full with hints + Of distant, dear, voluptuous flowers! + + 'Tis often now the pilgrim turns + A faded face towards that seat, + And cools his brow amongst the ferns; + The runnel dabbling at his feet. + + There fierce December seldom goes, + With scorching step and dust and drouth; + But, soft and low, October blows + Sweet odours from her dewy mouth. + + And Autumn, like a gipsy bold, + Doth gather near it grapes and grain, + Ere Winter comes, the woodman old, + To lop the leaves in wind and rain. + + O, greenest moss of mountain glen, + The face of Rose is known to thee; + But we shall never share with men + A knowledge dear to love and me! + + For are they not between us saved, + The words my darling used to say, + What time the western waters laved + The forehead of the fainting day? + + Cool comfort had we on your breast + While yet the fervid noon burned mute + O'er barley field and barren crest, + And leagues of gardens flushed with fruit. + + Oh, sweet and low, we whispered so, + And sucked the pulp of plum and peach; + But it was many years ago, + When each, you know, was loved of each. + + + + +The Glen of Arrawatta + + + + A sky of wind! And while these fitful gusts + Are beating round the windows in the cold, + With sullen sobs of rain, behold I shape + A settler's story of the wild old times: + One told by camp-fires when the station drays + Were housed and hidden, forty years ago; + While swarthy drivers smoked their pipes, and drew, + And crowded round the friendly gleaming flame + That lured the dingo, howling, from his caves, + And brought sharp sudden feet about the brakes. + + A tale of Love and Death. And shall I say + A tale of love _in_ death--for all the patient eyes + That gathered darkness, watching for a son + And brother, never dreaming of the fate-- + The fearful fate he met alone, unknown, + Within the ruthless Australasian wastes? + + For in a far-off, sultry summer, rimmed + With thundercloud and red with forest fires, + All day, by ways uncouth and ledges rude, + The wild men held upon a stranger's trail, + Which ran against the rivers and athwart + The gorges of the deep blue western hills. + + And when a cloudy sunset, like the flame + In windy evenings on the Plains of Thirst + Beyond the dead banks of the far Barcoo, + Lay heavy down the topmost peaks, they came, + With pent-in breath and stealthy steps, and crouched, + Like snakes, amongst the grasses, till the night + Had covered face from face, and thrown the gloom + Of many shadows on the front of things. + + There, in the shelter of a nameless glen, + Fenced round by cedars and the tangled growths + Of blackwood, stained with brown and shot with grey, + The jaded white man built his fire, and turned + His horse adrift amongst the water-pools + That trickled underneath the yellow leaves + And made a pleasant murmur, like the brooks + Of England through the sweet autumnal noons. + + Then, after he had slaked his thirst and used + The forest fare, for which a healthful day + Of mountain life had brought a zest, he took + His axe, and shaped with boughs and wattle-forks + A wurley, fashioned like a bushman's roof: + The door brought out athwart the strenuous flame + The back thatched in against a rising wind. + + And while the sturdy hatchet filled the clifts + With sounds unknown, the immemorial haunts + Of echoes sent their lonely dwellers forth, + Who lived a life of wonder: flying round + And round the glen--what time the kangaroo + Leapt from his lair and huddled with the bats-- + Far scattering down the wildly startled fells. + Then came the doleful owl; and evermore + The bleak morass gave out the bittern's call, + The plover's cry, and many a fitful wail + Of chilly omen, falling on the ear + Like those cold flaws of wind that come and go + An hour before the break of day. + + Anon + The stranger held from toil, and, settling down, + He drew rough solace from his well-filled pipe, + And smoked into the night, revolving there + The primal questions of a squatter's life; + For in the flats, a short day's journey past + His present camp, his station yards were kept, + With many a lodge and paddock jutting forth + Across the heart of unnamed prairie-lands, + Now loud with bleating and the cattle bells, + And misty with the hut-fire's daily smoke. + + Wide spreading flats, and western spurs of hills + That dipped to plains of dim perpetual blue; + Bold summits set against the thunder heaps; + And slopes behacked and crushed by battling kine, + Where now the furious tumult of their feet + Gives back the dust, and up from glen and brake + Evokes fierce clamour, and becomes indeed + A token of the squatter's daring life, + Which, growing inland--growing year by year-- + Doth set us thinking in these latter days, + And makes one ponder of the lonely lands + Beyond the lonely tracks of Burke and Wills, + Where, when the wandering Stuart fixed his camps + In central wastes, afar from any home + Or haunt of man, and in the changeless midst + Of sullen deserts and the footless miles + Of sultry silence, all the ways about + Grew strangely vocal, and a marvellous noise + Became the wonder of the waxing glooms. + + Now, after darkness, like a mighty spell + Amongst the hills and dim, dispeopled dells, + Had brought a stillness to the soul of things, + It came to pass that, from the secret depths + Of dripping gorges, many a runnel-voice + Came, mellowed with the silence, and remained + About the caves, a sweet though alien sound; + Now rising ever, like a fervent flute + In moony evenings, when the theme is love; + Now falling, as ye hear the Sunday bells + While hastening fieldward from the gleaming town. + + Then fell a softer mood, and memory paused + With faithful love, amidst the sainted shrines + Of youth and passion in the valleys past + Of dear delights which never grow again. + And if the stranger (who had left behind + Far anxious homesteads in a wave-swept isle, + To face a fierce sea-circle day by day, + And hear at night the dark Atlantic's moan) + _Now_ took a hope and planned a swift return, + With wealth and health and with a youth unspent, + To those sweet ones that stayed with want at home, + Say _who_ shall blame him--though the years are long, + And life is hard, and waiting makes the heart grow old? + + Thus passed the time, until the moon serene + Stood over high dominion like a dream + Of peace: within the white, transfigured woods; + And o'er the vast dew-dripping wilderness + Of slopes illumined with her silent fires. + + Then, far beyond the home of pale red leaves + And silver sluices, and the shining stems + Of runnel blooms, the dreamy wanderer saw, + The wilder for the vision of the moon, + Stark desolations and a waste of plain, + All smit by flame and broken with the storms; + Black ghosts of trees, and sapless trunks that stood + Harsh hollow channels of the fiery noise, + Which ran from bole to bole a year before, + And grew with ruin, and was like, indeed, + The roar of mighty winds with wintering streams + That foam about the limits of the land + And mix their swiftness with the flying seas. + + Now, when the man had turned his face about + To take his rest, behold the gem-like eyes + Of ambushed wild things stared from bole and brake + With dumb amaze and faint-recurring glance, + And fear anon that drove them down the brush; + While from his den the dingo, like a scout + In sheltered ways, crept out and cowered near + To sniff the tokens of the stranger's feast + And marvel at the shadows of the flame. + + Thereafter grew the wind; and chafing depths + In distant waters sent a troubled cry + Across the slumb'rous forest; and the chill + Of coming rain was on the sleeper's brow, + When, flat as reptiles hutted in the scrub, + A deadly crescent crawled to where he lay-- + A band of fierce, fantastic savages + That, starting naked round the faded fire, + With sudden spears and swift terrific yells, + Came bounding wildly at the white man's head, + And faced him, staring like a dream of Hell! + + Here let me pass! I would not stay to tell + Of hopeless struggles under crushing blows; + Of how the surging fiends, with thickening strokes, + Howled round the stranger till they drained his strength; + How Love and Life stood face to face with Hate + And Death; and then how Death was left alone + With Night and Silence in the sobbing rains. + + So, after many moons, the searchers found + The body mouldering in the mouldering dell + Amidst the fungi and the bleaching leaves, + And buried it, and raised a stony mound + Which took the mosses. Then the place became + The haunt of fearful legends and the lair + Of bats and adders. + + There he lies and sleeps + From year to year--in soft Australian nights, + And through the furnaced noons, and in the times + Of wind and wet! Yet never mourner comes + To drop upon that grave the Christian's tear + Or pluck the foul, dank weeds of death away. + + But while the English autumn filled her lap + With faded gold, and while the reapers cooled + Their flame-red faces in the clover grass, + They looked for him at home: and when the frost + Had made a silence in the mourning lanes + And cooped the farmers by December fires, + They looked for him at home: and through the days + Which brought about the million-coloured Spring, + With moon-like splendours, in the garden plots, + They looked for him at home: while Summer danced, + A shining singer, through the tasselled corn, + They looked for him at home. From sun to sun + They waited. Season after season went, + And Memory wept upon the lonely moors, + And hope grew voiceless, and the watchers passed, + Like shadows, one by one away. + + And he + Whose fate was hidden under forest leaves + And in the darkness of untrodden dells + Became a marvel. Often by the hearths + In winter nights, and when the wind was wild + Outside the casements, children heard the tale + Of how he left their native vales behind + (Where he had been a child himself) to shape + New fortunes for his father's fallen house; + Of how he struggled--how his name became, + By fine devotion and unselfish zeal, + A name of beauty in a selfish land; + And then of how the aching hours went by, + With patient listeners praying for the step + Which never crossed the floor again. So passed + The tale to children; but the bitter end + Remained a wonder, like the unknown grave, + Alone with God and Silence in the hills. + + + + +Euterpe + + + + Child of Light, the bright, the bird-like! wilt thou float and float to me, + Facing winds and sleets and waters, flying glimpses of the sea? + Down amongst the hills of tempest, where the elves of tumult roam-- + Blown wet shadows of the summits, dim sonorous sprites of foam? + Here and here my days are wasted, shorn of leaf and stript of fruit: + Vexed because of speech half spoken, maiden with the marvellous lute! + Vexed because of songs half-shapen, smit with fire and mixed with pain: + Part of thee, and part of Sorrow, like a sunset pale with rain. + Child of Light, the bright, the bird-like! wilt thou float and float to me + Facing winds and sleets and waters, flying glimpses of the sea? + + All night long, in fluent pauses, falling far, but full, but fine, + Faultless friend of flowers and fountains, do I hear that voice of thine-- + All night long, amidst the burden of the lordly storm, that sings + High above the tumbled forelands, fleet and fierce with thunderings! + Then and then, my love, Euterpe, lips of life replete with dreams + Murmur for thy sweet, sharp fragments dying down Lethean streams: + Murmur for thy mouth's marred music, splendid hints that burn and break, + Heavy with excess of beauty: murmur for thy music's sake. + All night long, in fluent pauses, falling far, but full, but fine, + Faultless friend of flowers and fountains, do I hear that voice of thine. + + In the yellow flame of evening sound of thee doth come and go + Through the noises of the river, and the drifting of the snow: + In the yellow flame of evening--at the setting of the day-- + Sound that lightens, falls and lightens, flickers, faints and fades away. + I am famished of thy silence--broken for the tender note + Caught with its surpassing passion--caught and strangled in thy throat! + We have nought to help thy trouble--nought for that which lieth mute + On the harpstring and the lutestring and the spirit of the lute. + In the yellow flame of evening sound of thee doth come and go + Through the noises of the river, and the drifting of the snow. + + Daughter of the dead red summers! Men that laugh and men that weep + Call thee Music--shall I follow, choose their name, and turn and sleep? + What thou art, behold, I know not; but thy honey slakes and slays + Half the want which whitens manhood in the stress of alien days! + Even as a wondrous woman, struck with love and great desire, + Hast thou been to me, Euterpe! half of tears and half of fire. + But thy joy is swift and fitful; and a subtle sense of pain + Sighs through thy melodious breathing, takes the rapture from thy strain, + Daughter of the dead red summers! Men that laugh and men that weep + Call thee Music--shall I follow, choose their name, and turn and sleep? + + + + +Ellen Ray + + + + A quiet song for Ellen-- + The patient Ellen Ray, + A dreamer in the nightfall, + A watcher in the day. + The wedded of the sailor + Who keeps so far away: + A shadow on his forehead + For patient Ellen Ray. + + When autumn winds were driving + Across the chafing bay, + He said the words of anger + That wasted Ellen Ray: + He said the words of anger + And went his bitter way: + Her dower was the darkness-- + The patient Ellen Ray. + + Your comfort is a phantom, + My patient Ellen Ray; + You house it in the night-time, + It fronts you in the day; + And when the moon is very low + And when the lights are grey, + You sit and hug a sorry hope, + My patient Ellen Ray! + + You sit and hug a sorry hope-- + Yet who will dare to say, + The sweetness of October + Is not for Ellen Ray? + The bearer of a burden + Must rest at fall of day; + And you have borne a heavy one, + My patient Ellen Ray. + + + + +At Dusk + + + + At dusk, like flowers that shun the day, + Shy thoughts from dim recesses break, + And plead for words I dare not say + For your sweet sake. + + My early love! my first, my last! + Mistakes have been that both must rue; + But all the passion of the past + Survives for you. + + The tender message Hope might send + Sinks fainting at the lips of speech, + For, are you lover--are you friend, + That I would reach? + + How much to-night I'd give to win + A banished peace--an old repose; + But here I sit, and sigh, and sin + When no one knows. + + The stern, the steadfast reticence, + Which made the dearest phrases halt, + And checked a first and finest sense, + Was not my fault. + + I held my words because there grew + About my life persistent pride; + And you were loved, who never knew + What love could hide! + + This purpose filled my soul like flame: + To win you wealth and take the place + Where care is not, nor any shame + To vex your face. + + I said "Till then my heart must keep + Its secrets safe and unconfest;" + And days and nights unknown to sleep + The vow attest. + + Yet, oh! my sweet, it seems so long + Since you were near; and fates retard + The sequel of a struggle strong, + And life is hard-- + + Too hard, when one is left alone + To wrestle passion, never free + To turn and say to you, "My own, + Come home to me!" + + + + +Safi + + + + Strong pinions bore Safi, the dreamer, + Through the dazzle and whirl of a race, + And the earth, raying up in confusion, + Like a sea thundered under his face! + + And the earth, raying up in confusion, + Passed flying and flying afar, + Till it dropped like a moon into silence, + And waned from a moon to a star. + + Was it light, was it shadow he followed, + That he swept through those desperate tracts, + With his hair beating back on his shoulders + Like the tops of the wind-hackled flax? + + "I come," murmured Safi, the dreamer, + "I come, but thou fliest before: + But thy way hath the breath of the honey, + And the scent of the myrrh evermore!" + + His eyes were the eyes of a watcher + Held on by luxurious faith, + And his lips were the lips of a longer + Amazed with the beauty of Death. + + "For ever and ever," he murmured, + "My love, for the sweetness with thee, + Do I follow thy footsteps," said Safi, + "Like the wind on a measureless sea." + + And, fronting the furthermost spaces, + He kept through the distances dim, + Till the days, and the years, and the cycles + Were lost and forgotten by him. + + When he came to the silver star-portals, + The Queen of that wonderful place + Looked forth from her towers resplendent, + And started, and dreamed in his face. + + And one said, "This is Safi the Only, + Who lived in a planet below, + And housed him apart from his fellows, + A million of ages ago. + + "He erred, if he suffers, to clutch at + High lights from the wood and the street; + Not caring to see how his brothers + Were content with the things at their feet." + + But she whispered, "Ah, turn to the stranger! + He looks like a lord of the land; + For his eyes are the eyes of an angel, + And the thought on his forehead is grand! + + "Is there never a peace for the sinner + Whose sin is in this, that he mars + The light of his worship of Beauty, + Forgetting the flower for the stars?" + + "Behold him, my Sister immortal, + And doubt that he knoweth his shame, + Who raves in the shadow for sweetness, + And gloats on the ghost of a flame! + + "His sin is his sin, if he suffers, + Who wilfully straitened the truth; + And his doom is his doom, if he follows + A lie without sorrow or ruth." + + And another from uttermost verges + Ran out with a terrible voice-- + "Let him go--it is well that he goeth, + Though he break with the lot of his choice!" + + "I come," murmured Safi, the dreamer, + "I come, but thou fliest before: + But thy way hath the breath of the honey, + And the scent of the myrrh evermore." + + "My Queen," said the first of the Voices, + "He hunteth a perilous wraith, + Arrayed with voluptuous fancies + And ringed with tyrannical faith. + + "Wound up in the heart of his error + He must sweep through the silences dire, + Like one in the dark of a desert + Allured by fallacious fire." + + And she faltered, and asked, like a doubter, + "When he hangs on those Spaces sublime + With the Terror that knoweth no limit, + And holdeth no record of Time-- + + "Forgotten of God and the demons-- + Will he keep to his fancy amain? + Can he live for that horrible chaos + Of flame and perpetual rain?" + + But an answer as soft as a prayer + Fell down from a high, hidden land, + And the words were the words of a language + Which none but the gods understand. + + + + +Daniel Henry Deniehy + + + + Take the harp, but very softly for our brother touch the strings: + Wind and wood shall help to wail him, waves and mournful mountain-springs. + Take the harp, but very softly, for the friend who grew so old + Through the hours we would not hear of--nights we would not fain behold! + Other voices, sweeter voices, shall lament him year by year, + Though the morning finds us lonely, though we sit and marvel here: + Marvel much while Summer cometh, trammelled with November wheat, + Gold about her forehead gleaming, green and gold about her feet; + Yea, and while the land is dark with plover, gull, and gloomy glede, + Where the cold, swift songs of Winter fill the interlucent reed. + + Yet, my harp--and oh, my fathers! never look for Sorrow's lay, + Making life a mighty darkness in the patient noon of day; + Since he resteth whom we loved so, out beyond these fleeting seas, + Blowing clouds and restless regions paved with old perplexities, + In a land where thunder breaks not, in a place unknown of snow, + Where the rain is mute for ever, where the wild winds never go: + Home of far-forgotten phantoms--genii of our peaceful prime, + Shining by perpetual waters past the ways of Change and Time: + Haven of the harried spirit, where it folds its wearied wings, + Turns its face and sleeps a sleep with deep forgetfulness of things. + + His should be a grave by mountains, in a cool and thick-mossed lea, + With the lone creek falling past it--falling ever to the sea. + His should be a grave by waters, by a bright and broad lagoon, + Making steadfast splendours hallowed of the quiet, shining moon. + There the elves of many forests--wandering winds and flying lights-- + Born of green, of happy mornings, dear to yellow summer nights, + Full of dole for him that loved them, then might halt and then might go, + Finding fathers of the people to their children speaking low-- + Speaking low of one who, failing, suffered all the poet's pain, + Dying with the dead leaves round him--hopes which never grow again. + + + + +Merope + + + + Far in the ways of the hyaline wastes--in the face of the splendid + Six of the sisters--the star-dowered sisters ineffably bright, + Merope sitteth, the shadow-like wife of a monarch unfriended + Of Ades--of Orcus, the fierce, the implacable god of the night. + Merope--fugitive Merope! lost to thyself and thy lover, + Cast, like a dream, out of thought, + with the moons which have passed into sleep, + What shall avail thee? Alcyone's tears, or the sight to discover + Of Sisyphus pallid for thee by the blue, bitter lights of the deep-- + Pallid, but patient for sorrow? Oh, thou of the fire and the water, + Half with the flame of the sunset, and kin to the streams of the sea, + Hast thou the songs of old times for desire of thy dark-featured daughter, + Sweet with the lips of thy yearning, O Aethra! with tokens of thee-- + Songs that would lull her, like kisses forgotten of silence where speech was + Less than the silence that bound it as passion is bound by a ban; + Seeing we know of thee, Mother, we turning and hearing how each was + Wrapt in the other ere Merope faltered and fell for a man? + Mortal she clave to, forgetting her birthright, forgetting the lordlike + Sons of the many-winged Father, and chiefs of the plume and the star, + Therefore, because that her sin was the grief of the grand and the godlike, + Sitteth thy child than a morning-moon bleaker, the faded, and far. + Ringed with the flower-like Six of the Seven, arrayed and anointed + Ever with beautiful pity, she watches, she weeps, and she wanes, + Blind as a flame on the hills of the Winter in hours appointed + For the life of the foam and the thunder-- + the strength of the imminent rains. + Who hath a portion, Alcyone, like her? Asterope, fairer + Than sunset on snow, and beloved of all brightness, say what is there left + Sadder and paler than Pleione's daughter, disconsolate bearer + Of trouble that smites like a sword of the gods to the break of the heft? + Demeter, and Dryope, known to the forests, the falls, and the fountains, + Yearly, because of their walking and wailing and wringing of hands, + _Are_ they as one with this woman?--of Hyrie, wild in the mountains, + Breaking her heart in the frosts and the fires of the uttermost lands? + _These_ have their bitterness. This, for Persephone, that for Oechalian + Homes, and the lights of a kindness blown out with the stress of her shame: + One for her child, and one for her sin; but thou above all art an alien, + Girt with the halos that vex thee, and wrapt in a grief beyond name. + Yet sayeth Sisyphus--Sisyphus, stricken and chained of the minioned + Kings of great darkness, and trodden in dust by the feet of the Fates-- + "Sweet are the ways of thy watching, and pallid and perished and pinioned, + Moon amongst maidens, I leap for thy love like a god at the gates-- + Leap for the dreams of a rose of the heavens, and beat at the portals + Paved with the pain of unsatisfied pleadings for thee and for thine! + But Zeus is immutable Master, and these are the walls the immortals + Build for our sighing, and who may set lips at the lords and repine? + Therefore," he saith, "I am sick for thee, Merope, faint for the tender + Touch of thy mouth, and the eyes like the lights of an altar to me; + But, lo, thou art far; and thy face is a still and a sorrowful splendour! + And the storm is abroad with the rain on the perilous straits of the sea." + + + + +After the Hunt + + + + Underneath the windy mountain walls + Forth we rode, an eager band, + By the surges and the verges and the gorges, + Till the night was on the land-- + On the hazy, mazy land! + Far away the bounding prey + Leapt across the ruts and logs, + But we galloped, galloped, galloped on, + Till we heard the yapping of the dogs-- + The yapping and the yelping of the dogs. + + Oh, it was a madly merry day + We shall not so soon forget, + And the edges and the ledges and the ridges + Haunt us with their echoes yet-- + Echoes, echoes, echoes yet! + While the moon is on the hill + Gleaming through the streaming fogs, + Don't you hear the yapping of the dogs-- + The yapping and the yelping of the dogs? + + + + +Rose Lorraine + + + + Sweet water-moons, blown into lights + Of flying gold on pool and creek, + And many sounds and many sights + Of younger days are back this week. + I cannot say I sought to face + Or greatly cared to cross again + The subtle spirit of the place + Whose life is mixed with Rose Lorraine. + + What though her voice rings clearly through + A nightly dream I gladly keep, + No wish have I to start anew + Heart fountains that have ceased to leap. + Here, face to face with different days, + And later things that plead for love, + It would be worse than wrong to raise + A phantom far too fain to move. + + But, Rose Lorraine--ah! Rose Lorraine, + I'll whisper now, where no one hears-- + If you should chance to meet again + The man you kissed in soft, dead years, + Just say for once "He suffered much," + And add to this "His fate was worst + Because of me, my voice, my touch." + There is no passion like the first! + + If I that breathe your slow sweet name, + As one breathes low notes on a flute, + Have vext your peace with word of blame, + The phrase is dead--the lips are mute. + Yet when I turn towards the wall, + In stormy nights, in times of rain, + I often wish you could recall + Your tender speeches, Rose Lorraine. + + Because, you see, I thought them true, + And did not count you self-deceived, + And gave myself in all to you, + And looked on Love as Life achieved. + Then came the bitter, sudden change, + The fastened lips, the dumb despair. + The first few weeks were very strange, + And long, and sad, and hard to bear. + + No woman lives with power to burst + My passion's bonds, and set me free; + For Rose is last where Rose was first, + And only Rose is fair to me. + The faintest memory of her face, + The wilful face that hurt me so, + Is followed by a fiery trace + That Rose Lorraine must never know. + + I keep a faded ribbon string + You used to wear about your throat; + And of this pale, this perished thing, + I think I know the threads by rote. + God help such love! To touch your hand, + To loiter where your feet might fall, + You marvellous girl, my soul would stand + The worst of hell--its fires and all! + + +[End of Leaves from Australian Forests.] + + + + + +SONGS FROM THE MOUNTAINS + + + + + +To a Mountain + + + + To thee, O father of the stately peaks, + Above me in the loftier light--to thee, + Imperial brother of those awful hills + Whose feet are set in splendid spheres of flame, + Whose heads are where the gods are, and whose sides + Of strength are belted round with all the zones + Of all the world, I dedicate these songs. + And if, within the compass of this book, + There lives and glows _one_ verse in which there beats + The pulse of wind and torrent--if _one_ line + Is here that like a running water sounds, + And seems an echo from the lands of leaf, + Be sure that line is thine. Here, in this home, + Away from men and books and all the schools, + I take thee for my Teacher. In thy voice + Of deathless majesty, I, kneeling, hear + God's grand authentic Gospel! Year by year, + The great sublime cantata of thy storm + Strikes through my spirit--fills it with a life + Of startling beauty! Thou my Bible art, + With holy leaves of rock, and flower, and tree, + And moss, and shining runnel. From each page + That helps to make thy awful volume, I + Have learned a noble lesson. In the psalm + Of thy grave winds, and in the liturgy + Of singing waters, lo! my soul has heard + The higher worship; and from thee, indeed, + The broad foundations of a finer hope + Were gathered in; and thou hast lifted up + The blind horizon for a larger faith! + Moreover, walking in exalted woods + Of naked glory, in the green and gold + Of forest sunshine, I have paused like one + With all the life transfigured; and a flood + Of light ineffable has made me feel + As felt the grand old prophets caught away + By flames of inspiration; but the words + Sufficient for the story of my Dream + Are far too splendid for poor human lips. + But thou, to whom I turn with reverent eyes-- + O stately Father, whose majestic face + Shines far above the zone of wind and cloud, + Where high dominion of the morning is-- + Thou hast the Song complete of which my songs + Are pallid adumbrations! Certain sounds + Of strong authentic sorrow in this book + May have the sob of upland torrents--these, + And only these, may touch the great World's heart; + For, lo! they are the issues of that grief + Which makes a man more human, and his life + More like that frank, exalted life of thine. + But in these pages there are other tones + In which thy large, superior voice is not-- + Through which no beauty that resembles thine + Has ever shone. _These_ are the broken words + Of blind occasions, when the World has come + Between me and my Dream. No song is here + Of mighty compass; for my singing robes + I've worn in stolen moments. All my days + Have been the days of a laborious life, + And ever on my struggling soul has burned + The fierce heat of this hurried sphere. But thou, + To whose fair majesty I dedicate + My book of rhymes--thou hast the perfect rest + Which makes the heaven of the highest gods! + To thee the noises of this violent time + Are far, faint whispers; and, from age to age, + Within the world and yet apart from it, + Thou standest! Round thy lordly capes the sea + Rolls on with a superb indifference + For ever; in thy deep, green, gracious glens + The silver fountains sing for ever. Far + Above dim ghosts of waters in the caves, + The royal robe of morning on thy head + Abides for ever. Evermore the wind + Is thy august companion; and thy peers + Are cloud, and thunder, and the face sublime + Of blue mid-heaven! On thy awful brow + Is Deity; and in that voice of thine + There is the great imperial utterance + Of God for ever; and thy feet are set + Where evermore, through all the days and years, + There rolls the grand hymn of the deathless wave. + + + + +Mary Rivers + + + + Path beside the silver waters, flashing in October's sun-- + Walk, by green and golden margins where the sister streamlets run-- + Twenty shining springs have vanished, full of flower, and leaf, and bird, + Since the step of Mary Rivers in your lawny dell was heard! + Twenty white-haired Junes have left us-- + grey with frost and bleak with gale-- + Since the hand of her we loved so plucked the blossoms in your dale. + Twenty summers, twenty autumns, from the grand old hills have passed, + With their robes of royal colour, since we saw the darling last. + + Morning comes--the blessed morning! and the slow song of the sea, + Like a psalm from radiant altars, floats across a rose-red lea; + Then the fair, strong noonday blossoms, and the reaper seeks the cool + Valley of the moss and myrtle, and the glimmering water-pool. + Noonday flames and evening follows; and the lordly mountains rest + Heads arrayed with tenfold splendour on the rich heart of the West. + Evening walks with moon and music where the higher life has been; + But the face of Mary Rivers _there_ will nevermore be seen. + + Ah! when autumn dells are dewy, and the wave is very still, + And that grey ghost called the Twilight passes from the distant hill-- + Even in the hallowed nightfall, when the fathers sit and dream, + And the splendid rose of heaven sees a sister in the stream-- + Often do I watch the waters gleaming in a starry bay, + Thinking of a bygone beauty, and a season far away; + Musing on the grace that left us in a time of singing rain, + On the lady who will never walk amongst these heaths again. + + Four there were, but two were taken; and this darling we deplore, + She was sweetest of the circle--she was dearest of the four! + In the daytime and the dewtime comes the phantom of her face: + None will ever sit where she did--none will ever fill her place. + With the passing of our Mary, like a sunset out of sight, + Passed away our pure first passion--all its life and all its light! + All that made the world a dreamland--all the glory and the glow + Of the fine, fresh, morning feeling vanished twenty years ago. + + Girl, whose strange, unearthly beauty haunts us ever in our sleep, + Many griefs have worn our hearts out--we are now too tired to weep! + Time has tried us, years have changed us; but the sweetness shed by you + Falls upon our spirits daily, like divine, immortal dew. + Shining are our thoughts about you--of the blossoms past recall, + You are still the rose of lustre--still the fairest of them all; + In the sleep that brings the garland gathered from the bygone hours, + You are still our Mary Rivers--still the queen of all the flowers. + + Let me ask, where none can hear me--When you passed into the shine, + And you heard a great love calling, did you know that it was mine? + In your life of light and music, tell me did you ever see, + Shining in a holy silence, what was as a flame in me? + Ah, my darling! no one saw it. Purer than untrodden dew + Was that first unhappy passion buried in the grave with you. + Bird and leaf will keep the secret--wind and wood will never tell + Men the thing that I have whispered. Mary Rivers, fare you well! + + + + +Kingsborough + + + + A waving of hats and of hands, + The voices of thousands in one, + A shout from the ring and the stands, + And a glitter of heads in the sun! + "_They are off--they are off!_" is the roar, + As the cracks settle down to the race, + With the "yellow and black" to the fore, + And the Panic blood forcing the pace. + + At the back of the course, and away + Where the running-ground home again wheels, + Grubb travels in front on the bay, + With a feather-weight hard at his heels. + But Yeomans, you see, is about, + And the wily New Zealander waits, + Though the high-blooded flyer is out, + Whose rider and colours are Tait's. + + Look! Ashworth comes on with a run + To the head of the Levity colt; + And the fleet--the magnificent son + Of Panic is shooting his bolt. + Hurrah for the Weatherbit strain! + A Fireworks is first in the straight; + And "_A Kelpie will win it again!_" + Is the roar from the ring to the gate. + + The leader must have it--but no! + For see, full of running, behind + A beautiful, wonderful foe + With the speed of the thunder and wind! + A flashing of whips, and a cry, + And Ashworth sits down on his horse, + With Kingsborough's head at his thigh + And the "field" scattered over the course! + + In a clamour of calls and acclaim + The pair race away from the ruck: + The horse to the last of it game-- + A marvel of muscle and pluck! + But the foot of the Sappho is there, + And Kingston's invincible strength; + And the numbers go up in the air-- + The colt is the first by a length! + + The first, and the favourite too! + The terror that came from his stall, + With the spirit of fire and of dew, + To show the road home to them all; + From the back of the field to the straight + He has come, as is ever his wont, + And carried his welter-like weight, + Like a tradesman, right through to the front. + + Nor wonder at cheering a wit, + For this is the popular horse, + That never was beaten when "fit" + By any four hoofs on the course; + To starter for Leger or Cup, + Has he ever shown feather of fear + When saddle and rider were up + And the case to be argued was clear? + + No! rather the questionless pluck + Of the blood unaccustomed to yield, + Preferred to spread-eagle the ruck, + And make a long tail of the "field". + Bear witness, ye lovers of sport, + To races of which he can boast, + When flyer by flyer was caught, + And beaten by lengths on the post! + + Lo! this is the beautiful bay-- + Of many, the marvellous one + Who showed us last season the way + That a Leger should always be won. + There was something to look at and learn, + Ye shrewd irreproachable "touts", + When the Panic colt tired at the turn, + And the thing was all over--but shouts! + + Aye, that was the spin, when the twain + Came locked by the bend of the course, + The Zealander pulling his rein, + And the veteran hard on his horse! + When Ashworth was "riding" 'twas late + For his friends to applaud on the stands, + And the Sappho colt entered the straight + With the race of the year in his hands. + + Just look at his withers, his thighs! + And the way that he carries his head! + Has Richmond more wonderful eyes, + Or Melbourne that spring in his tread? + The grand, the intelligent glance + From a spirit that fathoms and feels, + Makes the heart of a horse-lover dance + Till the warm-blooded life in him reels. + + What care have I ever to know + His owner by sight or by name? + The horse that I glory in so + Is still the magnificent same. + I own I am proud of the pluck + Of the sportsman that never was bought; + But the nag that spread-eagled the ruck + Is bound to be first in my thought. + + For who that has masculine flame, + Or who that is thorough at all, + Can help feeling joy in the fame + Of this king of the kings of the stall? + What odds if assumption has sealed + His soulless hereafter abode, + So long as he shows to his "field" + The gleam of his hoofs, and the road? + + + + +Beyond Kerguelen + + + + Down in the South, by the waste without sail on it, + Far from the zone of the blossom and tree, + Lieth, with winter and whirlwind and wail on it, + Ghost of a land by the ghost of a sea. + Weird is the mist from the summit to base of it; + Sun of its heaven is wizened and grey; + Phantom of life is the light on the face of it-- + Never is night on it, never is day! + Here is the shore without flower or bird on it; + Here is no litany sweet of the springs-- + Only the haughty, harsh thunder is heard on it, + Only the storm, with the roar in its wings! + + Shadow of moon is the moon in the sky of it-- + Wan as the face of a wizard, and far! + Never there shines from the firmament high of it + Grace of the planet or glory of star. + All the year round, in the place of white days on it-- + All the year round where there never is night-- + Lies a great sinister, bitter, blind haze on it: + Growth that is neither of darkness nor light! + Wild is the cry of the sea in the caves by it-- + Sea that is smitten by spears of the snow; + Desolate songs are the songs of the waves by it-- + Down in the south, where the ships never go. + + Storm from the Pole is the singer that sings to it + Hymns of the land at the planet's grey verge. + Thunder discloses dark, wonderful things to it-- + Thunder and rain, and the dolorous surge. + Hills with no hope of a wing or a leaf on them, + Scarred with the chronicles written by flame, + Stare, through the gloom of inscrutable grief on them, + Down on the horns of the gulfs without name. + Cliffs, with the records of fierce flying fires on them-- + Loom over perilous pits of eclipse; + Alps, with anathema stamped in the spires on them-- + Out by the wave with a curse on its lips. + + Never is sign of soft, beautiful green on it-- + Never the colour, the glory of rose! + Neither the fountain nor river is seen on it, + Naked its crags are, and barren its snows! + Blue as the face of the drowned is the shore of it-- + Shore, with the capes of indefinite cave. + Strange is the voice of its wind, and the roar of it + Startles the mountain and hushes the wave. + Out to the south and away to the north of it, + Spectral and sad are the spaces untold! + All the year round a great cry goeth forth of it-- + Sob of this leper of lands in the cold. + + No man hath stood, all its bleak, bitter years on it-- + Fall of a foot on its wastes is unknown: + Only the sound of the hurricane's spears on it + Breaks with the shout from the uttermost zone. + Blind are its bays with the shadow of bale on them; + Storms of the nadir their rocks have uphurled; + Earthquake hath registered deeply its tale on them-- + Tale of distress from the dawn of the world! + _There_ are the gaps, with the surges that seethe in them-- + Gaps in whose jaws is a menace that glares! + _There_ the wan reefs, with the merciless teeth in them, + Gleam on a chaos that startles and scares! + + Back in the dawn of this beautiful sphere, on it-- + Land of the dolorous, desolate face-- + Beamed the blue day; and the bountiful year on it + Fostered the leaf and the blossom of grace. + Grand were the lights of its midsummer noon on it-- + Mornings of majesty shone on its seas; + Glitter of star and the glory of moon on it + Fell, in the march of the musical breeze. + Valleys and hills, with the whisper of wing in them, + Dells of the daffodil--spaces impearled, + Flowered and flashed with the splendour of Spring in them-- + Back in the morn of this wonderful world. + + Soft were the words that the thunder then said to it-- + Said to this lustre of emerald plain; + Sun brought the yellow, the green, and the red to it-- + Sweet were the songs of its silvery rain. + Voices of water and wind in the bays of it + Lingered, and lulled like the psalm of a dream. + Fair were the nights and effulgent the days of it-- + Moon was in shadow and shade in the beam. + Summer's chief throne was the marvellous coast of it, + Home of the Spring was its luminous lea: + Garden of glitter! But only the ghost of it + Moans in the south by the ghost of a sea. + + + + +Black Lizzie + + + + The gloved and jewelled bards who sing + Of Pippa, Maud, and Dorothea, + Have hardly done the handsome thing + For you, my inky Cytherea. + + Flower of a land whose sunny skies + Are like the dome of Dante's clime, + They _might_ have praised your lips, your eyes, + And, eke, your ankles in their rhyme! + + But let them pass! To right your wrong, + Aspasia of the ardent South, + Your poet means to sing a song + With some prolixity of mouth. + + I'll even sketch you as you are + In Herrick's style of carelessness, + Not overstocked with things that bar + An ample view--to wit, with dress. + + You have your blanket, it is true; + But then, if I am right at all, + What best would suit a dame like you + Was worn by Eve before the Fall. + + Indeed, the "fashion" is a thing + That never cramped your cornless toes: + Your single jewel is a ring + Slung in your penetrated nose. + + I can't detect the flowing lines + Of Grecian features in your face, + Nor are there patent any signs + That link you with the Roman race. + + In short, I do not think your mould + Resembles, with its knobs of bone, + The fair Hellenic shapes of old + Whose perfect forms survive in stone. + + Still, if the charm called Beauty lies + In ampleness of ear and lip, + And nostrils of exceeding size, + You are a gem, my ladyship! + + Here, squatting by the doubtful flame + Of three poor sticks, without a roof + Above your head, impassive dame + You live on--somewhat hunger-proof. + + The current scandals of the day + Don't trouble you--you seem to take + Things in the coolest sort of way-- + And _wisest_--for you have no ache. + + You smoke a pipe--of course, you do! + About an inch in length or less, + Which, from a sexual point of view, + Mars somehow your attractiveness. + + But, rather than resign the weed, + You'd shock us, whites, by chewing it; + For etiquette is not indeed + A thing that bothers you a bit. + + Your people--take them as a whole-- + Are careless on the score of grace; + And hence you needn't comb your poll + Or decorate your unctuous face. + + Still, seeing that a little soap + Would soften an excess of tint, + You'll pardon my advance, I hope, + In giving you a gentle hint. + + You have your lovers--dusky beaux + Not made of the poetic stuff + That sports an Apollonian nose, + And wears a sleek Byronic cuff. + + But rather of a rougher clay + Unmixed with overmuch romance, + Far better at the wildwood fray + Than spinning in a ballroom dance. + + _These_ scarcely are the sonneteers + That sing their loves in faultless clothes: + _Your_ friends have more decided ears + And more capaciousness of nose. + + No doubt they suit you best--although + They woo you roughly it is said: + Their way of courtship is a blow + Struck with a nullah on the head. + + It doesn't hurt you much--the thing + Is hardly novel to your life; + And, _sans_ the feast and marriage ring, + You make a good impromptu wife. + + This hasty sort of wedding might, + In other cases, bring distress; + But then, your draper's bills are light-- + You're frugal in regard to dress. + + You have no passion for the play, + Or park, or other showy scenes; + And, hence, you have no scores to pay, + And live within your husband's means. + + Of course, his income isn't large,-- + And not too certain--still you thrive + By steering well inside the marge, + And keep your little ones alive. + + In short, in some respects you set + A fine example; and a few + Of those white matrons I have met + Would show some sense by copying you. + + Here let us part! I will not say, + O lady free from scents and starch, + That you are like, in any way, + The authoress of "_Middlemarch_". + + One cannot match her perfect phrase + With commonplaces from your lip; + And yet there are some sexual traits + That show your dim relationship. + + Indeed, in spite of all the mists + That grow from social codes, I see + The liberal likeness which exists + Throughout our whole humanity. + + And though I've laughed at your expense, + O Dryad of the dusky race, + No man who has a heart and sense + Would bring displeasure to your face. + + + + +Hy-Brasil + + + + "Daughter," said the ancient father, pausing by the evening sea, + "Turn thy face towards the sunset--turn thy face and kneel with me! + Prayer and praise and holy fasting, lips of love and life of light, + These and these have made thee perfect--shining saint with seraph's sight! + Look towards that flaming crescent--look beyond that glowing space-- + Tell me, sister of the angels, what is beaming in thy face?" + And the daughter, who had fasted, who had spent her days in prayer, + Till the glory of the Saviour touched her head and rested there, + Turned her eyes towards the sea-line--saw beyond the fiery crest, + Floating over waves of jasper, far Hy-Brasil in the west. + + All the calmness and the colour--all the splendour and repose, + Flowing where the sunset flowered, like a silver-hearted rose! + There indeed was singing Eden, where the great gold river runs + Past the porch and gates of crystal, ringed by strong and shining ones! + There indeed was God's own garden, sailing down the sapphire sea-- + Lawny dells and slopes of summer, dazzling stream and radiant tree! + Out against the hushed horizon--out beneath the reverent day, + Flamed the Wonder on the waters--flamed and flashed and passed away. + And the maiden who had seen it felt a hand within her own, + And an angel that we know not led her to the lands unknown. + + Never since hath eye beheld it--never since hath mortal, dazed + By its strange, unearthly splendour, on the floating Eden gazed! + Only once since Eve went weeping through a throng of glittering wings, + Hath the holy seen Hy-Brasil where the great gold river sings! + Only once by quiet waters, under still, resplendent skies, + Did the sister of the seraphs kneel in sight of Paradise! + She, the pure, the perfect woman, sanctified by patient prayer, + Had the eyes of saints of Heaven, all their glory in her hair: + Therefore God the Father whispered to a radiant spirit near-- + "Show Our daughter fair Hy-Brasil--show her this, and lead her here." + + But beyond the halls of sunset, but within the wondrous west, + On the rose-red seas of evening, sails the Garden of the Blest. + Still the gates of glassy beauty, still the walls of glowing light, + Shine on waves that no man knows of, out of sound and out of sight. + Yet the slopes and lawns of lustre, yet the dells of sparkling streams, + Dip to tranquil shores of jasper, where the watching angel beams. + But, behold, our eyes are human, and our way is paved with pain, + We can never find Hy-Brasil, never see its hills again; + Never look on bays of crystal, never bend the reverent knee + In the sight of Eden floating--floating on the sapphire sea! + + + + +Jim the Splitter + + + + The bard who is singing of Wollombi Jim + Is hardly just now in the requisite trim + To sit on his Pegasus fairly; + Besides, he is bluntly informed by the Muse + That Jim is a subject no singer should choose; + For Jim is poetical rarely. + + But being full up of the myths that are Greek-- + Of the classic, and noble, and nude, and antique, + Which means not a rag but the pelt on; + This poet intends to give Daphne the slip, + For the sake of a hero in moleskin and kip, + With a jumper and snake-buckle belt on. + + No party is Jim of the Pericles type-- + He is modern right up from the toe to the pipe; + And being no reader or roamer, + He hasn't Euripides much in the head; + And let it be carefully, tenderly said, + He never has analysed Homer. + + He can roar out a song of the twopenny kind; + But, knowing the beggar so well, I'm inclined + To believe that a "par" about Kelly, + The rascal who skulked under shadow of curse, + Is more in his line than the happiest verse + On the glittering pages of Shelley. + + You mustn't, however, adjudge him in haste, + Because a red robber is more to his taste + Than Ruskin, Rossetti, or Dante! + You see, he was bred in a bangalow wood, + And bangalow pith was the principal food + His mother served out in her shanty. + + His knowledge is this--he can tell in the dark + What timber will split by the feel of the bark; + And rough as his manner of speech is, + His wits to the fore he can readily bring + In passing off ash as the genuine thing + When scarce in the forest the beech is. + + In girthing a tree that he sells in the round, + He assumes, as a rule, that the body is sound, + And measures, forgetting to bark it! + He may be a ninny, but still the old dog + Can plug to perfection the pipe of a log + And palm it away on the market. + + He splits a fair shingle, but holds to the rule + Of his father's, and, haply, his grandfather's school; + Which means that he never has blundered, + When tying his shingles, by slinging in more + Than the recognized number of ninety and four + To the bundle he sells for a hundred! + + When asked by the market for ironbark red, + It always occurs to the Wollombi head + To do a "mahogany" swindle. + In forests where never the ironbark grew, + When Jim is at work, it would flabbergast you + To see how the ironbarks dwindle. + + He can stick to the saddle, can Wollombi Jim, + And when a buckjumper dispenses with him, + The leather goes off with the rider. + And, as to a team, over gully and hill + He can travel with twelve on the breadth of a quill + And boss the unlucky offsider. + + He shines at his best at the tiller of saw, + On the top of the pit, where his whisper is law + To the gentleman working below him. + When the pair of them pause in a circle of dust, + Like a monarch he poses--exalted, august-- + There's nothing this planet can show him! + + For a man is a _man_ who can sharpen and set, + And _he_ is the only thing masculine yet + According to sawyer and splitter-- + Or rather according to Wollombi Jim; + And nothing will tempt me to differ from him, + For Jim is a bit of a hitter. + + But, being full up, we'll allow him to rip, + Along with his lingo, his saw, and his whip-- + He isn't the classical notion. + And, after a night in his humpy, you see, + A person of orthodox habits would be + Refreshed by a dip in the ocean. + + To tot him right up from the heel to the head, + He isn't the Grecian of whom we have read-- + His face is a trifle too shady. + The nymph in green valleys of Thessaly dim + Would never "jack up" her old lover for him, + For she has the tastes of a lady. + + So much for our hero! A statuesque foot + Would suffer by wearing that heavy-nailed boot-- + Its owner is hardly Achilles. + However, he's happy! He cuts a great "fig" + In the land where a coat is no part of the rig-- + In the country of damper and billies. + + + + +Mooni + + (Written in the shadow of 1872.) + + + + Ah, to be by Mooni now, + Where the great dark hills of wonder, + Scarred with storm and cleft asunder + By the strong sword of the thunder, + Make a night on morning's brow! + Just to stand where Nature's face is + Flushed with power in forest places-- + Where of God authentic trace is-- + Ah, to be by Mooni now! + + Just to be by Mooni's springs! + There to stand, the shining sharer + Of that larger life, and rarer + Beauty caught from beauty fairer + Than the human face of things! + Soul of mine from sin abhorrent + Fain would hide by flashing current, + Like a sister of the torrent, + Far away by Mooni's springs. + + He that is by Mooni now + Sees the water-sapphires gleaming + Where the River Spirit, dreaming, + Sleeps by fall and fountain streaming + Under lute of leaf and bough-- + Hears, where stamp of storm with stress is, + Psalms from unseen wildernesses + Deep amongst far hill-recesses-- + He that is by Mooni now. + + Yea, for him by Mooni's marge + Sings the yellow-haired September, + With the face the gods remember + When the ridge is burnt to ember, + And the dumb sea chains the barge! + Where the mount like molten brass is, + Down beneath fern-feathered passes, + Noonday dew in cool green grasses + Gleams on him by Mooni's marge. + + Who that dwells by Mooni yet, + Feels, in flowerful forest arches, + Smiting wings and breath that parches + Where strong Summer's path of march is, + And the suns in thunder set? + Housed beneath the gracious kirtle + Of the shadowy water myrtle, + Winds may hiss with heat, and hurtle-- + He is safe by Mooni yet! + + Days there were when he who sings + (Dumb so long through passion's losses) + Stood where Mooni's water crosses + Shining tracts of green-haired mosses, + Like a soul with radiant wings; + Then the psalm the wind rehearses-- + Then the song the stream disperses + Lent a beauty to his verses, + Who to-night of Mooni sings. + + Ah, the theme--the sad, grey theme! + Certain days are not above me, + Certain hearts have ceased to love me, + Certain fancies fail to move me + Like the affluent morning dream. + Head whereon the white is stealing, + Heart whose hurts are past all healing, + Where is now the first pure feeling? + Ah, the theme--the sad, grey theme! + + Sin and shame have left their trace! + He who mocks the mighty, gracious + Love of Christ, with eyes audacious, + Hunting after fires fallacious, + Wears the issue in his face. + Soul that flouted gift and Giver, + Like the broken Persian river, + Thou hast lost thy strength for ever! + Sin and shame have left their trace. + + In the years that used to be, + When the large, supreme occasion + Brought the life of inspiration, + Like a god's transfiguration + Was the shining change in me. + Then, where Mooni's glory glances, + Clear, diviner countenances + Beamed on me like blessed chances, + In the years that used to be. + + Ah, the beauty of old ways! + Then the man who so resembled + Lords of light unstained, unhumbled, + Touched the skirts of Christ, nor trembled + At the grand benignant gaze! + Now he shrinks before the splendid + Face of Deity offended, + All the loveliness is ended! + All the beauty of old ways! + + Still to be by Mooni cool-- + Where the water-blossoms glister, + And, by gleaming vale and vista, + Sits the English April's sister + Soft and sweet and wonderful. + Just to rest beyond the burning + Outer world--its sneers and spurning-- + Ah! my heart--my heart is yearning + Still to be by Mooni cool! + + Now, by Mooni's fair hill heads, + Lo, the gold green lights are glowing, + Where, because no wind is blowing, + Fancy hears the flowers growing + In the herby watersheds! + Faint it is--the sound of thunder + From the torrents far thereunder, + Where the meeting mountains ponder-- + Now, by Mooni's fair hill heads. + + Just to be where Mooni is, + Even where the fierce fall races + Down august, unfathomed places, + Where of sun or moon no trace is, + And the streams of shadows hiss! + Have I not an ample reason + So to long for--sick of treason-- + Something of the grand old season, + Just to be where Mooni is? + + + + +Pytheas + + + + Gaul whose keel in far, dim ages ploughed wan widths of polar sea-- + Gray old sailor of Massilia, who hath woven wreath for thee? + Who amongst the world's high singers ever breathed the tale sublime + Of the man who coasted England in the misty dawn of time? + Leaves of laurel, lights of music--these and these have never shed + Glory on the name unheard of, lustre on the vanished head. + Lords of song, and these are many, never yet have raised the lay + For the white, wind-beaten seaman of a wild, forgotten day. + Harp of shining son of Godhead still is as a voice august; + But the man who first saw Britain sleeps beneath unnoticed dust. + + From the fair, calm bays Hellenic, from the crescents and the bends, + Round the wall of crystal Athens, glowing in gold evening-ends, + Sailed abroad the grand, strong father, with his face towards the snow + Of the awful northern mountains, twenty centuries ago. + On the seas that none had heard of, by the shores where none had furled + Wing of canvas, passed this elder to the limits of the world. + Lurid limits, loud with thunder and the roar of flaming cone, + Ghastly tracts of ice and whirlwind lying in a dim, blind zone, + Bitter belts of naked region, girt about by cliffs of fear, + Where the Spirit of the Darkness dwells in heaven half the year. + + Yea, against the wild, weird Thule, steered the stranger through the gates + Opened by a fire eternal, into tempest-trampled straits-- + Thule, lying like a nightmare on the borders of the Pole: + Neither land, nor air, nor water, but a mixture of the whole! + Dumb, dead chaos, grey as spectre, now a mist and now a cloud, + Where the winds cry out for ever, and the wave is always loud. + Here the lord of many waters, in the great exalted years, + Saw the sight that no man knows of--heard the sound that no man hears-- + Felt that God was in the Shadow ere he turned his prow and sped + To the sweet green fields of England with the sunshine overhead. + + In the day when pallid Persia fled before the Thracian steel, + By the land that now is London passed the strange Hellenic keel. + Up the bends of quiet river, hard by banks of grove and flower, + Sailed the father through a silence in the old majestic hour. + Not a sound of fin or feather, not a note of wave or breeze, + Vext the face of sleeping streamlets, broke the rest of stirless trees. + Not a foot was in the forest, not a voice was in the wood, + When the elder from Massilia over English waters stood. + All was new, and hushed, and holy--all was pure untrodden space, + When the lord of many oceans turned to it a reverent face. + + Man who knew resplendent Athens, set and framed in silver sea, + Did not dream a dream of England--England of the years to be! + Friend of fathers like to Plato--bards august and hallowed seers-- + Did not see that tenfold glory, Britain of the future years! + Spirit filled with Grecian music, songs that charm the dark away, + On that large, supreme occasion, did not note diviner lay-- + Did not hear the voice of Shakespeare--all the mighty life was still, + Down the slopes that dipped to seaward, on the shoulders of the hill; + But the gold and green were brighter than the bloom of Thracian springs, + And a strange, surpassing beauty shone upon the face of things. + + In a grave that no man thinks of--back from far-forgotten bays-- + Sleeps the grey, wind-beaten sailor of the old exalted days. + He that coasted Wales and Dover, he that first saw Sussex plains, + Passed away with head unlaurelled in the wild Thessalian rains. + In a space by hand untended, by a fen of vapours blind, + Lies the king of many waters--out of sight and out of mind! + No one brings the yearly blossom--no one culls the flower of grace, + For the shell of mighty father buried in that lonely place; + But the winds are low and holy, and the songs of sweetness flow, + Where he fell asleep for ever, twenty centuries ago. + + + + +Bill the Bullock-Driver + + + + The leaders of millions, the lords of the lands, + Who sway the wide world with their will + And shake the great globe with the strength of their hands, + Flash past us--unnoticed by Bill. + + The elders of science who measure the spheres + And weigh the vast bulk of the sun-- + Who see the grand lights beyond aeons of years, + Are less than a bullock to _one_. + + The singers that sweeten all time with their song-- + Pure voices that make us forget + Humanity's drama of marvellous wrong-- + To Bill are as mysteries yet. + + By thunders of battle and nations uphurled, + Bill's sympathies never were stirred: + The helmsmen who stand at the wheel of the world + By him are unknown and unheard. + + What trouble has Bill for the ruin of lands, + Or the quarrels of temple and throne, + So long as the whip that he holds in his hands + And the team that he drives are his own? + + As straight and as sound as a slab without crack, + Our Bill is a king in his way; + Though he camps by the side of a shingle track, + And sleeps on the bed of his dray. + + A whip-lash to him is as dear as a rose + Would be to a delicate maid; + He carries his darlings wherever he goes, + In a pocket-book tattered and frayed. + + The joy of a bard when he happens to write + A song like the song of his dream + Is nothing at all to our hero's delight + In the pluck and the strength of his team. + + For the kings of the earth, for the faces august + Of princes, the millions may shout; + To Bill, as he lumbers along in the dust, + A bullock's the grandest thing out. + + His four-footed friends are the friends of his choice-- + No lover is Bill of your dames; + But the cattle that turn at the sound of his voice + Have the sweetest of features and names. + + A father's chief joy is a favourite son, + When he reaches some eminent goal, + But the pride of Bill's heart is the hairy-legged one + That pulls with a will at the pole. + + His dray is no living, responsible thing, + But he gives it the gender of life; + And, seeing his fancy is free in the wing, + It suits him as well as a wife. + + He thrives like an Arab. Between the two wheels + Is his bedroom, where, lying up-curled, + He thinks for himself, like a sultan, and feels + That his home is the best in the world. + + For, even though cattle, like subjects, will break + At times from the yoke and the band, + Bill knows how to act when his rule is at stake, + And is therefore a lord of the land. + + Of course he must dream; but be sure that his dreams, + If happy, must compass, alas! + Fat bullocks at feed by improbable streams, + Knee-deep in improbable grass. + + No poet is Bill, for the visions of night + To him are as visions of day; + And the pipe that in sleep he endeavours to light + Is the pipe that he smokes on the dray. + + To the mighty, magnificent temples of God, + In the hearts of the dominant hills, + Bill's eyes are as blind as the fire-blackened clod + That burns far away from the rills. + + Through beautiful, bountiful forests that screen + A marvel of blossoms from heat-- + Whose lights are the mellow and golden and green-- + Bill walks with irreverent feet. + + The manifold splendours of mountain and wood + By Bill like nonentities slip; + He loves the black myrtle because it is good + As a handle to lash to his whip. + + And thus through the world, with a swing in his tread, + Our hero self-satisfied goes; + With his cabbage-tree hat on the back of his head, + And the string of it under his nose. + + Poor bullocky Bill! In the circles select + Of the scholars he hasn't a place; + But he walks like a _man_, with his forehead erect, + And he looks at God's day in the face. + + For, rough as he seems, he would shudder to wrong + A dog with the loss of a hair; + And the angels of shine and superlative song + See his heart and the deity there. + + Few know him, indeed; but the beauty that glows + In the forest is loveliness still; + And Providence helping the life of the rose + Is a Friend and a Father to Bill. + + + + +Cooranbean + + + + Years fifty, and seven to boot, have smitten the children of men + Since sound of a voice or a foot came out of the head of that glen. + The brand of black devil is there--an evil wind moaneth around-- + There is doom, there is death in the air: a curse groweth up from the ground! + No noise of the axe or the saw in that hollow unholy is heard, + No fall of the hoof or the paw, no whirr of the wing of the bird; + But a grey mother down by the sea, as wan as the foam on the strait, + Has counted the beads on her knee these forty-nine winters and eight. + + Whenever an elder is asked--a white-headed man of the woods-- + Of the terrible mystery masked where the dark everlastingly broods, + Be sure he will turn to the bay, with his back to the glen in the range, + And glide like a phantom away, with a countenance pallid with change. + From the line of dead timber that lies supine at the foot of the glade, + The fierce-featured eaglehawk flies--afraid as a dove is afraid; + But back in that wilderness dread are a fall and the forks of a ford-- + _Ah! pray and uncover your head, and lean like a child on the Lord._ + + A sinister fog at the wane--at the change of the moon cometh forth + Like an ominous ghost in the train of a bitter, black storm of the north! + At the head of the gully unknown it hangs like a spirit of bale. + And the noise of a shriek and a groan strikes up in the gusts of the gale. + In the throat of a feculent pit is the beard of a bloody-red sedge; + And a foam like the foam of a fit sweats out of the lips of the ledge. + But down in the water of death, in the livid, dead pool at the base-- + _Bow low, with inaudible breath, beseech with the hands to the face!_ + + A furlong of fetid, black fen, with gelid, green patches of pond, + Lies dumb by the horns of the glen--at the gates of the horror beyond; + And those who have looked on it tell of the terrible growths that are there-- + The flowerage fostered by hell, the blossoms that startle and scare. + If ever a wandering bird should light on Gehennas like this + Be sure that a cry will be heard, and the sound of the flat adder's hiss. + But hard by the jaws of the bend is a ghastly Thing matted with moss-- + _Ah, Lord! be a father, a friend, for the sake of the Christ of the Cross._ + + Black Tom, with the sinews of five--that never a hangman could hang-- + In the days of the shackle and gyve, broke loose from the guards of the gang. + Thereafter, for seasons a score, this devil prowled under the ban; + A mate of red talon and paw, a wolf in the shape of a man. + But, ringed by ineffable fire, in a thunder and wind of the north, + The sword of Omnipotent ire--the bolt of high Heaven went forth! + But, wan as the sorrowful foam, a grey mother waits by the sea + For the boys that have never come home these fifty-four winters and three. + + From the folds of the forested hills there are ravelled and roundabout tracks, + Because of the terror that fills the strong-handed men of the axe! + Of the workers away in the range there is none that will wait for the night, + When the storm-stricken moon is in change and the sinister fog is in sight. + And later and deep in the dark, when the bitter wind whistles about, + There is never a howl or a bark from the dog in the kennel without, + But the white fathers fasten the door, and often and often they start, + At a sound like a foot on the floor and a touch like a hand on the heart. + + + + +When Underneath the Brown Dead Grass + + + + When underneath the brown dead grass + My weary bones are laid, + I hope I shall not see the glass + At ninety in the shade. + I trust indeed that, when I lie + Beneath the churchyard pine, + I shall not hear that startling cry + "'Thermom' is ninety-nine!" + + If one should whisper through my sleep + "Come up and be alive," + I'd answer--_No, unless you'll keep + The glass at sixty-five._ + I _might_ be willing if allowed + To wear old Adam's rig, + And mix amongst the city crowd + Like Polynesian "nig". + + Far better in the sod to lie, + With pasturing pig above, + Than broil beneath a copper sky-- + In sight of all I love! + Far better to be turned to grass + To feed the poley cow, + Than be the half boiled bream, alas, + That I am really now! + + For cow and pig I would not hear, + And hoof I would not see; + But if these items did appear + They wouldn't trouble me. + For ah! the pelt of mortal man + Weighs less than half a ton, + And any sight is better than + A sultry southern sun. + + + + +The Voice in the Wild Oak + + (Written in the shadow of 1872.) + + + + Twelve years ago, when I could face + High heaven's dome with different eyes-- + In days full-flowered with hours of grace, + And nights not sad with sighs-- + I wrote a song in which I strove + To shadow forth thy strain of woe, + Dark widowed sister of the grove!-- + Twelve wasted years ago. + + But youth was then too young to find + Those high authentic syllables, + Whose voice is like the wintering wind + By sunless mountain fells; + Nor had I sinned and suffered then + To that superlative degree + That I would rather seek, than men, + Wild fellowship with thee! + + But he who hears this autumn day + Thy more than deep autumnal rhyme, + Is one whose hair was shot with grey + By Grief instead of Time. + He has no need, like many a bard, + To sing imaginary pain, + Because he bears, and finds it hard, + The punishment of Cain. + + No more he sees the affluence + Which makes the heart of Nature glad; + For he has lost the fine, first sense + Of Beauty that he had. + The old delight God's happy breeze + Was wont to give, to Grief has grown; + And therefore, Niobe of trees, + His song is like thine own! + + But I, who am that perished soul, + Have wasted so these powers of mine, + That I can never write that whole, + Pure, perfect speech of thine. + Some lord of words august, supreme, + The grave, grand melody demands; + The dark translation of thy theme + I leave to other hands. + + Yet here, where plovers nightly call + Across dim, melancholy leas-- + Where comes by whistling fen and fall + The moan of far-off seas-- + A grey, old Fancy often sits + Beneath thy shade with tired wings, + And fills thy strong, strange rhyme by fits + With awful utterings. + + Then times there are when all the words + Are like the sentences of one + Shut in by Fate from wind and birds + And light of stars and sun, + No dazzling dryad, but a dark + Dream-haunted spirit doomed to be + Imprisoned, crampt in bands of bark, + For all eternity. + + Yea, like the speech of one aghast + At Immortality in chains, + What time the lordly storm rides past + With flames and arrowy rains: + Some wan Tithonus of the wood, + White with immeasurable years-- + An awful ghost in solitude + With moaning moors and meres. + + And when high thunder smites the hill + And hunts the wild dog to his den, + Thy cries, like maledictions, shrill + And shriek from glen to glen, + As if a frightful memory whipped + Thy soul for some infernal crime + That left it blasted, blind, and stript-- + A dread to Death and Time! + + But when the fair-haired August dies, + And flowers wax strong and beautiful, + Thy songs are stately harmonies + By wood-lights green and cool-- + Most like the voice of one who shows + Through sufferings fierce, in fine relief, + A noble patience and repose-- + A dignity in grief. + + But, ah! conceptions fade away, + And still the life that lives in thee-- + The soul of thy majestic lay-- + Remains a mystery! + And he must speak the speech divine-- + The language of the high-throned lords-- + Who'd give that grand old theme of thine + Its sense in faultless words. + + By hollow lands and sea-tracts harsh, + With ruin of the fourfold gale, + Where sighs the sedge and sobs the marsh, + Still wail thy lonely wail; + And, year by year, one step will break + The sleep of far hill-folded streams, + And seek, if only for thy sake + Thy home of many dreams. + + + + +Billy Vickers + + + + No song is this of leaf and bird, + And gracious waters flowing; + I'm sick at heart, for I have heard + Big Billy Vickers "blowing". + + He'd never take a leading place + In chambers legislative: + This booby with the vacant face-- + This hoddy-doddy native! + + Indeed, I'm forced to say aside, + To you, O reader, solely, + He only wants the horns and hide + To be a bullock wholly. + + But, like all noodles, he is vain; + And when his tongue is wagging, + I feel inclined to copy Cain, + And "drop" him for his bragging. + + He, being Bush-bred, stands, of course, + Six feet his dirty socks in; + His lingo is confined to horse + And plough, and pig and oxen. + + Two years ago he'd less to say + Within his little circuit; + But now he has, besides a dray, + A team of twelve to work it. + + No wonder is it that he feels + Inclined to clack and rattle + About his bullocks and his wheels-- + He owns a dozen cattle. + + In short, to be exact and blunt, + In his own estimation + He's "out and out" the head and front + Top-sawyer of creation! + + For, mark me, he can "sit a buck" + For hours and hours together; + And never horse has had the luck + To pitch him from the leather. + + If ever he should have a "spill" + Upon the grass or gravel, + Be sure of this, the saddle will + With Billy Vickers travel. + + At punching oxen you may guess + There's nothing out can "camp" him: + He has, in fact, the slouch and dress + Which bullock-driver stamp him. + + I do not mean to give offence, + But I have vainly striven + To ferret out the difference + 'Twixt driver and the driven. + + Of course, the statements herein made + In every other stanza + Are Billy's own; and I'm afraid + They're stark extravaganza. + + I feel constrained to treat as trash + His noisy fiddle-faddle + About his doings with the lash, + His feats upon the saddle. + + But grant he "knows his way about", + Or grant that he is silly, + There cannot be the slightest doubt + Of Billy's faith in Billy. + + Of all the doings of the day + His ignorance is utter; + But he can quote the price of hay, + The current rate of butter. + + His notions of our leading men + Are mixed and misty very: + He knows a cochin-china hen-- + He never speaks of Berry. + + As you'll assume, he hasn't heard + Of Madame Patti's singing; + But I will stake my solemn word + He knows what maize is bringing. + + Surrounded by majestic peaks, + By lordly mountain ranges, + Where highest voice of thunder speaks + His aspect never changes. + + The grand Pacific there beyond + His dirty hut is glowing: + He only sees a big salt pond, + O'er which his grain is going. + + The sea that covers half the sphere, + With all its stately speeches, + Is held by Bill to be a mere + Broad highway for his peaches. + + Through Nature's splendid temples he + Plods, under mountains hoary; + But he has not the eyes to see + Their grandeur and their glory. + + A bullock in a biped's boot, + I iterate, is Billy! + He crushes with a careless foot + The touching water-lily. + + I've said enough--I'll let him go! + If he could read these verses, + He'd pepper me for hours, I know, + With his peculiar curses. + + But this is sure, he'll never change + His manners loud and flashy, + Nor learn with neatness to arrange + His clothing, cheap and trashy. + + Like other louts, he'll jog along, + And swig at shanty liquors, + And chew and spit. Here ends the song + Of Mr. Billy Vickers. + + + + +Persia + + + + I am writing this song at the close + Of a beautiful day of the spring + In a dell where the daffodil grows + By a grove of the glimmering wing; + From glades where a musical word + Comes ever from luminous fall, + I send you the song of a bird + That I wish to be dear to you all. + + I have given my darling the name + Of a land at the gates of the day, + Where morning is always the same, + And spring never passes away. + With a prayer for a lifetime of light, + I christened her Persia, you see; + And I hope that some fathers to-night + Will kneel in the spirit with me. + + She is only commencing to look + At the beauty in which she is set; + And forest and flower and brook, + To her are all mysteries yet. + I know that to many my words + Will seem insignificant things; + But _you_ who are mothers of birds + Will feel for the father who sings. + + For all of you doubtless have been + Where sorrows are many and wild; + And you _know_ what a beautiful scene + Of this world can be made by a child: + I am sure, if they listen to this, + Sweet women will quiver, and long + To tenderly stoop to and kiss + The Persia I've put in a song. + + And I'm certain the critic will pause, + And excuse, for the sake of my bird, + My sins against critical laws-- + The slips in the thought and the word. + And haply some dear little face + Of his own to his mind will occur-- + Some Persia who brightens his place-- + And I'll be forgiven for her. + + A life that is turning to grey + Has hardly been happy, you see; + But the rose that has dropped on my way + Is morning and music to me. + Yea, she that I hold by the hand + Is changing white winter to green, + And making a light of the land-- + All fathers will know what I mean: + + All women and men who have known + The sickness of sorrow and sin, + Will feel--having babes of their own-- + My verse and the pathos therein. + For that must be touching which shows + How a life has been led from the wild + To a garden of glitter and rose, + By the flower-like hand of a child. + + She is strange to this wonderful sphere; + One summer and winter have set + Since God left her radiance here-- + Her sweet second year is not yet. + The world is so lovely and new + To eyes full of eloquent light, + And, sisters, I'm hoping that you + Will pray for my Persia to-night. + + For I, who have suffered so much, + And know what the bitterness is, + Am sad to think sorrow must touch + Some day even darlings like this! + But sorrow is part of this life, + And, therefore, a father doth long + For the blessing of mother and wife + On the bird he has put in a song. + + + + +Lilith + + + + Strange is the song, and the soul that is singing + Falters because of the vision it sees; + Voice that is not of the living is ringing + Down in the depths where the darkness is clinging, + Even when Noon is the lord of the leas, + Fast, like a curse, to the ghosts of the trees! + + Here in a mist that is parted in sunder, + Half with the darkness and half with the day; + Face of a woman, but face of a wonder, + Vivid and wild as a flame of the thunder, + Flashes and fades, and the wail of the grey + Water is loud on the straits of the bay! + + Father, whose years have been many and weary-- + Elder, whose life is as lovely as light + Shining in ways that are sterile and dreary-- + Tell me the name of this beautiful peri, + Flashing on me like the wonderful white + Star, at the meeting of morning and night. + + Look to thy Saviour, and down on thy knee, man, + Lean on the Lord, as the Zebedee leaned; + Daughter of hell is the neighbour of thee, man-- + Lilith, of Adam the luminous leman! + Turn to the Christ to be succoured and screened, + Saved from the eyes of a marvellous fiend! + + Serpent she is in the shape of a woman, + Brighter than woman, ineffably fair! + Shelter thyself from the splendour, and sue, man; + Light that was never a loveliness human + Lives in the face of this sinister snare, + Longing to strangle thy soul with her hair! + + Lilith, who came to the father and bound him + Fast with her eyes in the first of the springs; + Lilith she is, but remember she drowned him, + Shedding her flood of gold tresses around him-- + Lulled him to sleep with the lyric she sings: + Melody strange with unspeakable things! + + Low is her voice, but beware of it ever, + Swift bitter death is the fruit of delay; + Never was song of its beauty--ah! never-- + Heard on the mountain, or meadow, or river, + Not of the night is it, not of the day-- + Fly from it, stranger, away and away. + + Back on the hills are the blossom and feather, + Glory of noon is on valley and spire; + Here is the grace of magnificent weather, + Where is the woman from gulfs of the nether? + Where is the fiend with the face of desire? + Gone, with a cry, in miraculous fire! + + Sound that was not of this world, or the spacious + Splendid blue heaven, has passed from the lea; + Dead is the voice of the devil audacious: + Only a dream is her music fallacious, + Here, in the song and the shadow of tree, + Down by the green and the gold of the sea. + + + + +Bob + + + + Singer of songs of the hills-- + Dreamer, by waters unstirred, + Back in a valley of rills, + Home of the leaf and the bird!-- + Read in this fall of the year + Just the compassionate phrase, + Faded with traces of tear, + Written in far-away days: + + "_Gone is the light of my lap + (Lord, at Thy bidding I bow), + Here is my little one's cap, + He has no need of it now, + Give it to somebody's boy-- + Somebody's darling_"--she wrote. + Touching was Bob in his joy-- + Bob without boots or a coat. + + Only a cap; but it gave + Capless and comfortless one + Happiness, bright as the brave, + Beautiful light of the sun. + Soft may the sanctified sod + Rest on the father who led + Bob from the gutter, unshod-- + Covered his cold little head! + + Bob from the foot to the crown + Measured a yard, and no more-- + Baby alone in the town, + Homeless, and hungry, and sore-- + Child that was never a child, + Hiding away from the rain, + Draggled and dirty and wild, + Down in a pipe of the drain. + + Poor little beggar was Bob-- + Couldn't afford to be sick, + Getting a penny a job, + Sometimes a curse and a kick. + Father was killed by the drink; + Mother was driven to shame; + Bob couldn't manage to think-- + He had forgotten their name. + + God was in heaven above, + Flowers illumined the ground, + Women of infinite love + Lived in the palaces round-- + Saints with the character sweet + Found in the fathers of old, + Laboured in alley and street-- + Baby slept out in the cold. + + Nobody noticed the child-- + Nobody knew of the mite + Creeping about like a wild + Thing in the shadow of night. + Beaten by drunkards and cowed-- + Frightened to speak or to sob-- + How could he ask you aloud, + "_Have you a penny for Bob?_" + + Few were the pennies he got-- + Seldom could hide them away, + Watched by the ravenous sot + Ever at wait for his prey. + Poor little man! He would weep + Oft for a morsel of bread; + Coppers he wanted to keep + Went to the tavern instead. + + This was his history, friend-- + Ragged, unhoused, and alone; + How could the child comprehend + Love that he never had known? + Hunted about in the world, + Crouching in crevices dim, + Crust with a curse at him hurled + Stood for a kindness with him. + + Little excited his joy-- + Bun after doing a job; + Mother of bright-headed boy, + Think of the motherless Bob! + High in the heavens august + Providence saw him, and said-- + "_Out of the pits of the dust + Lift him, and cover his head._" + + Ah, the ineffable grace, + Father of children, in Thee! + Boy in a radiant place, + Fanned by the breeze of the sea-- + Child on a lullaby lap + Said, in the pause of his pain, + "_Mother, don't bury my cap-- + Give it to Bob in the lane._" + + Beautiful bidding of Death! + What could she do but obey, + Even when suffering Faith + Hadn't the power to pray? + So, in the fall of the year, + Saint with the fatherly head + Hunted for somebody's dear-- + "_Somebody's darling,_" he said. + + Bob, who was nobody's child, + Sitting on nobody's lap, + Draggled and dirty and wild-- + Bob got the little one's cap. + Strange were compassionate words! + Waif of the alley and lane + Dreamed of the music of birds + Floating about in the rain. + + White-headed father in God, + Over thy beautiful grave + Green is the grass of the sod, + Soft is the sound of the wave. + Down by the slopes of the sea + Often and often will sob + Boy who was fostered by thee-- + This is the story of Bob. + + + + +Peter the Piccaninny + + + + He has a name which can't be brought + Within the sphere of metre; + But, as he's Peter by report, + I'll trot him out as Peter. + + I call him mine; but don't suppose + That I'm his dad, O reader! + My wife has got a Norman nose-- + She reads the tales of Ouida. + + I never loved a nigger belle-- + My tastes are too aesthetic! + The perfume from a gin is--well, + A rather strong emetic. + + But, seeing that my theme is Pete, + This verse will be the neater + If I keep on the proper beat, + And stick throughout to Peter. + + We picked him up the Lord knows where! + At noon we came across him + Asleep beside a hunk of bear-- + His paunch was bulged with 'possum. + + (Last stanza will not bear, I own, + A pressure analytic; + But bard whose weight is fourteen stone, + Is apt to thump the critic.) + + We asked the kid to give his name: + He didn't seem too willing-- + The darkey played the darkey's game-- + We tipped him with a shilling! + + We tipped him with a shining bob-- + No Tommy Dodd, believe us. + We didn't "tumble" to his job-- + Ah, why did Pete deceive us! + + I, being, as I've said, a bard, + Resolved at once to foster + This mite whose length was just a yard-- + This portable impostor! + + "This babe"--I spoke in Wordsworth's tone-- + (See Wordsworth's "Lucy", neighbour) + "I'll make a darling of my own; + And he'll repay my labour. + + "He'll grow as gentle as a fawn-- + As quiet as the blossoms + That beautify a land of lawn-- + He'll eat no more opossums. + + "The child I to myself will take + In a paternal manner; + And ah! he will not swallow snake + In future, or 'goanna'. + + "Will you reside with me, my dear?" + I asked in accents mellow-- + The nigger grinned from ear to ear, + And said, "All right, old fellow!" + + And so my Pete was taken home-- + My pretty piccaninny! + And, not to speak of soap or comb, + His cleansing cost a guinea. + + "But hang expenses!" I exclaimed, + "I'll give him education: + A 'nig' is better when he's tamed, + Perhaps, than a Caucasian. + + "Ethnologists are in the wrong + About our sable brothers; + And I intend to stop the song + Of Pickering and others." + + Alas, I didn't do it though! + Old Pickering's conclusions + Were to the point, as issues show, + And mine were mere delusions. + + My inky pet was clothed and fed + For months exceeding forty; + But to the end, it must be said, + His ways were very naughty. + + When told about the Land of Morn + Above this world of Mammon, + He'd shout, with an emphatic scorn, + "Ah, gammon, gammon, gammon!" + + He never lingered, like the bard, + To sniff at rose expanding. + "Me like," he said, "em cattle-yard-- + Fine smell--de smell of branding!" + + The soul of man, I tried to show, + Went up beyond our vision. + "You ebber see dat fellow go?" + He asked in sheer derision. + + In short, it soon occurred to me + This kid of six or seven, + Who wouldn't learn his A B C, + Was hardly ripe for heaven. + + He never lost his appetite-- + He bigger grew, and bigger; + And proved, with every inch of height, + A nigger is a nigger. + + And, looking from this moment back, + I have a strong persuasion + That, after all, a finished black + Is not the "clean"--Caucasian. + + Dear Peter from my threshold went, + One morning in the body: + He "dropped" me, to oblige a gent-- + A gent with spear and waddy! + + He shelved me for a boomerang-- + We never had a quarrel; + And, if a moral here doth hang, + Why let it hang--the moral! + + My mournful tale its course has run-- + My Pete, when last I spied him, + Was eating 'possum underdone: + He had his gin beside him. + + + + +Narrara Creek + + (Written in the shadow of 1872.) + + + + From the rainy hill-heads, where, in starts and in spasms, + Leaps wild the white torrent from chasms to chasms-- + From the home of bold echoes, whose voices of wonder + Fly out of blind caverns struck black by high thunder-- + Through gorges august, in whose nether recesses + Is heard the far psalm of unseen wildernesses-- + Like a dominant spirit, a strong-handed sharer + Of spoil with the tempest, comes down the Narrara. + + Yea, where the great sword of the hurricane cleaveth + The forested fells that the dark never leaveth-- + By fierce-featured crags, in whose evil abysses + The clammy snake coils, and the flat adder hisses-- + Past lordly rock temples, where Silence is riven + By the anthems supreme of the four winds of heaven-- + It speeds, with the cry of the streams of the fountains + It chained to its sides, and dragged down from the mountains! + + But when it goes forth from the slopes with a sally-- + Being strengthened with tribute from many a valley-- + It broadens and brightens, and thereupon marches + Above the stream sapphires and under green arches, + With the rhythm of majesty--careless of cumber-- + Its might in repose and its fierceness in slumber-- + Till it beams on the plains, where the wind is a bearer + Of words from the sea to the stately Narrara! + + Narrara! grand son of the haughty hill torrent, + Too late in my day have I looked at thy current-- + Too late in my life to discern and inherit + The soul of thy beauty, the joy of thy spirit! + With the years of the youth and the hairs of the hoary, + I sit like a shadow outside of thy glory; + Nor look with the morning-like feelings, O river, + That illumined the boy in the days gone for ever! + + Ah! sad are the sounds of old ballads which borrow + One-half of their grief from the listener's sorrow; + And sad are the eyes of the pilgrim who traces + The ruins of Time in revisited places; + But sadder than all is the sense of his losses + That cometh to one when a sudden age crosses + And cripples his manhood. So, stricken by fate, I + Felt older at thirty than some do at eighty. + + Because I believe in the beautiful story, + The poem of Greece in the days of her glory-- + That the high-seated Lord of the woods and the waters + Has peopled His world with His deified daughters-- + That flowerful forests and waterways streaming + Are gracious with goddesses glowing and gleaming-- + I pray that thy singing divinity, fairer + Than wonderful women, may listen, Narrara! + + O spirit of sea-going currents!--thou, being + The child of immortals, all-knowing, all-seeing-- + Thou hast at thy heart the dark truth that I borrow + For the song that I sing thee, no fanciful sorrow; + In the sight of thine eyes is the history written + Of Love smitten down as the strong leaf is smitten; + And before thee there goeth a phantom beseeching + For faculties forfeited--hopes beyond reaching. + + . . . . . + + Thou knowest, O sister of deities blazing + With splendour ineffable, beauty amazing, + What life the gods gave me--what largess I tasted-- + The youth thrown away, and the faculties wasted. + I might, as thou seest, have stood in high places, + Instead of in pits where the brand of disgrace is, + A byword for scoffers--a butt and a caution, + With the grave of poor Burns and Maginn for my portion. + + But the heart of the Father Supreme is offended, + And my life in the light of His favour is ended; + And, whipped by inflexible devils, I shiver, + With a hollow "_Too late_" in my hearing for ever; + But thou--being sinless, exalted, supernal, + The daughter of diademed gods, the eternal-- + Shalt shine in thy waters when time and existence + Have dwindled, like stars, in unspeakable distance. + + But the face of thy river--the torrented power + That smites at the rock while it fosters the flower-- + Shall gleam in my dreams with the summer-look splendid, + And the beauty of woodlands and waterfalls blended; + And often I'll think of far-forested noises, + And the emphasis deep of grand sea-going voices, + And turn to Narrara the eyes of a lover, + When the sorrowful days of my singing are over. + + + + +In Memory of John Fairfax + + + + Because this man fulfilled his days, + Like one who walks with steadfast gaze + Averted from forbidden ways + With lures of fair, false flowerage deep, + Behold the Lord whose throne is dim + With fires of flaming seraphim-- + The Christ that suffered sent for him: + "He giveth His beloved sleep." + + Think not that souls whose deeds august + Put sin to shame and make men just + Become at last the helpless dust + That wintering winds through waste-lands sweep! + The higher life within us cries, + Like some fine spirit from the skies, + "The Father's blessing on us lies-- + 'He giveth His beloved sleep.'" + + Not human sleep--the fitful rest + With evil shapes of dreams distressed,-- + But perfect quiet, unexpressed + By any worldly word we keep. + The dim Hereafter framed in creeds + May not be this; but He who reads + Our lives, sets flowers on wayside weeds-- + "He giveth His beloved sleep." + + Be sure this hero who has passed + The human space--the outer vast-- + Who worked in harness to the last, + Doth now a hallowed harvest reap. + Love sees his grave, nor turns away-- + The eyes of faith are like the day, + And grief has not a word to say-- + "He giveth His beloved sleep." + + That fair, rare spirit, Honour, throws + A light, which puts to shame the rose, + Across his grave, because she knows + The son whose ashes it doth keep; + And, like far music, _this_ is heard-- + "Behold the man who never stirred, + By word of his, an angry word!-- + 'He giveth His beloved sleep.'" + + He earned his place. Within his hands, + The power which counsels and commands, + And shapes the social life of lands, + Became a blessing pure and deep. + Through thirty years of turbulence + Our thoughts were sweetened with a sense + Of his benignant influence-- + "He giveth His beloved sleep." + + No splendid talents, which excite + Like music, songs, or floods of light, + Were his; but, rather, all those bright, + Calm qualities of soul which reap + A mute, but certain, fine respect, + Not only from a source elect, + But from the hearts of every sect-- + "He giveth His beloved sleep." + + He giveth His beloved rest! + The faithful soul that onward pressed, + Unswerving, from Life's east to west, + By paths austere and passes steep, + Is past all toil; and, over Death, + With reverent hands and prayerful breath, + I plant this flower, alive with faith-- + "He giveth His beloved sleep." + + + + +Araluen + + -- + * Araluen: The poet's daughter, who died in infancy. + -- + + + + Take this rose, and very gently place it on the tender, deep + Mosses where our little darling, Araluen, lies asleep. + Put the blossom close to baby--kneel with me, my love, and pray; + We must leave the bird we've buried--say good-bye to her to-day. + In the shadow of our trouble we must go to other lands, + And the flowers we have fostered will be left to other hands: + Other eyes will watch them growing--other feet will softly tread + Where two hearts are nearly breaking, where so many tears are shed. + Bitter is the world we live in: life and love are mixed with pain; + We will never see these daisies--never water them again. + + Ah! the saddest thought in leaving baby in this bush alone + Is that we have not been able on her grave to place a stone: + We have been too poor to do it; but, my darling, never mind-- + God is in the gracious heavens, and His sun and rain are kind: + They will dress the spot with beauty, they will make the grasses grow: + Many winds will lull our birdie, many songs will come and go. + Here the blue-eyed Spring will linger, here the shining month will stay, + Like a friend, by Araluen, when we two are far away; + But beyond the wild, wide waters, we will tread another shore-- + We will never watch this blossom, never see it any more. + + Girl, whose hand at God's high altar in the dear, dead year I pressed, + Lean your stricken head upon me--this is still your lover's breast! + She who sleeps was first and sweetest--none we have to take her place; + Empty is the little cradle--absent is the little face. + Other children may be given; but this rose beyond recall, + But this garland of your girlhood, will be dearest of them all. + None will ever, Araluen, nestle where you used to be, + In my heart of hearts, you darling, when the world was new to me; + We were young when you were with us, life and love were happy things + To your father and your mother ere the angels gave you wings. + + You that sit and sob beside me--you, upon whose golden head + Many rains of many sorrows have from day to day been shed; + Who because your love was noble, faced with me the lot austere + Ever pressing with its hardship on the man of letters here-- + Let me feel that you are near me, lay your hand within mine own; + You are all I have to live for, now that we are left alone. + Three there were, but one has vanished. Sins of mine have made you weep; + But forgive your baby's father now that baby is asleep. + Let us go, for night is falling; leave the darling with her flowers; + Other hands will come and tend them--other friends in other hours. + + + + +The Sydney International Exhibition + + (The poem which won the prize offered by the proprietors + of the "Sydney Morning Herald".) + + + + Now, while Orion, flaming south, doth set + A shining foot on hills of wind and wet-- + Far haughty hills beyond the fountains cold + And dells of glimmering greenness manifold-- + While August sings the advent of the Spring, + And in the calm is heard September's wing, + The lordly voice of song I ask of thee, + High, deathless radiance--crowned Calliope! + What though we never hear the great god's lays + Which made all music the Hellenic days-- + What though the face of thy fair heaven beams + Still only on the crystal Grecian streams-- + What though a sky of new, strange beauty shines + Where no white Dryad sings within the pines: + Here is a land whose large, imperial grace + Must tempt thee, goddess, in thine holy place! + Here are the dells of peace and plenilune, + The hills of morning and the slopes of noon; + Here are the waters dear to days of blue, + And dark-green hollows of the noontide dew; + Here lies the harp, by fragrant wood-winds fanned, + That waits the coming of thy quickening hand! + And shall Australia, framed and set in sea, + August with glory, wait in vain for thee? + Shall more than Tempe's beauty be unsung + Because its shine is strange--its colours young? + No! by the full, live light which puts to shame + The far, fair splendours of Thessalian flame-- + By yonder forest psalm which sinks and swells + Like that of Phocis, grave with oracles-- + By deep prophetic winds that come and go + Where whispering springs of pondering mountains flow-- + By lute-like leaves and many-languaged caves, + Where sounds the strong hosanna of the waves, + This great new majesty shall not remain + Unhonoured by the high immortal strain! + Soon, soon, the music of the southern lyre + Shall start and blossom with a speech like fire! + Soon, soon, shall flower and flow in flame divine + Thy songs, Apollo, and Euterpe, thine! + Strong, shining sons of Delphicus shall rise + With all their father's glory in their eyes; + And then shall beam on yonder slopes and springs + The light that swims upon the light of things. + And therefore, lingering in a land of lawn, + I, standing here, a singer of the dawn, + With gaze upturned to where wan summits lie + Against the morning flowing up the sky-- + Whose eyes in dreams of many colours see + A glittering vision of the years to be-- + Do ask of thee, Calliope, one hour + Of life pre-eminent with perfect power, + That I may leave a song whose lonely rays + May shine hereafter from these songless days. + + For now there breaks across the faint grey range + The rose-red dawning of a radiant change. + A soft, sweet voice is in the valleys deep, + Where darkness droops and sings itself to sleep. + The grave, mute woods, that yet the silence hold + Of dim, dead ages, gleam with hints of gold. + Yon eastern cape that meets the straitened wave-- + A twofold tower above the whistling cave-- + Whose strength in thunder shields the gentle lea, + And makes a white wrath of a league of sea, + Now wears the face of peace; and in the bay + The weak, spent voice of Winter dies away. + In every dell there is a whispering wing, + On every lawn a glimmer of the Spring; + By every hill are growths of tender green-- + On every slope a fair, new life is seen; + And lo! beneath the morning's blossoming fires, + The shining city of a hundred spires, + In mists of gold, by countless havens furled, + And glad with all the flags of all the world! + + These are the shores, where, in a dream of fear, + Cathay saw darkness dwelling half the year!*1* + These are the coasts that old fallacious tales + Chained down with ice and ringed with sleepless gales! + This is the land that, in the hour of awe, + From Indian peaks the rapt Venetian saw!*2* + Here is the long grey line of strange sea wall + That checked the prow of the audacious Gaul, + What time he steered towards the southern snow, + From zone to zone, four hundred years ago!*3* + By yonder gulf, whose marching waters meet + The wine-dark currents from the isles of heat, + Strong sons of Europe, in a far dim year, + Faced ghastly foes, and felt the alien spear! + There, in a later dawn, by shipless waves, + The tender grasses found forgotten graves.*4* + Far in the west, beyond those hills sublime, + Dirk Hartog anchored in the olden time; + There, by a wild-faced bay, and in a cleft, + His shining name the fair-haired Northman left;*5* + And, on those broad imperial waters, far + Beneath the lordly occidental star, + Sailed Tasman down a great and glowing space + Whose softer lights were like his lady's face. + In dreams of her he roved from zone to zone, + And gave her lovely name to coasts unknown*6* + And saw, in streaming sunset everywhere, + The curious beauty of her golden hair, + By flaming tracts of tropic afternoon, + Where in low heavens hangs a fourfold moon. + Here, on the tides of a resplendent year, + By capes of jasper, came the buccaneer.*7* + Then, then, the wild men, flying from the beach, + First heard the clear, bold sounds of English speech; + And then first fell across a Southern plain + The broad, strong shadows of a Saxon train. + Near yonder wall of stately cliff, that braves + The arrogance of congregated waves, + The daring son of grey old Yorkshire stood + And dreamed in a majestic solitude, + What time a gentle April shed its showers, + Aflame with sunset, on the Bay of Flowers.*8* + The noble seaman who withheld the hand, + And spared the Hector of his native land-- + The single savage, yelling on the beach + The dark, strange curses of barbaric speech. + Exalted sailor! whose benignant phrase + Shines full of beauty in these latter days; + Who met the naked tribes of fiery skies + With great, divine compassion in his eyes; + Who died, like Him of hoary Nazareth, + That death august--the radiant martyr's death; + Who in the last hour showed the Christian face + Whose crumbling beauty shamed the alien race. + In peace he sleeps where deep eternal calms + Lie round the land of heavy-fruited palms. + Lo! in that dell, behind a singing bar, + Where deep, pure pools of glittering waters are, + Beyond a mossy, yellow, gleaming glade, + The last of Forby Sutherland was laid-- + The blue-eyed Saxon from the hills of snow + Who fell asleep a hundred years ago. + In flowerful shades, where gold and green are rife, + Still rests the shell of his forgotten life. + Far, far away, beneath some northern sky + The fathers of his humble household lie; + But by his lonely grave are sapphire streams, + And gracious woodlands, where the fire-fly gleams; + And ever comes across a silver lea + The hymn sublime of the eternal sea. + + -- + *1* According to Mr. R. H. Major, and others, the Great Southern Land + is referred to in old Chinese records as a polar continent, + subject to the long polar nights. + *2* Marco Polo mentions a large land called by the Malays Lochac. + The northern coast was supposed to be in latitude 10 Degrees S. + *3* Mr. R. H. Major discovered a map of Terra Australis + dated A.D. 1555 and bearing the name of Le Testu, a French pilot. + Le Testu must have visited these coasts some years before + the date of the chart. + *4* The sailors of the _Duyfken_, a Dutch vessel which entered + the Gulf of Carpentaria in A.D. 1606, were attacked by the natives. + In the fray some of the whites were killed. No doubt these + unlucky adventurers were the first Europeans buried in Australia. + *5* Dirk Hartog left a tin plate, bearing his name, in Shark Bay, + Western Australia. + *6* The story of Tasman's love for Maria, the daughter of Governor Van Diemen, + was generally accepted at the time Kendall wrote; but it has since + been disproved. Maria was the wife of Antony Van Diemen, + Governor of Batavia, who had no children.--Ed. + *7* Dampier. + *8* Botany Bay. + -- + + On that bold hill, against a broad blue stream, + Stood Arthur Phillip in a day of dream: + What time the mists of morning westward rolled, + And heaven flowered on a bay of gold! + Here, in the hour that shines and sounds afar, + Flamed first old England's banner like a star; + Here, in a time august with prayer and praise, + Was born the nation of these splendid days; + And here this land's majestic yesterday + Of immemorial silence died away. + Where are the woods that, ninety summers back, + Stood hoar with ages by the water-track? + Where are the valleys of the flashing wing, + The dim green margins and the glimmering spring? + Where now the warrior of the forest race, + His glaring war-paint and his fearless face? + The banks of April and the groves of bird, + The glades of silence and the pools unstirred, + The gleaming savage and the whistling spear, + Passed with the passing of a wild old year! + A single torrent singing by the wave, + A shadowy relic in a mountain cave, + A ghost of fire in immemorial hills, + The whittled tree by folded wayside rills, + The call of bird that hides in hollows far, + Where feet of thunder, wings of winter are-- + Of all that Past, these wrecks of wind and rain, + These touching memories--these alone remain! + + What sun is this that beams and broadens west? + What wonder this, in deathless glory dressed? + What strange, sweet harp of highest god took flame + And gave this Troy its life, its light, its name? + What awful lyre of marvellous power and range + Upraised this Ilion--wrought this dazzling change? + No shining singer of Hellenic dreams + Set yonder splendour by the morning streams! + No god who glimmers in a doubtful sphere + Shed glory there--created beauty here! + This is the city that our fathers framed-- + These are the crescents by the elders named! + The human hands of strong, heroic men + Broke down the mountain, filled the gaping glen, + Ran streets through swamp, built banks against the foam, + And bent the arch and raised the lordly dome! + Here are the towers that the founders made! + Here are the temples where these Romans prayed! + Here stand the courts in which their leaders met! + Here are their homes, and here their altars yet! + Here sleep the grand old men whose lives sublime + Of thought and action shine and sound through time! + Who worked in darkness--onward fought their ways + To bring about these large majestic days-- + Who left their sons the hearts and high desires + Which built this city of the hundred spires! + + A stately Morning rises on the wing, + The hills take colour, and the valleys sing. + A strong September flames beyond the lea-- + A silver vision on a silver sea. + A new Age, "cast in a diviner mould", + Comes crowned with lustre, zoned and shod with gold! + What dream is this on lawny spaces set? + What miracle of dome and minaret? + What great mute majesty is this that takes + The first of morning ere the song-bird wakes? + Lo, this was built to honour gathering lands + By Celtic, Saxon, Australasian hands! + These are the halls where all the flags unfurled + Break into speech that welcomes all the world. + And lo, our friends are here from every zone-- + From isles we dream of and from tracts unknown! + Here are the fathers from the stately space + Where Ireland is and England's sacred face! + Here are the Norsemen from their strong sea-wall, + The grave, grand Teuton and the brilliant Gaul! + From green, sweet groves the dark-eyed Lusians sail, + And proud Iberia leaves the grape-flushed vale. + Here are the lords whose starry banner shines + From fierce Magellan to the Arctic pines. + Here come the strangers from the gates of day-- + From hills of sunrise and from white Cathay. + The spicy islands send their swarthy sons, + The lofty North its mailed and mighty ones. + Venetian keels are floating on our sea; + Our eyes are glad with radiant Italy! + Yea, North and South, and glowing West and East, + Are gathering here to grace our splendid feast! + The chiefs from peaks august with Asian snow, + The elders born where regal roses grow, + Come hither, with the flower of that fair land + That blooms beyond the fiery tracts of sand + Where Syrian suns their angry lustres fling + Across blind channels of the bygone spring. + And on this great, auspicious day, the flowers + Of labour glorify majestic hours. + + The singing angel from the starry sphere + Of dazzling Science shows his wonders here; + And Art, the dream-clad spirit, starts, and brings + From Fairyland her strange, sweet, glittering things. + Here are the works man did, what time his face + Was touched by God in some exalted place; + Here glows the splendour--here the marvel wrought + When Heaven flashed upon the maker's thought! + Yea, here are all the miracles sublime-- + The lights of Genius and the stars of Time! + And, being lifted by this noble noon, + Australia broadens like a tropic moon. + Her white, pure lustre beams across the zones; + The nations greet her from their awful thrones. + From hence the morning beauty of her name + Will shine afar, like an exceeding flame. + Her place will be with mighty lords, whose sway + Controls the thunder and the marching day. + Her crown will shine beside the crowns of kings + Who shape the seasons, rule the course of things, + The fame of her across the years to be + Will spread like light on a surpassing sea; + And graced with glory, girt with power august, + Her life will last till all things turn to dust. + + To Thee the face of song is lifted now, + O Lord! to whom the awful mountains bow; + Whose hands, unseen, the tenfold storms control; + Whose thunders shake the spheres from pole to pole; + Who from Thy highest heaven lookest down, + The sea Thy footstool, and the sun Thy crown; + Around whose throne the deathless planets sing + Hosannas to their high, eternal King. + To Thee the soul of prayer this morning turns, + With faith that glitters, and with hope that burns! + And, in the moments of majestic calm + That fill the heart in pauses of the psalm, + She asks Thy blessing for this fair young land + That flowers within the hollow of Thine hand! + She seeks of Thee that boon, that gift sublime, + The Christian radiance, for this hope of Time! + And Thou wilt listen! and Thy face will bend + To smile upon us--Master, Father, Friend! + The Christ to whom pure pleading heart hath crept + Was human once, and in the darkness wept; + The gracious love that helped us long ago + Will on us like a summer sunrise flow, + And be a light to guide the nation's feet + On holy paths--on sacred ways and sweet. + + + + +Christmas Creek + + + + Phantom streams were in the distance--mocking lights of lake and pool-- + Ghosts of trees of soft green lustre--groves of shadows deep and cool! + Yea, some devil ran before them changing skies of brass to blue, + Setting bloom where curse is planted, where a grass-blade never grew. + Six there were, and high above them glared a wild and wizened sun, + Ninety leagues from where the waters of the singing valleys run. + There before them, there behind them, was the great, stark, stubborn plain, + Where the dry winds hiss for ever, and the blind earth moans for rain! + Ringed about by tracks of furnace, ninety leagues from stream and tree, + Six there were, with wasted faces, working northwards to the sea! + + . . . . . + + Ah, the bitter, hopeless desert! Here these broken human wrecks + Trod the wilds where sand of fire is with the spiteful spinifex, + Toiled through spheres that no bird knows of, where with fiery emphasis + Hell hath stamped its awful mint-mark deep on every thing that is! + Toiled and thirsted, strove and suffered! _This_ was where December's breath + As a wind of smiting flame is on weird, haggard wastes of death! + _This_ was where a withered moan is, and the gleam of weak, wan star, + And a thunder full of menace sends its mighty voices far! + _This_ was where black execrations, from some dark tribunal hurled, + Set the brand of curse on all things in the morning of the world! + + . . . . . + + One man yielded--then another--then a lad of nineteen years + Reeled and fell, with English rivers singing softly in his ears, + English grasses started round him--then the grace of Sussex lea + Came and touched him with the beauty of a green land by the sea! + Old-world faces thronged about him--old-world voices spoke to him; + But his speech was like a whisper, and his eyes were very dim. + In a dream of golden evening, beaming on a quiet strand, + Lay the stranger till a bright One came and took him by the hand. + England vanished; died the voices; but he heard a holier tone, + And an angel that we know not led him to the lands unknown! + + . . . . . + + Six there were, but three were taken! Three were left to struggle still; + But against the red horizon flamed a horn of brindled hill! + But beyond the northern skyline, past a wall of steep austere, + Lay the land of light and coolness in an April-coloured year! + "Courage, brothers!" cried the leader. "On the slope of yonder peak + There are tracts of herb and shadow, and the channels of the creek!" + So they made one last great effort-- + haled their beasts through brake and briar, + Set their feet on spurs of furnace, grappled spikes and crags of fire, + Fought the stubborn mountain forces, smote down naked, natural powers, + Till they gazed from thrones of Morning on a sphere of streams and flowers. + + Out behind them was the desert, glaring like a sea of brass! + Here before them were the valleys, fair with moonlight-coloured grass! + At their backs were haggard waste-lands, bickering in a wicked blaze! + In their faces beamed the waters, marching down melodious ways! + Touching was the cool, soft lustre over laps of lawn and lea; + And majestic was the great road Morning made across the sea. + On the sacred day of Christmas, after seven months of grief, + Rested three of six who started, on a bank of moss and leaf-- + Rested by a running river, in a hushed, a holy week; + And they named the stream that saved them-- + named it fitly--"Christmas Creek". + + + + +Orara + + -- + * Orara: A tributary of the river Clarence. + -- + + + + The strong sob of the chafing stream + That seaward fights its way + Down crags of glitter, dells of gleam, + Is in the hills to-day. + + But far and faint, a grey-winged form + Hangs where the wild lights wane-- + The phantom of a bygone storm, + A ghost of wind and rain. + + The soft white feet of afternoon + Are on the shining meads, + The breeze is as a pleasant tune + Amongst the happy reeds. + + The fierce, disastrous, flying fire, + That made the great caves ring, + And scarred the slope, and broke the spire, + Is a forgotten thing. + + The air is full of mellow sounds, + The wet hill-heads are bright, + And down the fall of fragrant grounds, + The deep ways flame with light. + + A rose-red space of stream I see, + Past banks of tender fern; + A radiant brook, unknown to me + Beyond its upper turn. + + The singing, silver life I hear, + Whose home is in the green, + Far-folded woods of fountains clear, + Where I have never been. + + Ah, brook above the upper bend, + I often long to stand + Where you in soft, cool shades descend + From the untrodden land! + + Ah, folded woods, that hide the grace + Of moss and torrents strong, + I often wish to know the face + Of that which sings your song! + + But I may linger, long, and look + Till night is over all: + My eyes will never see the brook, + Or sweet, strange waterfall. + + The world is round me with its heat, + And toil, and cares that tire; + I cannot with my feeble feet + Climb after my desire. + + But, on the lap of lands unseen, + Within a secret zone, + There shine diviner gold and green + Than man has ever known. + + And where the silver waters sing + Down hushed and holy dells, + The flower of a celestial Spring-- + A tenfold splendour, dwells. + + Yea, in my dream of fall and brook + By far sweet forests furled, + I see that light for which I look + In vain through all the world-- + + The glory of a larger sky + On slopes of hills sublime, + That speak with God and morning, high + Above the ways of Time! + + Ah! haply in this sphere of change + Where shadows spoil the beam, + It would not do to climb that range + And test my radiant Dream. + + The slightest glimpse of yonder place, + Untrodden and alone, + Might wholly kill that nameless grace, + The charm of the unknown. + + And therefore, though I look and long, + Perhaps the lot is bright + Which keeps the river of the song + A beauty out of sight. + + + + +The Curse of Mother Flood + + + + Wizened the wood is, and wan is the way through it; + White as a corpse is the face of the fen; + Only blue adders abide in and stray through it-- + Adders and venom and horrors to men. + Here is the "ghost of a garden" whose minister + Fosters strange blossoms that startle and scare. + Red as man's blood is the sun that, with sinister + Flame, is a menace of hell in the air. + Wrinkled and haggard the hills are--the jags of them + Gape like to living and ominous things: + Storm and dry thunder cry out in the crags of them-- + Fire, and the wind with a woe in its wings. + + Never a moon without clammy-cold shroud on it + Hitherward comes, or a flower-like star! + Only the hiss of the tempest is loud on it-- + Hiss, and the moan of a bitter sea bar. + Here on this waste, and to left and to right of it, + Never is lisp or the ripple of rain: + Fierce is the daytime and wild is the night of it, + Flame without limit and frost without wane! + Trees half alive, with the sense of a curse on them, + Shudder and shrink from the black heavy gale; + Ghastly, with boughs like the plumes of a hearse on them: + Barren of blossom and blasted with bale. + + Under the cliff that stares down to the south of it-- + Back by the horns of a hazardous hill, + Dumb is the gorge with a grave in the mouth of it + Still, as a corpse in a coffin is still. + Never there hovers a hope of the Spring by it-- + Never a glimmer of yellow and green: + Only the bat with a whisper of wing by it + Flits like a life out of flesh and unseen. + Here are the growths that are livid and glutinous, + Speckled, and bloated with poisonous blood: + This is the haunt of the viper-breed mutinous: + Cursed with the curse of weird Catherine Flood. + + He that hath looked on it--hurried aghast from it, + Hair of him frozen with horror straightway, + Chased by a sudden strange pestilent blast from it-- + Where is the speech of him--what can he say? + Hath he not seen the fierce ghost of a hag in it? + Heard maledictions that startle the stars? + Dumb is his mouth as a mouth with a gag in it-- + Mute is his life as a life within bars. + Just the one glimpse of that grey, shrieking woman there + Ringed by a circle of furnace and fiend! + He that went happy and healthy and human there-- + Where shall the white leper fly to be cleaned? + + Here, in a pit with indefinite doom on it, + Here, in the fumes of a feculent moat, + Under an alp with inscrutable gloom on it, + Squats the wild witch with a ghoul at her throat! + Black execration that cannot be spoken of-- + Speech of red hell that would suffocate Song, + Starts from this terror with never a token of + Day and its loveliness all the year long. + Sin without name to it--man never heard of it-- + Crime that would startle a fiend from his lair, + Blasted this Glen, and the leaf and the bird of it-- + _Where is there hope for it, Father, O where?_ + + Far in the days of our fathers, the life in it + Blossomed and beamed in the sight of the sun: + Yellow and green and the purple were rife in it, + Singers of morning and waters that run. + Storm of the equinox shed no distress on it, + Thunder spoke softly, and summer-time left + Sunset's forsaken bright beautiful dress on it-- + Blessing that shone half the night in the cleft. + Hymns of the highlands--hosannas from hills by it, + Psalms of great forests made holy the spot: + Cool were the mosses and clear were the rills by it-- + Far in the days when the Horror was not. + + Twenty miles south is the strong, shining Hawkesbury-- + Spacious and splendid, and lordly with blooms. + There, between mountains magnificent, walks bury + Miles of their beauty in green myrtle glooms. + There, in the dell, is the fountain with falls by it-- + Falls, and a torrent of summering stream: + There is the cave with the hyaline halls by it-- + Haunt of the echo and home of the dream. + Over the hill, by the marvellous base of it, + Wanders the wind with a song in its breath + Out to the sea with the gold on the face of it-- + Twenty miles south of the Valley of Death. + + + + +On a Spanish Cathedral + + -- + * Every happy expression in these stanzas may fairly be claimed + by the Hon. W. B. Dalley (_Author's note_). + -- + + + + Deep under the spires of a hill, by the feet of the thunder-cloud trod, + I pause in a luminous, still, magnificent temple of God! + At the steps of the altar august--a vision of angels in stone-- + I kneel, with my head to the dust, on the floors by the seraphim known. + No father in Jesus is near, with the high, the compassionate face; + But the glory of Godhead is here--its presence transfigures the place! + Behold in this beautiful fane, with the lights of blue heaven impearled, + I think of the Elders of Spain, in the deserts--the wilds of the world! + + I think of the wanderers poor who knelt on the flints and the sands, + When the mighty and merciless Moor was lord of the Lady of Lands. + Where the African scimitar flamed, with a swift, bitter death in its kiss, + The fathers, unknown and unnamed, found God in cathedrals like this! + The glow of His Spirit--the beam of His blessing--made lords of the men + Whose food was the herb of the stream, whose roof was the dome of the den. + And, far in the hills by the sea, these awful hierophants prayed + For Rome and its temples to be--in a temple by Deity made. + + Who knows of their faith--of its power? + Perhaps, with the light in their eyes, + They saw, in some wonderful hour, the marvel of centuries rise! + Perhaps in some moment supreme, when the mountains were holy and still, + They dreamed the magnificent dream that came to the monks of Seville! + Surrounded by pillars and spires whose summits shone out in the glare + Of the high, the omnipotent fires, who knows what was seen by them there? + Be sure, if they saw, in the noon of their faith, some ineffable fane, + They looked on the church like a moon dropped down by the Lord into Spain. + + And the Elders who shone in the time when Christ over Christendom beamed + May have dreamed at their altars sublime + the dream that their fathers had dreamed, + By the glory of Italy moved--the majesty shining in Rome-- + They turned to the land that they loved, + and prayed for a church in their home; + And a soul of unspeakable fire descended on them, and they fought + And laboured a life for the spire and tower and dome of their thought! + These grew under blessing and praise, as morning in summertime grows-- + As Troy in the dawn of the days to the music of Delphicus rose. + + In a land of bewildering light, where the feet of the season are Spring's, + They worked in the day and the night, surrounded by beautiful things. + The wonderful blossoms in stone--the flower and leaf of the Moor, + On column and cupola shone, and gleamed on the glimmering floor. + In a splendour of colour and form, from the marvellous African's hands + Yet vivid and shining and warm, they planted the Flower of the Lands. + Inspired by the patience supreme of the mute, the magnificent past, + They toiled till the dome of their dream in the firmament blossomed at last! + + Just think of these men--of their time-- + of the days of their deed, and the scene! + How touching their zeal--how sublime + their suppression of self must have been! + In a city yet hacked by the sword and scarred by the flame of the Moor, + They started the work of their Lord, sad, silent, and solemnly poor. + These fathers, how little they thought of themselves, and how much of the days + When the children of men would be brought to pray in their temple, and praise! + Ah! full of the radiant, still, heroic old life that has flown, + The merciful monks of Seville toiled on, and died bare and unknown. + + The music, the colour, the gleam of their mighty cathedral will be + Hereafter a luminous dream of the heaven I never may see; + To a spirit that suffers and seeks for the calm of a competent creed, + This temple, whose majesty speaks, becomes a religion indeed; + The passionate lights--the intense, the ineffable beauty of sound-- + Go straight to the heart through the sense, + as a song would of seraphim crowned. + And lo! by these altars august, the life that is highest we live, + And are filled with the infinite trust + and the peace that the world cannot give. + + They have passed, have the elders of time-- + they have gone; but the work of their hands, + Pre-eminent, peerless, sublime, like a type of eternity stands! + They are mute, are the fathers who made this church in the century dim; + But the dome with their beauty arrayed remains, a perpetual hymn. + Their names are unknown; but so long as the humble in spirit and pure + Are worshipped in speech and in song, our love for these monks will endure; + And the lesson by sacrifice taught will live in the light of the years + With a reverence not to be bought, and a tenderness deeper than tears. + + + + +Rover + + + + No classic warrior tempts my pen + To fill with verse these pages-- + No lordly-hearted man of men + My Muse's thought engages. + + Let others choose the mighty dead, + And sing their battles over! + My champion, too, has fought and bled-- + My theme is one-eyed Rover. + + A grave old dog, with tattered ears + Too sore to cock up, reader!-- + A four-legged hero, full of years, + But sturdy as a cedar. + + Still, age is age; and if my rhyme + Is dashed with words pathetic, + Don't wonder, friend; I've seen the time + When Rove was more athletic. + + He lies coiled up before me now, + A comfortable crescent. + His night-black nose and grizzled brow + Fixed in a fashion pleasant. + + But ever and anon he lifts + The one good eye I mention, + And tries a thousand doggish shifts + To rivet my attention. + + Just let me name his name, and up + You'll see him start and patter + Towards me, like a six-months' pup + In point of speed, but fatter. + + He pokes his head upon my lap, + Nor heeds the whip above him; + Because he knows, the dear old chap, + His human friends all love him. + + Our younger dogs cut off from hence + At sight of lash uplifted; + But Rove, with grand indifference, + Remains, and can't be shifted. + + And, ah! the set upon his phiz + At meals defies expression; + For I confess that Rover is + A cadger by profession. + + The lesser favourites of the place + At dinner keep their distance; + But by my chair one grizzled face + Begs on with brave persistence. + + His jaws present a toothless sight, + But still my hearty hero + Can satisfy an appetite + Which brings a bone to zero. + + And while Spot barks and pussy mews, + To move the cook's compassion, + He takes his after-dinner snooze + In genuine biped fashion. + + In fact, in this, our ancient pet + So hits off human nature, + That I at times almost forget + He's but a dog in feature. + + Between his tail and bright old eye + The swift communications + Outstrip the messages which fly + From telegraphic stations. + + And, ah! that tail's rich eloquence + Conveys too clear a moral, + For men who have a grain of sense + About its drift to quarrel. + + At night, his voice is only heard + When it is wanted badly; + For Rover is too cute a bird + To follow shadows madly. + + The pup and Carlo in the dark + Will start at crickets chirring; + But when we hear the old dog bark + We know there's _something_ stirring. + + He knows a gun, does Rover here; + And if I cock a trigger, + He makes himself from tail to ear + An admirable figure. + + For, once the fowling piece is out, + And game is on the _tapis_, + The set upon my hero's snout + Would make a cockle happy. + + And as for horses, why, betwixt + Our chestnut mare and Rover + The mutual friendship is as fixed + As any love of lover. + + And when his master's hand resigns + The bridle for the paddle, + His dogship on the grass reclines, + And stays and minds the saddle. + + Of other friends he has no lack; + Grey pussy is his crony, + And kittens mount upon his back, + As youngsters mount a pony. + + They talk of man's superior sense, + And charge the few with treason + Who think a dog's intelligence + Is very like our reason. + + But though Philosophy has tried + A score of definitions, + 'Twixt man and dog it can't decide + The relative positions. + + And I believe upon the whole + (Though you my creed deny, sir), + That Rove's entitled to a soul + As much as you or I, sir! + + Indeed, I fail to see the force + Of your derisive laughter + Because I will not say my horse + Has not some horse-hereafter. + + A fig for dogmas--let them pass! + There's much in life to grieve us; + And what most grieves is _this_, alas! + That all our best friends leave us. + + And when I sip my nightly grog, + And watch old Rover blinking, + This royal ruin of a dog + Calls forth some serious thinking. + + For, though he's lightly touched by Fate, + I cannot help remarking + The step of age is in his gait, + Its hoarseness in his barking. + + He still goes on his rounds at night + To keep off forest prowlers; + But, ah! he has no teeth to bite + The cunning-hearted howlers. + + Not like the Rover that, erewhile, + Gave droves of dingoes battle, + And dashed through flood and fierce defile-- + The friend, but dread, of cattle. + + Not like to him that, in past years, + Won fight by fight, and scattered + Whole tribes of dogs with rags of ears + And tail-ends torn and tattered. + + But while time tells upon our pet, + And makes him greyer daily, + He is a noble fellow yet, + And wears his old age gaily. + + Still, dogs must die; and in the end, + When he is past caressing, + We'll mourn him like some human friend + Whose presence was a blessing. + + Till then, be bread and peace his lot-- + A life of calm and clover! + The pup may sleep outside with Spot-- + We'll keep the nook for Rover. + + + + +The Melbourne International Exhibition + + [_Written for Music._] + + + + I + + Brothers from far-away lands, + Sons of the fathers of fame, + Here are our hearts and our hands-- + This is our song of acclaim. + Lords from magnificent zones, + Shores of superlative sway, + Awful with lustre of thrones, + This is our greeting to-day. + Europe and Asia are here-- + Shining they enter our ports! + She that is half of the sphere + Beams like a sun in our courts. + Children of elders whose day + Shone to the planet's white ends, + Meet, in the noble old way, + Sons of your forefather's friends. + + + II + + Dressed is the beautiful city--the spires of it + Burn in the firmament stately and still; + Forest has vanished--the wood and the lyres of it, + Lutes of the sea-wind and harps of the hill. + This is the region, and here is the bay by it, + Collins, the deathless, beheld in a dream: + Flinders and Fawkner, our forefathers grey, by it + Paused in the hush of a season supreme. + Here, on the waters of majesty near to us, + Lingered the leaders by towers of flame: + Elders who turn from the lordly old year to us + Crowned with the lights of ineffable fame. + + + III + + Nine and seventy years ago, + Up the blaze of yonder bay, + On a great exalted day, + Came from seas august with snow-- + Waters where the whirlwinds blow-- + First of England's sons who stood + By the deep green, bygone wood + Where the wild song used to flow + Nine and seventy years ago. + + Five and forty years ago, + On a grand auspicious morn + When the South Wind blew his horn, + Where the splendid mountains glow-- + Peaks that God and Sunrise know-- + Came the fearless, famous band, + Founders of our radiant land, + From the lawns where roses grow, + Five and forty years ago. + + + IV + + By gracious slopes of fair green hills, + In shadows cool and deep, + Where floats the psalm of many rills, + The noble elders sleep. + But while their children's children last, + While seed from seedling springs, + The print and perfume of their past + Will be as deathless things. + + Their voices are with vanished years, + With other days and hours; + Their homes are sanctified by tears-- + They sleep amongst the flowers. + They do not walk by street or stream, + Or tread by grove or shore, + But, in the nation's highest dream, + They shine for evermore. + + + V + + By lawny slope and lucent strand + Are singing flags of every land; + On streams of splendour--bays impearled-- + The keels are here of all the world. + With lutes of light and cymbals clear + We waft goodwill to every sphere. + The links of love to-day are thrown + From sea to sea--from zone to zone; + And, lo! we greet, in glory drest, + The lords that come from east and west, + And march like noble children forth + To meet our fathers from the North! + + + VI + + To Thee be the glory, All-Bountiful Giver! + The song that we sing is an anthem to Thee, + Whose blessing is shed on Thy people for ever, + Whose love is like beautiful light on the sea. + Behold, with high sense of Thy mercy unsleeping, + We come to Thee, kneel to Thee, praise Thee, and pray, + O Lord, in whose hand is the strength that is keeping + The storm from the wave and the night from the day! + + + + +By the Cliffs of the Sea + + (In Memory of Samuel Bennett.) + + + + In a far-away glen of the hills, + Where the bird of the night is at rest, + Shut in from the thunder that fills + The fog-hidden caves of the west-- + In a sound of the leaf, and the lute + Of the wind on the quiet lagoon, + I stand, like a worshipper, mute + In the flow of a marvellous tune! + And the song that is sweet to my sense + Is, "Nearer, my God, unto Thee"; + But it carries me sorrowing hence, + To a grave by the cliffs of the sea. + + So many have gone that I loved-- + So few of the fathers remain, + That where in old seasons I moved + I could never be happy again. + In the breaks of this beautiful psalm, + With its deep, its devotional tone, + And hints of ineffable calm, + I feel like a stranger, alone. + No wonder my eyes are so dim-- + _Your_ trouble is heavy on me, + O widow and daughter of him + Who sleeps in the grave by the sea! + + The years have been hard that have pressed + On a head full of premature grey, + Since Stenhouse went down to his rest, + And Harpur was taken away. + In the soft yellow evening-ends, + The wind of the water is faint + By the home of the last of my friends-- + The shrine of the father and saint. + The tenderness touching--the grace + Of Ridley no more is for me; + And flowers have hidden the face + Of the brother who sleeps by the sea. + + The vehement voice of the South + Is loud where the journalist lies; + But calm hath encompassed his mouth, + And sweet is the peace in his eyes. + Called hence by the Power who knows + When the work of a hero is done, + He turned at the message, and rose + With the harness of diligence on. + In the midst of magnificent toil, + He bowed at the holy decree; + And green is the grass on the soil + Of the grave by the cliffs of the sea. + + I knew him, indeed; and I knew, + Having suffered so much in his day, + What a beautiful nature and true + In Bennett was hidden away. + In the folds of a shame without end, + When the lips of the scorner were curled, + I found in this brother a friend-- + The last that was left in the world. + Ah! under the surface austere + Compassion was native to thee; + I send from my solitude here + This rose for the grave by the sea. + + To the high, the heroic intent + Of a life that was never at rest, + He held, with a courage unspent, + Through the worst of his days and the best. + Far back in the years that are dead + He knew of the bitterness cold + That saddens with silver the head + And makes a man suddenly old. + The dignity gracing his grief + Was ever a lesson to me; + He lies under blossom and leaf + In a grave by the cliffs of the sea. + + Above him the wandering face + Of the moon is a loveliness now, + And anthems encompass the place + From lutes of the luminous bough. + The forelands are fiery with foam + Where often and often he roved; + He sleeps in the sight of the home + That he built by the waters he loved. + The wave is his fellow at night, + And the sun, shining over the lea, + Sheds out an unspeakable light + On this grave by the cliffs of the sea. + + + + +Galatea + + + + A silver slope, a fall of firs, a league of gleaming grasses, + And fiery cones, and sultry spurs, and swarthy pits and passes! + + . . . . . + + The long-haired Cyclops bated breath, and bit his lip and hearkened, + And dug and dragged the stone of death, by ways that dipped and darkened. + + Across a tract of furnaced flints there came a wind of water, + From yellow banks with tender hints of Tethys' white-armed daughter. + + She sat amongst wild singing weeds, by beds of myrrh and moly; + And Acis made a flute of reeds, and drew its accents slowly; + + And taught its spirit subtle sounds that leapt beyond suppression, + And paused and panted on the bounds of fierce and fitful passion. + + Then he who shaped the cunning tune, by keen desire made bolder, + Fell fainting, like a fervent noon, upon the sea-nymph's shoulder. + + Sicilian suns had laid a dower of light and life about her: + Her beauty was a gracious flower--the heart fell dead without her. + + "Ah, Galate," said Polypheme, "I would that I could find thee + Some finest tone of hill or stream, wherewith to lull and bind thee! + + "What lyre is left of marvellous range, whose subtle strings, containing + Some note supreme, might catch and change, or set thy passion waning?-- + + "Thy passion for the fair-haired youth whose fleet, light feet perplex me + By ledges rude, on paths uncouth, and broken ways that vex me? + + "Ah, turn to me! else violent sleep shall track the cunning lover; + And thou wilt wait and thou wilt weep when I his haunts discover." + + But golden Galatea laughed, and Thosa's son, like thunder, + Broke through a rifty runnel shaft, and dashed its rocks asunder, + + And poised the bulk, and hurled the stone, and crushed the hidden Acis, + And struck with sorrow drear and lone the sweetest of all faces. + + To Zeus, the mighty Father, she, with plaint and prayer, departed: + Then from fierce Aetna to the sea a fountained water started-- + + A lucent stream of lutes and lights--cool haunt of flower and feather, + Whose silver days and yellow nights made years of hallowed weather. + + Here Galatea used to come, and rest beside the river; + Because, in faint, soft, blowing foam, her shepherd lived for ever. + + + + +Black Kate + + + + Kate, they say, is seventeen-- + Do not count her sweet, you know. + Arms of her are rather lean-- + Ditto, calves and feet, you know. + Features of Hellenic type + Are not patent here, you see. + Katie loves a black clay pipe-- + Doesn't hate her beer, you see. + + Spartan Helen used to wear + Tresses in a plait, perhaps: + Kate has ochre in her hair-- + Nose is rather flat, perhaps. + Rose Lorraine's surpassing dress + Glitters at the ball, you see: + Daughter of the wilderness + Has no dress at all, you see. + + Laura's lovers every day + In sweet verse embody her: + Katie's have a different way, + Being frank, they "waddy" her. + Amy by her suitor kissed, + Every nightfall looks for him: + Kitty's sweetheart isn't missed-- + Kitty "humps" and cooks for him. + + Smith, and Brown, and Jenkins, bring + Roses to the fair, you know. + Darkies at their Katie fling + Hunks of native bear, you know. + English girls examine well + All the food they take, you twig: + Kate is hardly keen of smell-- + Kate will eat a snake, you twig. + + Yonder lady's sitting room-- + Clean and cool and dark it is: + Kitty's chamber needs no broom-- + Just a sheet of bark it is. + You may find a pipe or two + If you poke and grope about: + Not a bit of starch or blue-- + Not a sign of soap about. + + Girl I know reads _Lalla Rookh_-- + Poem of the "heady" sort: + Kate is better as a cook + Of the rough and ready sort. + Byron's verse on Waterloo, + Makes my darling glad, you see: + Kate prefers a kangaroo-- + Which is very sad, you see. + + Other ladies wear a hat + Fit to write a sonnet on: + Kitty has--the naughty cat-- + Neither hat nor bonnet on! + Fifty silks has Madame Tate-- + She who loves to spank it on: + All her clothes are worn by Kate + When she has her blanket on. + + Let her rip! the Phrygian boy + Bolted with a brighter one; + And the girl who ruined Troy + Was a rather whiter one. + Katie's mouth is hardly Greek-- + Hardly like a rose it is: + Katie's nose is not antique-- + Not the classic nose it is. + + Dryad in the grand old day, + Though she walked the woods about, + Didn't smoke a penny clay-- + Didn't "hump" her goods about. + Daphne by the fairy lake, + Far away from din and all, + Never ate a yard of snake, + Head and tail and skin and all. + + + + +A Hyde Park Larrikin + + -- + * To the servants of God that are to be found in every denomination, + these verses, of course, do not apply.--H.K. + -- + + + + You may have heard of Proclus, sir, + If you have been a reader; + And you may know a bit of her + Who helped the Lycian leader. + + I have my doubts--the head you "sport" + (Now mark me, don't get crusty) + Is hardly of the classic sort-- + Your lore, I think, is fusty. + + Most likely you have stuck to tracts + Flushed through with flaming curses-- + I judge you, neighbour, by your acts-- + So don't you d----n my verses. + + But to my theme. The Asian sage, + Whose name above I mention, + Lived in the pitchy Pagan age, + A life without pretension. + + He may have worshipped gods like Zeus, + And termed old Dis a master; + But then he had a strong excuse-- + He never heard a pastor. + + However, it occurs to me + That, had he cut Demeter + And followed you, or followed me, + He wouldn't have been sweeter. + + No doubt with "shepherds" of this time + He's not the "clean potato", + Because--excuse me for my rhyme-- + He pinned his faith to Plato. + + But these are facts you can't deny, + My pastor, smudged and sooty, + His mind was like a summer sky-- + He lived a life of beauty-- + + To lift his brothers' thoughts above + This earth he used to labour: + His heart was luminous with love-- + He didn't wound his neighbour. + + To him all men were just the same-- + He never foamed at altars, + Although he lived ere Moody came-- + Ere Sankey dealt in psalters. + + The Lycian sage, my "reverend" sir, + Had not your chances ample; + But, after all, I must prefer + His perfect, pure example. + + You, having read the Holy Writ-- + The Book the angels foster-- + Say have you helped us on a bit, + You overfed impostor? + + What have you done to edify, + You clammy chapel tinker? + What act like his of days gone by-- + The grand old Asian thinker? + + Is there no deed of yours at all + With beauty shining through it? + Ah, no! your heart reveals its gall + On every side I view it. + + A blatant bigot with a big + Fat heavy fetid carcass, + You well become your greasy "rig"-- + You're not a second Arcas. + + What sort of "gospel" do you preach? + What "Bible" is your Bible? + There's worse than wormwood in your speech, + You livid, living libel! + + How many lives are growing gray + Through your depraved behaviour! + I tell you plainly--every day + You crucify the Saviour! + + Some evil spirit curses you-- + Your actions never vary: + You cannot point your finger to + One fact to the contrary. + + You seem to have a wicked joy + In your malicious labour, + Endeavouring daily to destroy + The neighbour's love for neighbour. + + The brutal curses you eject + Make strong men dread to hear you. + The world outside your petty sect + Feels sick when it is near you. + + No man who shuns that little hole + You call your tabernacle + Can have, you shriek, a ransomed soul-- + He wears the devil's shackle. + + And, hence the "Papist" by your clan + Is dogged with words inhuman, + Because he loves that friend of man + The highest type of woman-- + + Because he has that faith which sees + Before the high Creator + A Virgin pleading on her knees-- + A shining Mediator! + + God help the souls who grope in night-- + Who in your ways have trusted! + I've said enough! the more I write, + The more I feel disgusted. + + The warm, soft air is tainted through + With your pernicious leaven. + I would not live _one hour_ with you + In your peculiar heaven! + + Now mount your musty pulpit--thump, + And muddle flat clodhoppers; + And let some long-eared booby "hump" + The plate about for coppers. + + At priest and parson spit and bark, + And shake your "church" with curses, + You bitter blackguard of the dark-- + With this I close my verses. + + + + +Names Upon a Stone + + (Inscribed to G. L. Fagan, Esq.) + + + + Across bleak widths of broken sea + A fierce north-easter breaks, + And makes a thunder on the lea-- + A whiteness of the lakes. + Here, while beyond the rainy stream + The wild winds sobbing blow, + I see the river of my dream + Four wasted years ago. + + Narrara of the waterfalls, + The darling of the hills, + Whose home is under mountain walls + By many-luted rills! + Her bright green nooks and channels cool + I never more may see; + But, ah! the Past was beautiful-- + The sights that used to be. + + There was a rock-pool in a glen + Beyond Narrara's sands; + The mountains shut it in from men + In flowerful fairy lands; + But once we found its dwelling-place-- + The lovely and the lone-- + And, in a dream, I stooped to trace + Our names upon a stone. + + Above us, where the star-like moss + Shone on the wet, green wall + That spanned the straitened stream across, + We saw the waterfall-- + A silver singer far away, + By folded hills and hoar; + Its voice is in the woods to-day-- + A voice I hear no more. + + I wonder if the leaves that screen + The rock-pool of the past + Are yet as soft and cool and green + As when we saw them last! + I wonder if that tender thing, + The moss, has overgrown + The letters by the limpid spring-- + Our names upon the stone! + + Across the face of scenes we know + There may have come a change-- + The places seen four years ago + Perhaps would now look strange. + To you, indeed, they cannot be + What haply once they were: + A friend beloved by you and me + No more will greet us there. + + Because I know the filial grief + That shrinks beneath the touch-- + The noble love whose words are brief-- + I will not say too much; + But often when the night-winds strike + Across the sighing rills, + I think of him whose life was like + The rock-pool's in the hills. + + A beauty like the light of song + Is in my dreams, that show + The grand old man who lived so long + As spotless as the snow. + A fitting garland for the dead + I cannot compass yet; + But many things he did and said + I never will forget. + + In dells where once we used to rove + The slow, sad water grieves; + And ever comes from glimmering grove + The liturgy of leaves. + But time and toil have marked my face, + My heart has older grown + Since, in the woods, I stooped to trace + Our names upon the stone. + + + + +Leichhardt + + + + Lordly harp, by lordly master wakened from majestic sleep, + Yet shall speak and yet shall sing the words which make the fathers weep! + Voice surpassing human voices--high, unearthly harmony-- + Yet shall tell the tale of hero, in exalted years to be! + In the ranges, by the rivers, on the uplands, down the dells, + Where the sound of wind and wave is, where the mountain anthem swells, + Yet shall float the song of lustre, sweet with tears and fair with flame, + Shining with a theme of beauty, holy with our Leichhardt's name! + Name of him who faced for science thirsty tracts of bitter glow, + Lurid lands that no one knows of--two-and-thirty years ago. + + Born by hills of hard grey weather, far beyond the northern seas, + German mountains were his sponsors, and his mates were German trees; + Grandeur of the old-world forests passed into his radiant soul, + With the song of stormy crescents where the mighty waters roll. + Thus he came to be a brother of the river and the wood-- + Thus the leaf, the bird, the blossom, grew a gracious sisterhood; + Nature led him to her children, in a space of light divine: + Kneeling down, he said--"My mother, let me be as one of thine!" + So she took him--thence she loved him--lodged him in her home of dreams, + Taught him what the trees were saying, schooled him in the speech of streams. + + For her sake he crossed the waters--loving her, he left the place + Hallowed by his father's ashes, and his human mother's face-- + Passed the seas and entered temples domed by skies of deathless beam, + Walled about by hills majestic, stately spires and peaks supreme! + Here he found a larger beauty--here the lovely lights were new + On the slopes of many flowers, down the gold-green dells of dew. + In the great august cathedral of his holy lady, he + Daily worshipped at her altars, nightly bent the reverent knee-- + Heard the hymns of night and morning, learned the psalm of solitudes; + Knew that God was very near him--felt His presence in the woods! + + But the starry angel, Science, from the home of glittering wings, + Came one day and talked to Nature by melodious mountain springs: + "Let thy son be mine," she pleaded; "lend him for a space," she said, + "So that he may earn the laurels I have woven for his head!" + And the lady, Nature, listened; and she took her loyal son + From the banks of moss and myrtle--led him to the Shining One! + Filled his lordly soul with gladness--told him of a spacious zone + Eye of man had never looked at, human foot had never known. + Then the angel, Science, beckoned, and he knelt and whispered low-- + "I will follow where you lead me"--two-and-thirty years ago. + + On the tracts of thirst and furnace--on the dumb, blind, burning plain, + Where the red earth gapes for moisture, and the wan leaves hiss for rain, + In a land of dry, fierce thunder, did he ever pause and dream + Of the cool green German valley and the singing German stream? + When the sun was as a menace, glaring from a sky of brass, + Did he ever rest, in visions, on a lap of German grass? + Past the waste of thorny terrors, did he reach a sphere of rills, + In a region yet untravelled, ringed by fair untrodden hills? + Was the spot where last he rested pleasant as an old-world lea? + Did the sweet winds come and lull him with the music of the sea? + + Let us dream so--let us hope so! Haply in a cool green glade, + Far beyond the zone of furnace, Leichhardt's sacred shell was laid! + Haply in some leafy valley, underneath blue, gracious skies, + In the sound of mountain water, the heroic traveller lies! + Down a dell of dewy myrtle, where the light is soft and green, + And a month like English April sits, an immemorial queen, + Let us think that he is resting--think that by a radiant grave + Ever come the songs of forest, and the voices of the wave! + _Thus_ we want our sons to find him--find him under floral bowers, + Sleeping by the trees he loved so, covered with his darling flowers! + + + + +After Many Years + + + + The song that once I dreamed about, + The tender, touching thing, + As radiant as the rose without-- + The love of wind and wing-- + The perfect verses, to the tune + Of woodland music set, + As beautiful as afternoon, + Remain unwritten yet. + + It is too late to write them now-- + The ancient fire is cold; + No ardent lights illume the brow, + As in the days of old. + I cannot dream the dream again; + But when the happy birds + Are singing in the sunny rain, + I think I hear its words. + + I think I hear the echo still + Of long-forgotten tones, + When evening winds are on the hill + And sunset fires the cones; + But only in the hours supreme, + With songs of land and sea, + The lyrics of the leaf and stream, + This echo comes to me. + + No longer doth the earth reveal + Her gracious green and gold; + I sit where youth was once, and feel + That I am growing old. + The lustre from the face of things + Is wearing all away; + Like one who halts with tired wings, + I rest and muse to-day. + + There is a river in the range + I love to think about; + Perhaps the searching feet of change + Have never found it out. + Ah! oftentimes I used to look + Upon its banks, and long + To steal the beauty of that brook + And put it in a song. + + I wonder if the slopes of moss, + In dreams so dear to me-- + The falls of flower, and flower-like floss-- + Are as they used to be! + I wonder if the waterfalls, + The singers far and fair, + That gleamed between the wet, green walls, + Are still the marvels there! + + Ah! let me hope that in that place + The old familiar things + To which I turn a wistful face + Have never taken wings. + Let me retain the fancy still + That, past the lordly range, + There always shines, in folds of hill, + One spot secure from change! + + I trust that yet the tender screen + That shades a certain nook, + Remains, with all its gold and green, + The glory of the brook. + It hides a secret to the birds + And waters only known: + The letters of two lovely words-- + A poem on a stone. + + Perhaps the lady of the past + Upon these lines may light, + The purest verses, and the last + That I may ever write. + She need not fear a word of blame-- + Her tale the flowers keep-- + The wind that heard me breathe her name + Has been for years asleep. + + But in the night, and when the rain + The troubled torrent fills, + I often think I see again + The river in the hills; + And when the day is very near, + And birds are on the wing, + My spirit fancies it can hear + The song I cannot sing. + + +[End of Songs from the Mountains.] + + + + + +EARLY POEMS, 1859-70 + + (With a few exceptions, these are now printed + for the first time in book form). + + + + + +The Merchant Ship + + + + The sun o'er the waters was throwing + In the freshness of morning its beams; + And the breast of the ocean seemed glowing + With glittering silvery streams: + A bark in the distance was bounding + Away for the land on her lee; + And the boatswain's shrill whistle resounding + Came over and over the sea. + The breezes blew fair and were guiding + Her swiftly along on her track, + And the billows successively passing, + Were lost in the distance aback. + The sailors seemed busy preparing + For anchor to drop ere the night; + The red rusted cables in fathoms + Were haul'd from their prisons to light. + Each rope and each brace was attended + By stout-hearted sons of the main, + Whose voices, in unison blended, + Sang many a merry-toned strain. + + Forgotten their care and their sorrow, + If of such they had ever known aught, + Each soul was wrapped up in the morrow-- + The morrow which greeted them not; + A sunshiny hope was inspiring + And filling their hearts with a glow + Like that on the billows around them, + Like the silvery ocean below. + As they looked on the haven before them, + Already high looming and near, + What else but a joy could invade them, + Or what could they feel but a cheer? + + . . . . . + + The eve on the waters was clouded, + And gloomy and dark grew the sky; + The ocean in blackness was shrouded, + And wails of a tempest flew by; + The bark o'er the billows high surging + 'Mid showers of the foam-crested spray, + Now sinking, now slowly emerging, + Held onward her dangerous way. + The gale in the distance was veering + To a point that would drift her on land, + And fearfully he that was steering + Look'd round on the cliff-girdled strand. + He thought of the home now before him + And muttered sincerely a prayer + That morning might safely restore him + To friends and to kind faces there. + He knew that if once at the mercy + Of the winds and those mountain-like waves + The sun would rise over the waters-- + The day would return on their graves. + + . . . . . + + Still blacker the heavens were scowling, + Still nearer the rock-skirted shore; + Yet fiercer the tempest was howling + And louder the wild waters roar. + The cold rain in torrents came pouring + On deck thro' the rigging and shrouds, + And the deep, pitchy dark was illumined + Each moment with gleams from the clouds + Of forky-shap'd lightning as, darting, + It made a wide pathway on high, + And the sound of the thunder incessant + Re-echoed the breadth of the sky. + The light-hearted tars of the morning + Now gloomily watching the storm + Were silent, the glare from the flashes + Revealing each weather-beat form, + Their airy-built castles all vanished + When they heard the wild conflict ahead; + Their hopes of the morning were banished, + And terror seemed ruling instead. + They gazed on the heavens above them + And then on the waters beneath, + And shrunk as foreboding those billows + Might shroud them ere morrow in death. + + . . . . . + + Hark! A voice o'er the tempest came ringing, + A wild cry of bitter despair + Re-echoed by all in the vessel, + And filling the wind-ridden air. + The breakers and rocks were before them + Discovered too plain to their eyes, + And the heart-bursting shrieks of the hopeless + Ascending were lost in the skies. + Then a crash, then a moan from the dying + Went on, on the wings of the gale, + Soon hush'd in the roar of the waters + And the tempest's continuing wail. + The "Storm Power" loudly was sounding + Their funeral dirge as they passed, + And the white-crested waters around them + Re-echoed the voice of the blast. + The surges will show to the morrow + A fearful and heartrending sight, + And bereaved ones will weep in their sorrow + When they think of that terrible night. + + . . . . . + + The day on the ocean returning + Saw still'd to a slumber the deep-- + Not a zephyr disturbing its bosom, + The winds and the breezes asleep. + Again the warm sunshine was gleaming + Refulgently fringing the sea, + Its rays to the horizon beaming + And clothing the land on the lee. + The billows were silently gliding + O'er the graves of the sailors beneath, + The waves round the vessel yet pointing + The scene of their anguish and death. + They seemed to the fancy bewailing + The sudden and terrible doom + Of those who were yesterday singing + And laughing in sight of their tomb. + + . . . . . + + 'Tis thus on the sea of existence-- + The morning begins without care, + Hope cheerfully points to the distance, + The Future beams sunny and fair; + And we--as the bark o'er the billows, + Admiring the beauty of day, + With Fortune all smiling around us-- + Glide onward our silvery way. + We know not nor fear for a sorrow + Ever crossing our pathway in life; + We judge from to-day the to-morrow + And dream not of meeting with strife. + This world seems to us as an Eden + And we wonder when hearing around + The cries of stern pain and affliction + How such an existence is found. + But we find to our cost when misfortune + Comes mantling our sun in its night, + That the Earth was not made to be Heaven, + Not always our life can be bright. + In turn we see each of our day-dreams + Dissolve into air and decay, + And learn that the hopes that are brightest + Fade soonest--far soonest away. + + + These lines were written in 1857, and were suggested by the wreck + of the _Dunbar_, but the writer did not confine himself in particular + to a description of that disaster, as may be seen from perusal.--H.K. + + + + +Oh, Tell Me, Ye Breezes + + + + Oh, tell me, ye breezes that spring from the west, + Oh, tell me, ere passing away, + If Leichhardt's bold spirit has fled to its rest? + Where moulders the traveller's clay? + + Perchance as ye flitted on heedlessly by + The long lost was yielding his breath; + Perchance ye have borne on your wings the last sigh + That 'scap'd from the lone one in death. + + Tell me, ye breezes, ye've traversed the wild, + And passed o'er the desolate spot, + Where reposeth in silence sweet Nature's own child, + Where slumbers one nearly forgot? + + Ye answer me not but are passing away-- + Ye breezes that spring from the west, + Unhallow'd still moulders the traveller's clay, + For unknown is the place of his rest. + + + + +The Far Future + + + + Australia, advancing with rapid winged stride, + Shall plant among nations her banners in pride, + The yoke of dependence aside she will cast, + And build on the ruins and wrecks of the Past. + Her flag on the tempest will wave to proclaim + 'Mong kingdoms and empires her national name; + The Future shall see it, asleep or unfurl'd, + The shelter of Freedom and boast of the world. + + Australia, advancing like day on the sky, + Has glimmer'd thro' darkness, will blazon on high, + A Gem in its glitter has yet to be seen, + When Progress has placed her where England has been; + When bursting those limits above she will soar, + Outstretching all rivals who've mounted before, + And, resting, will blaze with her glories unfurl'd, + The empire of empires and boast of the world. + + Australia, advancing with Power, will entwine + With Honour and Justice a Mercy divine; + No Despot shall trample--no slave shall be bound-- + Oppression must totter and fall to the ground. + The stain of all ages, tyrannical sway, + Will pass like a flash or a shadow away, + And shrink to nothing 'neath thunderbolts hurl'd + From the hand of the terror--the boast of the world. + + Australia, advancing with rapid wing'd stride, + Shall plant among nations her banners in pride; + The yoke of dependence aside she will cast, + And build on the ruins and wrecks of the Past. + Her flag in the tempest will wave to proclaim, + 'Mong kingdoms and empires her national name, + And Ages shall see it, asleep or unfurl'd + The shelter of Freedom and boast of the world. + + + I hope the above will not be considered disloyal. It is but reasonable + to imagine that Australia will in the far future become + an independent nation--that imagination springing as it does + from a native-born Australian brain.--H.K. + + + + +Silent Tears + + + + What bitter sorrow courses down + Yon mourner's faded cheek? + Those scalding drops betray a grief + Within, too full to speak. + Outspoken words cannot express + The pangs, the pains of years; + They're ne'er so deep or eloquent + As are those silent tears. + + Here is a wound that in the breast + Must canker, hid'n from sight; + Though all without seems sunny day, + Within 'tis ever night. + Yet sometimes from this secret source + The gloomy truth appears; + The wind's dark dungeon must have vent + If but in silent tears. + + The world may deem from outward looks + That heart is hard and cold; + But oh! could they the mantle lift + What sorrows would be told! + Then, only then, the truth would show + Which most the bosom sears: + The pain portrayed by burning words + Or that by--silent tears. + + + + +Extempore Lines + + -- + * Suggested by one of John Bright's speeches on Electoral Reform. + -- + + + + A morning crowns the Western hill, + A day begins to reign, + A sun awakes o'er distant seas-- + Shall never sleep again. + The world is growing old, + And men are waxing wise; + A mist has cleared--a something falls + Like scales from off their eyes. + + Too long the "Dark of Ignorance" + Has brooded on their way; + Too long Oppression 's stood before, + Excluding light of day. + But now they've found the track + And now they've seen the dawn, + A "beacon lamp" is pointing on, + Where stronger glows the morn. + + Since Adam lived, the mighty ones + Have ever ruled the weak; + Since Noah's flood, the fettered slave + Has seldom dared to speak. + 'Tis time a voice was heard, + 'Tis time a voice was spoken + So in the chain of tyranny + A link or two be broken. + + A tiny rill will swell a stream, + A spark will cause a flame, + And one man's burning eloquence + Has help'd to do the same. + And he will persevere, + And soon that blaze must spread, + Till to the corners of the earth + Reflecting beams are shed. + + The "few" will try to beat it down, + But can they stop the flood-- + Bind up the pinions of the light, + Or check the will of God? + And is it not His will + That deeply injured Right + Should overthrow the iron rule + And reign instead of Might? + + + + +The Old Year + + + + It passed like the breath of the night-wind away, + It fled like a mist at the dawn of the day; + It lasted its moment, then backward was hurled, + Another increase to the age of the world. + + It passed with its shadows, its smiles and its tears, + It passed as a stream to the ocean of years; + Years that were coming--were here--and are o'er, + The ages departed to visit no more. + + It passed, but the bark on its billowy track + Leaves an impression on waters aback: + The glow of the gloaming remains on the sky, + Unwilling to leave us--unwilling to die. + + It fled; but away and away in its wake + There lingers a something that time cannot break. + The past and the future are joined by a chain, + And memories live that must ever remain. + + + + +Tanna + + (The Kanaka's Death-Song over his Chieftain.) + + + + Shades of my father, the hour is approaching. + Prepare ye the 'cava' for 'Yona' on high; + Make ready the welcome, ye souls of Arrochin. + The Death God of Tanna speaks--Yona must die. + + No more will he traverse the flame sheeted mountain, + To lead forth his brothers to hunting and war; + No more will he drink from the time honoured fountain, + Nor rise in the councils of Uking-a-shaa. + + His voice in the battle, loud thunder resembling, + Has died like a zephyr o'errunning the plain; + His whoop like the tempest thro' forest trees trembling, + Shall never strike foemen with terror again. + + The 'muska' hung up on the cocoa is sleeping, + And Attanam's spirits have gathered a-nigh + To see their destroyer; and, wailing and weeping, + Roll past on the night-breathing winds of the sky. + + The lines are suspended, the 'muttow' is broken, + The canoe's far away from the water-wash'd shore, + Mourn, mourn, ye 'whyeenas', the word has been spoken, + The chieftain can bring ye the 'weepan' no more. + + Ye cloud-seated visions, ye shades of my fathers, + Awake from your slumbers, the trumpet blast blow; + The moments are flying, the mountain mist gathers, + And Yona is leaving his camp fire below. + + . . . . . + + The struggles are over, the cords are asunder, + Ye Phantoms hold forward your heavenly light, + Speak on the wings of the sky-shaking thunder, + And fill him with joy on the path of his flight. + + Come downwards a space thro' the fogs till ye meet him, + Throw open the doors of Arrochin awide, + And stand on the thresholds, ye Shadows to greet him-- + The glory of Tanna, the Uking'shaa's pride. + + Thanks, spirits departed!--heard I not your voices + Faint rolling along on the breath of the gale? + Thanks, spirits departed! Le-en-na rejoices: + Ye've answered the mourner--ye've silenced the wail. + + The midnight is clearing; the Death-song is ended. + The Chieftain has gone, but ye've called him away; + For he smiled as he listened, obedient ascended, + The voice in his ear, and the torch on his way. + + + Tanna is one of the largest islands in the group known as the New Hebrides. + The natives of it, in common with all their South Sea brethren, + are generally titled by the whites "Kanakas". They are of the negro family, + resembling in feature, very closely, the Feejee tribes. It is said that + they believe in the existence of a Superior Being, whose earthly dwelling + they fancy is in the burning volcanoes for which the island is remarkable. + They believe in a future happy state, and call their heaven "Arrochin". + They are divided into small tribes or clans; the largest of these + are the Ukingh-a-shaa and Attanam families. A spirit of rivalry + between these two last-mentioned often causes long and bloody wars + all over the island. + + Tanna, besides the never-sleeping volcano, has its other objects of interest + in the many boiling springs that surround the base of the burning mountain. + Some of these are held as holy, and none but chiefs are permitted + to taste their waters. Such restriction, however, does not extend over all. + + When any of their great warriors die, the aborigines believe that + the spirits of Arrochin prepare a great feast there for their coming guest, + and for fear he should lose himself on the road thither they (the spirits) + call to him and blow trumpets, sending some one at the same time with torches + to meet him and guide him on his way to those blessed regions. + + Explanation of Native Words: + + "Arrochin"--Heaven. "Cava"--a drink extracted from a root. + (The natives believe it is made and drunk in Arrochin where it grows + as in Tanna). "Muska" (corruption of the English term, musket)-- + of late their chief weapon in war. "Muttow"--a fishing-hook. + "Whyeena"--woman (this is not the original native appellation; + that I could never ascertain). "Weepan"--Fish (their principal food). + "Leenna" and "Yona"--native names.--H.K. + + + + +The Earth Laments for Day + + + + There's music wafting on the air, + The evening winds are sighing + Among the trees--and yonder stream + Is mournfully replying, + Lamenting loud the sunny light + That in the west is dying. + + The moon is rising o'er the hill, + Her slanting rays are creeping + Where Nature lies profoundly still + In happy quiet sleeping, + And resting on her face, they'll find + The earth is wet with weeping. + + She mourneth for the lovely day, + Now deep in darkness shaded; + She sheds the dewy tear because + Of morning's mantle faded; + She misses from her breast the garb + In which the moon array'd it. + + The evening queen will strive in vain + To break the spell which bound her; + A million stars can never throw + Departed warmth around her; + They all must pass away and leave + The earth as they had found her. + + But why should gentle Nature weep + That night has overtaken + The wearied world that needed sleep, + Refreshed to re-awaken, + So richer light might burst around, + The gloomy shadows breaking? + + Oh, can she not from yonder sky + That gleams above her, borrow + A single ray, or find a way + To check the tear of sorrow? + A beam of hope would last her till + The dawning of to-morrow. + + + + +The Late W. V. Wild, Esq. + + + + Sad faces came round, and I dreamily said + "Though the harp of my country now slumbers, + Some hand will pass o'er it, in love for the dead, + And attune it to sorrowful numbers!" + But the hopes that I clung to are withering things, + For the days have gone by with a cloud on their wings, + And the touch of a bard is unknown to the strings-- + _Oh, why art thou silent, Australia?_ + + The leaves of the autumn are scattering fast, + The willows look barren and lonely; + But I dream a sad dream of my friend of the past, + And his form I can dwell upon only! + In the strength of his youth I can see him go by. + There is health on the cheek, and a fire in the eye-- + Oh, who would have thought that such beauty could die! + _Ah, mourn for thy noblest, Australia!_ + + A strange shadow broods o'er the desolate earth, + And the cypresses tremble and quiver; + But my heart waxeth dark with the thoughts of the worth + That has left us for ever and ever! + A dull cloud creepeth close to the moon, + And the winter winds pass with a shuddering croon-- + Oh, why was he snatched from his brothers so soon? + _Ah, weep for thy lost one, Australia!_ + + How weary we grow when we turn to reflect + Upon what we have seen and believed in; + When harping on promises hopelessly wrecked, + And the things we have all been deceived in! + When a voice that I loved lingers near to me yet! + And a kind, handsome face which I'll never forget-- + Can I wake to the present and stifle regret-- + _Can I smother these feelings, Australia?_ + + It is useless to grieve o'er the light that has fled + But the harp of my country still slumbers; + And I thought that some bard in his love for the dead, + Would have thrilled it to sorrowful numbers! + Lo, the hopes that I clung to are withering things + For the days have gone by with a cloud on their wings, + And my hand is too feeble to strike at the strings-- + _Oh, why art thou silent, Australia?_ + + + + +Astarte + + + + Across the dripping ridges, + O, look, luxurious night! + She comes, the bright-haired beauty, + My luminous delight! + My luminous delight! + So hush, ye shores, your roar, + That my soul may sleep, forgetting + Dead Love's wild Nevermore! + + Astarte, Syrian sister, + Your face is wet with tears; + I think you know the secret + One heart hath held for years! + One heart hath held for years! + But hide your hapless love, + And my sweet--my Syrian sister, + Dead Love's wild Nevermore! + + Ah, Helen Hope in heaven, + My queen of long ago, + I've swooned with adoration, + But could not tell you so, + Or dared not tell you so, + My radiant queen of yore! + And you've passed away and left me + Dead Love's wild Nevermore! + + Astarte knoweth, darling, + Of eyes that once did weep, + What time entranced Passion + Hath kissed your lips in sleep; + Hath kissed your lips in sleep; + But now those tears are o'er, + Gone, my saint, with many a moan to + Dead Love's wild Nevermore! + + If I am past all crying, + What thoughts are maddening me, + Of you, my darling, dying + Upon the lone, wide sea, + Upon the lone, wide sea, + Ah! hush, ye shores, your roar, + That my soul may sleep, forgetting + Dead Love's wild Nevermore! + + + + +Australian War Song + + + + Men have said that ye were sleeping-- + Hurl, Australians, back the lie; + Whet the swords you have in keeping, + Forward stand to do or die! + Hear ye not, across the ocean, + Echoes of the distant fray, + Sounds of loud and fierce commotion, + Swiftly sweeping on the way? + Hearts have woke from sluggish trances, + Woke to know their native worth; + Freedom with her train advances-- + Freedom newly sprung to birth. + Despots start from thrones affrighted-- + Tyrants hear the angry tread; + Where the slaves, whose prayers were slighted, + Marching--draw the sword instead. + + If the men of other nations + Dash their fetters to the ground; + When the foeman seeks your stations, + Will you willing slaves be found? + You the sons of hero fathers-- + Sires that bled at Waterloo! + No! Your indignation gathers-- + To your old traditions true; + Should the cannon's iron rattle + Sound between your harbour doors, + You will rise to wage the battle + In a just and righteous cause. + Patriot fires will scorch Oppression + Should it dare to draw too near; + And the tide of bold Aggression + _Must_ be stayed from coming here. + + Look upon familiar places, + Mountain, river, hill and glade; + Look upon those beauteous faces, + Turning up to you for aid. + Think ye, in the time of danger, + When that threatening moment comes-- + Will ye let the heartless stranger + Drive your kindred from their homes? + By the prayers which rise above you, + When you face him on the shore, + By the forms of those that love you-- + Greet him with the rifle's roar! + While an arm can wield a sabre, + While you yet can lift a hand, + Strike and teach your hostile neighbour, + This is Freedom's chosen land. + + + + +The Ivy on the Wall + + + + The verdant ivy clings around + Yon moss be-mantled wall, + As if it sought to hide the stones, + That crumbling soon must fall: + That relic of a bygone age + Now tottering to decay, + Has but one friend--the ivy--left. + The rest have passed away. + + The fairy flowers that once did bloom + And smile beneath its shade; + They lingered till the autumn came, + And autumn saw them fade: + The emerald leaves that blushed between-- + The winds away have blown; + But yet to cheer the mournful scene, + The ivy liveth on. + + Thus heavenly hope will still survive, + When earthly joys have fled; + And all the flow'ry dreams of youth + Lie withering and dead. + When Winter comes--it twines itself + Around the human heart; + And like the ivy on the wall + Will ne'er from thence depart. + + + + +The Australian Emigrant + + + + How dazzling the sunbeams awoke on the spray, + When Australia first rose in the distance away, + As welcome to us on the deck of the bark, + As the dove to the vision of those in the ark! + What fairylike fancies appear'd to the view + As nearer and nearer the haven we drew! + What castles were built and rebuilt in the brain, + To totter and crumble to nothing again! + + We had roam'd o'er the ocean--had travers'd a path, + Where the tempest surrounded and shriek'd in its wrath: + Alike we had roll'd in the hurricane's breath, + And slumber'd on waters as silent as death: + We had watch'd the Day breaking each morn on the main, + And had seen it sink down in the billows again; + For week after week, till dishearten'd we thought + An age would elapse ere we enter'd the port. + + How often while ploughing the 'watery waste', + Our thoughts--from the Future have turn'd to the Past; + How often our bosoms have heav'd with regret; + For faces and scenes we could never forget: + For we'd seen as the shadows o'er-curtain'd our minds + The cliffs of old England receding behind; + And had turned in our tears from the view of the shore, + The land of our childhood, to see it no more. + + But when that red morning awoke from its sleep, + To show us this land like a cloud on the deep; + And when the warm sunbeams imparted their glow, + To the heavens above and the ocean below; + The hearts had been aching then revell'd with joy, + And a pleasure was tasted exempt from alloy; + The souls had been heavy grew happy and light + And all was forgotten in present delight. + + 'Tis true--of the hopes that were verdant that day + There is more than the half of them withered away: + 'Tis true that emotions of temper'd regret, + Still live for the country we'll never forget; + But yet we are happy, since learning to love + The scenes that surround us--the skies are above, + We find ourselves bound, as it were by a spell, + In the clime we've adopted contented to dwell. + + + + +To My Brother, Basil E. Kendall + + + + To-night the sea sends up a gulf-like sound, + And ancient rhymes are ringing in my head, + The many lilts of song we sang and said, + My friend and brother, when we journeyed round + Our haunts at Wollongong, that classic ground + For me at least, a lingerer deeply read + And steeped in beauty. Oft in trance I tread + Those shining shores, and hear your talk of Fame + With thought-flushed face and heart so well assured + (Beholding through the woodland's bright distress + The Moon half pillaged of her loveliness) + Of this wild dreamer: Had you but endured + A dubious dark, you might have won a name + With brighter bays than I can ever claim. + + + + +The Waterfall + + + + The song of the water + Doomed ever to roam, + A beautiful exile, + Afar from its home. + + The cliffs on the mountain, + The grand and the gray, + They took the bright creature + And hurled it away! + + I heard the wild downfall, + And knew it must spill + A passionate heart out + All over the hill. + + Oh! was it a daughter + Of sorrow and sin, + That they threw it so madly + Down into the lynn? + + . . . + + And listen, my Sister, + For this is the song + The Waterfall taught me + The ridges among:-- + + "Oh where are the shadows + So cool and so sweet + And the rocks," saith the water, + "With the moss on their feet? + + "Oh, where are my playmates + The wind and the flowers-- + The golden and purple-- + Of honey-sweet bowers, + + "Mine eyes have been blinded + Because of the sun; + And moaning and moaning + I listlessly run. + + "These hills are so flinty!-- + Ah! tell me, dark Earth, + What valley leads back to + The place of my birth?-- + + "What valley leads up to + The haunts where a child + Of the caverns I sported, + The free and the wild? + + "There lift me,"--it crieth, + "I faint from the heat; + With a sob for the shadows + So cool and so sweet." + + Ye rocks, that look over + With never a tear, + I yearn for one half of + The wasted love here! + + My sister so wistful, + You know I believe, + Like a child for the mountains + This water doth grieve. + + Ah! you with the blue eyes + And golden-brown hair, + Come closer and closer + And truly declare:-- + + Supposing a darling + Once happened to sin, + In a passionate space, + Would you carry her in-- + + If your fathers and mothers, + The grand and the gray, + Had taken the weak one + And hurled her away? + + + + +The Song of Arda + + (From "Annatanam".) + + + + Low as a lute, my love, beneath the call + Of storm, I hear a melancholy wind; + The memorably mournful wind of yore + Which is the very brother of the one + That wanders, like a hermit, by the mound + Of Death, in lone Annatanam. A song + Was shaped for this, what time we heard outside + The gentle falling of the faded leaf + In quiet noons: a song whose theme doth turn + On gaps of Ruin and the gay-green clifts + Beneath the summits haunted by the moon. + Yea, much it travels to the dens of dole; + And in the midst of this strange rhyme, my lords, + Our Desolation like a phantom sits + With wasted cheeks and eyes that cannot weep + And fastened lips crampt up in marvellous pain. + + A song in whose voice is the voice of the foam + And the rhyme of the wintering wave, + And the tongue of the things that eternally roam + In forest, in fell or in cave; + But mostly 'tis like to the Wind without home + In the glen of a desolate grave-- + Of a deep and desolate grave. + + The torrent flies over the thunder-struck clift + With many and many a call; + The leaves are swept down, and a dolorous drift + Is hurried away with the fall. + But mostly 'tis like the Wind without home + In the glen of a desolate grave-- + Of a deep and desolate grave. + + Whoever goes thither by night or by day + Must mutter, O Father, to Thee, + For the shadows that startle, the sounds that waylay + Are heavy to hear and to see; + And a step and a moan and a whisper for aye + Have made it a sorrow to be-- + A sorrow of sorrows to be. + + Oh! cover your faces and shudder, and turn + And hide in the dark of your hair, + Nor look to the Glen in the Mountains, to learn + Of the mystery mouldering there; + But rather sit low in the ashes and urn + Dead hopes in your mighty despair-- + In the depths of your mighty despair. + + + + +The Helmsman + + + + Like one who meets a staggering blow, + The stout old ship doth reel, + And waters vast go seething past-- + But will it last, this fearful blast, + On straining shroud and groaning mast, + O sailor at the wheel? + + His face is smitten with the wind, + His cheeks are chilled with rain; + And you were right, his hair is white, + But eyes are calm and heart is light + _He_ does not fear the strife to-night, + He knows the roaring main. + + Ho, Sailor! Will to-morrow bring + The hours of pleasant rest? + An answer low--"I do not know, + The thunders grow and far winds blow, + But storms may come and storms may go-- + Our God, He judgeth best!" + + Now you are right, brave mariner, + But we are not like you; + We, used to shore, our fates deplore, + And fear the more when waters roar; + So few amongst us look before, + Or stop to think that Heaven is o'er-- + Ah! what you say is true. + + And those who go abroad in ships, + Who seldom see the land, + But sail and stray so far away, + Should trust and pray, for are not they, + When Darkness blinds them on their way, + All guided by God's hand? + + But you are wrinkled, grey and worn; + 'Tis time you dwelt in peace! + Your prime is past; we fail so fast; + You may not last through every blast, + And, oh, 'tis fearful to be cast + Amongst the smothering seas! + + Is there no absent face to love + That you must live alone? + If faith did fade, if friends betrayed, + And turned, and staid resolves you'd made, + Ah, still 'tis pleasant to be laid + Where you at least are known. + + The answer slides betwixt our words-- + "The season shines and glooms + On ship and strand, on sea and land, + But life must go and Time is spanned, + As well you know when out you stand + With Death amongst the tombs! + + "It matters not to one so old + Who mourns when Fate comes round, + And one may sleep down in the deep + As well as those beneath the heap + That fifty stormy years will sweep + And trample to the ground." + + Your speech is wise, brave mariner, + And we would let you be; + You speak with truth, you strive to soothe; + But, oh, the wrecks of Love and Truth, + What say you to our tears for Youth + And Beauty drowned at sea? + + "Oh, talk not of the Beauty lost, + Since first these decks I trod + The hopeless stare on faces fair, + The streaming, bare, dishevelled hair, + The wild despair, the sinking--where, + Oh where, oh where?--My God!" + + + + +To Miss Annie Hopkins + + + + Beneath the shelter of the bush, + In undisturbed repose-- + Unruffled by the kiss of breeze-- + There lurks a smiling rose; + Beneath thine outer beauty, gleams, + In holy light enshrined, + A symbol of the blooming flower, + A pure, unspotted mind. + + The lovely tint that crowns the hill + When westward sinks the sun, + The milder dazzle in the stream + That evening sits upon, + The morning blushes, mantling o'er + The face of land and sea, + They all recall to mind the charms + That are combined in thee! + + + + +Foreshadowings + + + + Fifteen miles and then the harbour! Here we cannot choose but stand, + Faces thrust towards the day-break, listening for our native land! + Close-reefed topsails shuddering over, straining down the groaning mast; + For a tempest cleaves the darkness, hissing, howling, shrieking past! + Lo! the air is flecked with stormbirds, and their melancholy wail + Lends a tone of deeper pathos to the melancholy gale! + Whilst away they wheel to leeward, leaving in their rapid flight + Wind and water grappling wildly through the watches of the night. + + Yesterday we both were happy; but my soul is filled with change, + And I'm sad, my gallant comrade, with foreshadowings vague and strange! + Dear old place, are we so near you? Like to one that speaks in sleep, + I'm talking, thinking wildly o'er this moaning, maddened deep! + Much it makes me marvel, brother, that such thoughts should linger nigh + Now we know what shore is hidden somewhere in that misty sky! + Oh! I even fear to see it; and I've never felt so low + Since we turned our faces from it, seven weary years ago. + + Have you faith at all in omens? Fits of passion I have known + When it seemed in crowded towns as if I walked the Earth alone! + And amongst my comrades often, o'er the lucent, laughing sea, + I have felt like one that drifteth on a dark and dangerous lee! + As a man who, crossing waters underneath a moony night, + Knows there will be gloomy weather if a cloudrack bounds the light, + So I hold, when Life is splendid, and our hopes are new and warm, + We can sometimes, looking forward, see the shade and feel the storm. + + When you called me I was dreaming that this thunder raged no more, + And we travelled, both together, on a calm, delightful shore; + That we went along rejoicing, for I thought I heard you say, + "Now we soon shall see them, brother--now our fears have passed away!" + Pleasant were those deep green wild-woods; and we hurried, like a breeze, + Till I saw a distant opening through the porches of the trees; + And our village faintly gleaming past the forest and the stream; + But we wandered sadly through it with the Spirit of my Dream. + + Why was our delight so fickle? Was it well while there to mourn; + When the loved--the loving, crowding, came to welcome our return? + In my vision, once so glorious, did we find that aught was changed; + Or that ONE whom WE remembered was forgotten or estranged? + Through a mist of many voices, listening for sweet accents fled, + Heard we hints of lost affection, or of gentle faces dead? + No! but on the quiet dreamscape came a darkness like a pall + And a ghostly shadow, brother, fell and rested over all. + + Talking thus my friend I fronted, and in trustful tones he spake-- + "I have long been waiting, watching here to see the morning break; + Now behold the bright fulfilment! Did my Spirit yearn in vain; + And amidst this holy splendour can a moody heart remain? + Let them pass, those wayward fancies! Waking thoughts return with sleep; + And they mingle strangely sometimes, while we lie in slumber deep; + But, believe me, dreams are nothing. If unto His creatures weak + God should whisper of the Future, not in riddles will He speak." + + Since he answered I have rested, for his brave words fell like balm; + And we reached the land in daylight, and the tempest died in calm; + Though the sounds of gusty fragments of a faint and broken breeze + Still went gliding with the runnels, gurgling down the spangled leas! + So we turned and travelled onward, till we rested at a place + Where a Vision fell about us, sunned with many a lovely face; + Then we heard low silvery voices; and I knelt upon the shore-- + Knelt and whispered, "God I thank Thee! and will wander never more." + + + + +Sonnets on the Discovery of Botany Bay by Captain Cook + + + + I + + The First Attempt to Reach the Shore + + + Where is the painter who shall paint for you, + My Austral brothers, with a pencil steeped + In hues of Truth, the weather-smitten crew + Who gazed on unknown shores--a thoughtful few-- + What time the heart of their great Leader leaped + Till he was faint with pain of longing? New + And wondrous sights on each and every hand, + Like strange supernal visions, grew and grew + Until the rocks and trees, and sea and sand, + Danced madly in the tear-bewildered view! + And from the surf a fierce, fantastic band + Of startled wild men to the hills withdrew + With yells of fear! Who'll paint thy face, O Cook! + Turned seaward, "after many a wistful look!" + + + + II + + The Second Attempt, Opposed by Two of the Natives + + + "There were but two, and we were forty! Yet," + The Captain wrote, "that dauntless couple throve, + And faced our wildering faces; and I said + 'Lie to awhile!' I did not choose to let + A strife go on of little worth to _us_. + And so unequal! But the dying tread + Of flying kinsmen moved them not: for wet + With surf and wild with streaks of white and black + The pair remained."--O stout Caractacus! + 'Twas thus you stood when Caesar's legions strove + To beat their few, fantastic foemen back-- + Your patriots with their savage stripes of red! + To drench the stormy cliff and moaning cove + With faithful blood, as pure as any ever shed. + + + + III + + The Spot Where Cook Landed + + + Chaotic crags are huddled east and west-- + Dark, heavy crags, against a straitened sea + That cometh, like a troubled soul in quest + Of voiceless rest where never dwelleth rest, + With noise "like thunder everlasting." + But here, behold a silent space of sand!-- + Oh, pilgrim, halt!--it even seems to be + _Asleep in other years_. How still! How grand! + How awful in its wild solemnity! + _This_ is the spot on which the Chief did land, + And there, perchance, he stood what time a band + Of yelling strangers scoured the savage lea. + Dear friend, with thoughtful eyes look slowly round-- + By all the sacred Past 'tis sacred ground. + + + + IV + + Sutherland's Grave + + + 'Tis holy ground! The silent silver lights + And darks undreamed of, falling year by year + Upon his sleep, in soft Australian nights, + Are joys enough for him who lieth here + So sanctified with Rest. We need not rear + The storied monument o'er such a spot! + That soul, the first for whom the Christian tear + Was shed on Austral soil, hath heritage + Most ample! Let the ages wane with age, + The grass which clothes _this_ grave shall wither not. + See yonder quiet lily! Have the blights + Of many winters left it on a faded tomb?* + Oh, peace! Its fellows, glad with green delights, + Shall gather round it deep eternal bloom! + + * A wild lily grows on the spot supposed to be Sutherland's grave.--H.K. + + + + +To Henry Halloran + + + + You know I left my forest home full loth, + And those weird ways I knew so well and long, + Dishevelled with their sloping sidelong growth + Of twisted thorn and kurrajong. + + It seems to me, my friend (and this wild thought + Of all wild thoughts, doth chiefly make me bleed), + That in those hills and valleys wonder-fraught, + I loved and lost a noble creed. + + A splendid creed! But let me even turn + And hide myself from what I've seen, and try + To fathom certain truths you know, and learn + The Beauty shining in your sky: + + Remembering you in ardent autumn nights, + And Stenhouse near you, like a fine stray guest + Of other days, with all his lore of lights + So manifold and manifest! + + Then hold me firm. I cannot choose but long + For that which lies and burns beyond my reach, + Suggested in your steadfast, subtle song + And his most marvellous speech! + + For now my soul goes drifting back again, + Ay, drifting, drifting, like the silent snow + While scattered sheddings, in a fall of rain, + Revive the dear lost Long Ago! + + The time I, loitering by untrodden fens, + Intent upon low-hanging lustrous skies, + Heard mellowed psalms from sounding southern glens-- + Euroma, dear to dreaming eyes! + + And caught seductive tokens of a voice + Half maddened with the dim, delirious themes + Of perfect Love, and the immortal choice + Of starry faces--Astral dreams! + + That last was yours! And if you sometimes find + An alien darkness on the front of things, + Sing none the less for Life, nor fall behind, + Like me, with trailing, tired wings! + + Yea, though the heavy Earth wears sackcloth now + Because she hath the great prophetic grief + Which makes me set my face one way, and bow + And falter for a far belief, + + Be faithful yet for all, my brave bright peer, + In that rare light you hold so true and good; + And find me something clearer than the clear + White spaces of Infinitude. + + + + +Lost in the Flood + + + + When God drave the ruthless waters + From our cornfields to the sea, + Came she where our wives and daughters + Sobbed their thanks on bended knee. + Hidden faces! there ye found her + Mute as death, and staring wild + At the shadow waxing round her + Like the presence of her child-- + Of her drenched and drowning child! + + Dark thoughts live when tears won't gather; + Who can tell us what she felt? + It was human, O my Father, + If she blamed Thee while she knelt! + Ever, as a benediction + Fell like balm on all and each, + Rose a young face whose affliction + Choked and stayed the founts of speech-- + Stayed and shut the founts of speech! + + Often doth she sit and ponder + Over gleams of happy hair! + How her white hands used to wander, + Like a flood of moonlight there! + Lord--our Lord! Thou know'st her weakness: + Give her faith that she may pray; + And the subtle strength of meekness, + Lest she falter by the way-- + Falter, fainting, by the way! + + "Darling!" saith she, wildly moaning + Where the grass-grown silence lies, + "Is there rest from sobs and groaning-- + Rest with you beyond the skies? + Child of mine, so far above me! + Late it waxeth--dark and late; + Will the love with which I love thee, + Lift me where you sit and wait-- + Darling! where you sit and wait?" + + + + +Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Four + + + + I hear no footfall beating through the dark, + A lonely gust is loitering at the pane; + There is no sound within these forests stark + Beyond a splash or two of sullen rain; + + But you are with us! and our patient land + Is filled with long-expected change at last, + Though we have scarce the heart to lift a hand + Of welcome, after all the yearning past! + + Ah! marvel not; the days and nights were long + And cold and dull and dashed with many tears; + And lately there hath been a doleful song, + Of "Mene, Mene," in our restless ears! + + Indeed, we've said, "The royal son of Time, + Whose feet will shortly cross our threshold floor, + May lead us to those outer heights sublime + Our Sires have sold their lives to see before! + + We'll follow him! Beyond the waves and wrecks + Of years fulfilled, some fine results must lie; + We'll pass the last of all wild things that vex + The pale, sad face of our Humanity!" + + But now our fainting feet are loth to stray + From trodden paths; our eyes with pain are blind! + We've lost fair treasures by the weary way; + We cry, like children, to be left behind. + + Our human speech is dim. Yet, latest born + Of God's Eternity, there came to me, + In saddened streets last week, from lips forlorn + A sound more solemn than the sleepless sea! + + O, Rachael! Rachael! We have heard the cries + In Rama, stranger, o'er our darling dead; + And seen our mothers with the heavy eyes, + Who would not hearken to be comforted! + + Then lead us gently! It must come to pass + That some of us shall halt and faint and fall; + For we are looking through a darkened glass, + And Heaven seems far, and faith grows cold and pale. + + I know, for one, I need a subtle strength + I have not yet to hold me from a fall; + What time I cry to God within the length + Of weary hours; my face against the wall! + + My mourning brothers! in the long, still nights, + When sleep is wilful, and the lone moon shines, + Bethink you of the silent, silver lights, + And darks with Death amongst the moody pines! + + Then, though you cannot shut a stricken face + Away from you, this hope will come about + That Christ hath sent again throughout the place + Some signs of Love to worst and weaken doubt. + + So you may find in every afterthought + A peace beyond your best expression dear; + And haply hearken to the Voice which wrought + Such strength in Peter on the seas of fear! + + + + +To---- + + + + Ah, often do I wait and watch, + And look up, straining through the Real + With longing eyes, my friend, to catch + Faint glimpses of your white Ideal. + + I know she loved to rest her feet + By slumbrous seas and hidden strand; + But mostly hints of her I meet + On moony spots of mountain land. + + I've never reached her shining place, + And only cross at times a gleam; + As one might pass a fleeting face + Just on the outside of a Dream. + + But you may climb, her happy Choice! + She knows your step, the maiden true, + And ever when she hears your voice, + She turns and sits and waits for you. + + How sweet to rest on breezy crest + With such a Love, what time the Morn + Looks from his halls of rosy rest, + Across green miles of gleaming corn! + + How sweet to find a leafy nook, + When bees are out, and Day burns mute, + Where you may hear a passion'd brook + Play past you, like a mellow flute! + + Or, turning from the sunken sun, + On fields of dim delight to lie-- + To close your eyes and muse upon + The twilight's strange divinity! + + Or through the Night's mysterious noon, + While Sound lies hushed among the trees, + To sit and watch a mirror'd moon + Float over silver-sleeping seas! + + Oh, vain regret! why should I stay + To think and dream of joys unknown? + You walk with her from day to day, + I faint afar off--and alone. + + + + +At Long Bay + + + + Five years ago! you cannot choose + But know the face of change, + Though July sleeps and Spring renews + The gloss in gorge and range. + + Five years ago! I hardly know + How they have slipped away, + Since here we watched at ebb and flow + The waters of the Bay; + + And saw, with eyes of little faith, + From cumbered summits fade + The rainbow and the rainbow wraith, + That shadow of a shade. + + For Love and Youth were vext with doubt, + Like ships on driving seas, + And in those days the heart gave out + Unthankful similes. + + But let it be! I've often said + His lot was hardly cast + Who never turned a happy head + To an unhappy Past-- + + Who never turned a face of light + To cares beyond recall: + He only fares in sorer plight + Who hath no Past at all! + + So take my faith, and let it stand + Between us for a sign + That five bright years have known the land + Since yonder tumbled line + + Of seacliff took our troubled talk-- + The words at random thrown, + And Echo lived about this walk + Of gap and slimy stone. + + Here first we learned the Love which leaves + No lack or loss behind, + The dark, sweet Love which woos the eves + And haunts the morning wind. + + And roves with runnels in the dell, + And houses by the wave + What time the storm hath struck the fell + And Terror fills the cave-- + + A Love, you know, that lives and lies + For moments past control, + And mellows through the Poet's eyes + And sweetens in his soul. + + Here first we faced a briny breeze, + What time the middle gale + Went shrilling over whitened seas + With flying towers of sail. + + And here we heard the plovers call + As shattered pauses came, + When Heaven showed a fiery wall + With sheets of wasted flame. + + Here grebe and gull and heavy glede + Passed eastward far away, + The while the wind, with slackened speed, + Drooped with the dying Day. + + And here our friendship, like a tree, + Perennial grew and grew, + Till you were glad to live for me, + And I to live for you. + + + + +For Ever + + + + Out of the body for ever, + Wearily sobbing, "Oh, whither?" + A Soul that hath wasted its chances + Floats on the limitless ether. + + Lost in dim, horrible blankness; + Drifting like wind on a sea, + Untraversed and vacant and moaning, + Nor shallow nor shore on the lee! + + Helpless, unfriended, forsaken; + Haunted and tracked by the Past, + With fragments of pitiless voices, + And desolate faces aghast! + + One saith--"It is well that he goeth + Naked and fainting with cold, + Who worshipped his sweet-smelling garments, + Arrayed with the cunning of old! + + "Hark! how he crieth, my brothers, + With pain for the glittering things + He saw on the shoulders of Rulers, + And the might in the mouths of the Kings! + + "This Soul hath been one of the idlers + Who wait with still hands, when they lack + For Fortune, like Joseph, to throw them + The cup thrust in Benjamin's sack. + + "Now, had he been faithful in striving, + And warring with Wrong to the sword, + He must have passed over these spaces + Caught up in the arms of the Lord." + + A second: "Lo, Passion was wilful; + And, glad with voluptuous sighs, + He held it luxurious trouble + To ache for luxurious eyes! + + "She bound him, the woman resplendent; + She withered his strength with her stare; + And Faith hath been twisted and strangled + With folds of her luminous hair! + + "Was it well, O you wandering wailer, + Abandoned in terrible space, + To halt on the highway to Heaven + Because of a glittering face?" + + And another: "Behold, he was careful: + He faltered to think of his Youth, + Dejected and weary and footsore, + Alone on the dim road to Truth. + + "If the way had been shorter and greener + And brighter, he might have been brave; + But the goal was too far and he fainted, + Like Peter with Christ on the wave!" + + Beyond the wild haunts of the mockers-- + Far in the distance and gray, + Floateth that sorrowful spirit + Away, and away, and away. + + Pale phantoms fly past it, like shadows: + Dim eyes that are blinded with tears; + Old faces all white with affliction-- + The ghosts of the wasted dead years! + + "Soul that hath ruined us, shiver + And moan when you know us," they cry-- + "Behold, I was part of thy substance!"-- + "And I"--saith another--"and I!" + + Drifting from starless abysses + Into the ether sublime, + Where is no upward nor downward, + Nor region nor record of Time! + + Out of the Body for ever + No refuge--no succour nor stay-- + Floated that sorrowful Spirit + Away, and away, and away. + + + + +Sonnets + + + + To N. D. Stenhouse, Esq. + + + Dark days have passed, but you who taught me then + To look upon the world with trustful eyes, + Are not forgotten! Quick to sympathise + With noble thoughts, I've dreamt of moments when + Your low voice filled with strains of fairer skies! + Stray breaths of Grecian song that went and came, + Like floating fragrance from some quiet glen + In those far hills which shine with classic fame + Of passioned nymphs and grand-browed god-like men! + I sometimes fear my heart hath lost the same + Sweet sense of harmony; but _this_ I know + That Beauty waits on you _where'er_ you go, + Because she loveth child-like Faith! Her bowers + Are rich for it with glad perennial flowers. + + + + Elizabeth Barrett Browning + + + A lofty Type of all her sex, I ween, + My English brothers, though your wayward race + Now slight the Soul that never wore a screen, + And loved too well to keep her noble place! + Ah, bravest Woman that our World hath seen + (A light in spaces wild and tempest-tost), + In every verse of thine, behold, we trace + The full reflection of an earnest face + And hear the scrawling of an eager pen! + O sisters! knowing what you've loved and lost, + I ask where shall we find its like, and when? + That dear heart with its passion sorrow-crost, + And pathos rippling, like a brook in June + Amongst the roses of a windless noon. + + + + Sir Walter Scott + + + The Bard of ancient lore! Like one forlorn, + He turned, enamoured, to the silent Past; + And searching down its mazes gray and vast, + As you might find the blossom by the thorn, + He found fair things in barren places cast + And brought them up into the light of morn. + Lo! Truth, resplendent, as a tropic dawn, + Shines always through his wond'rous pictures! Hence + The many quick emotions which are born + Of an Imagination so intense! + The chargers' hoofs come tearing up the sward-- + The claymores rattle in the restless sheath; + You close his page, and almost look abroad + For Highland glens and windy leagues of heath. + + + Let me here endeavour to draw the fair distinctions between the great writers, + or some of the great writers, of Scott's day; borrowing at the same time + a later name. I shall start with that strange figure, Percy Bysshe Shelley. + He was too subjective to be merely a descriptive poet, + too metaphysical to be vague, and too imaginative to be didactic. + As Scott was the most dramatic, Wordsworth the most profound, + Byron the most passionate, so Shelley was the most spiritual writer + of his time. Scott's poetry was the result of vivid emotion, + Wordsworth's of quiet observation, Byron's of passion, + and Shelley's of passion and reflection. Scott races like a torrent, + Byron rolls like a sea, Wordsworth ripples into a lake, + Tennyson flows like a river, and Shelley gushes like a fountain. + As Tennyson is the most harmonious, so Shelley is the most musical + of modern bards. I fear to touch upon that grand old man, Coleridge; + he appears to me so utterly apart from his contemporaries. He stands, + like Teneriffe, alone. Can I liken him to a magnificent thunder-scorched crag + with its summits eternally veiled in vapour?--H.K. + + + + +The Bereaved One + + + + She sleeps--and I see through a shadowy haze, + Where the hopes of the past and the dreams that I cherished + In the sunlight of brighter and happier days, + As the mists of the morning, have faded and perished. + She sleeps--and will waken to bless me no more; + Her life has died out like the gleam on the river, + And the bliss that illumined my bosom of yore + Has fled from its dwelling for ever and ever. + + I had thought in this life not to travel alone, + I had hoped for a mate in my joys and my sorrow-- + But the face of my idol is colder than stone, + And my path will be lonely without her to-morrow. + I was hoping to bask in the light of her smile + When Fortune and Fame with their laurels had crown'd me-- + But the fire in her eyes has been dying the while, + And the thorns of affliction are planted around me. + + There are those that may vent all their grief in their tears + And weep till the past is away in the distance; + But this wreck of the dream of my sunshiny years + Will hang like a cloud o'er the rest of existence. + In the depth of my soul she shall ever remain; + My thoughts, like the angels, shall hover about her; + For our hearts have been reft and divided in pain + And what is this world to be left in without her? + + + + +Dungog + + + + Here, pent about by office walls + And barren eyes all day, + 'Tis sweet to think of waterfalls + Two hundred miles away! + + I would not ask you, friends, to brook + An old, old truth from me, + If I could shut a Poet's book + Which haunts me like the Sea! + + He saith to me, this Poet saith, + So many things of light, + That I have found a fourfold faith, + And gained a twofold sight. + + He telleth me, this Poet tells, + How much of God is seen + Amongst the deep-mossed English dells, + And miles of gleaming green. + + From many a black Gethsemane, + He leads my bleeding feet + To where I hear the Morning Sea + Round shining spaces beat! + + To where I feel the wind, which brings + A sound of running creeks, + And blows those dark, unpleasant things, + The sorrows, from my cheeks. + + I'll shut mine eyes, my Poet choice, + And spend the day with thee; + I'll dream thou art a fountain voice + Which God hath sent to me! + + And far beyond these office walls + My thoughts shall even stray, + And watch the wilful waterfalls, + Two hundred miles away. + + For, if I know not of thy deeds, + And darling Kentish downs, + I've seen the deep, wild Dungog fells, + And _hate_ the heart of towns! + + Then, ho! for beaming bank and brake, + Far-folded hills among, + Where Williams,* like a silver snake, + Draws winding lengths along! + + -- + * A tributary of the river Hunter, after Hunter, on which Dungog stands. + -- + + And ho! for stormy mountain cones, + Where headlong Winter leaps, + What time the gloomy swamp-oak groans, + And weeps and wails and weeps. + + _There_, friends, are spots of sleepy green, + Where one may hear afar, + O'er fifteen leagues of waste, I ween, + A moaning harbour bar! + + (The sea that breaks, and beats and shakes + The caverns, howling loud, + Beyond the midnight Myall Lakes,* + And half-awakened Stroud!)** + + -- + * A chain of lakes near Port Stephens, N.S.W. + ** A town on the Karuah, which flows into Port Stephens. + -- + + There, through the fretful autumn days, + Beneath a cloudy sun, + Comes rolling down rain-rutted ways, + The wind, Euroclydon! + + While rattles over riven rocks + The thunder, harsh and dry; + And blustering gum and brooding box + Are threshing at the sky! + + And then the gloom doth vex the sight + With crude, unshapely forms + Which hold throughout the yelling night + A fellowship with storms! + + But here are shady tufts and turns, + Where sumptuous Summer lies + (By reaches brave with flags and ferns) + With large, luxuriant eyes. + + And here, another getteth ease-- + Our Spring, so rarely seen, + Who shows us in the cedar trees + A glimpse of golden green. + + What time the flapping bats have trooped + Away like ghosts to graves, + And darker growths than Night are cooped + In silent, hillside caves. + + Ah, Dungog, dream of darling days, + 'Tis better thou should'st be + A far-off thing to love and praise-- + A boon from Heaven to me! + + For, let me say that when I look + With wearied eyes on men, + I think of one unchanging nook, + And find my faith again. + + + + +Deniehy's Lament + + + + Spirit of Loveliness! Heart of my heart! + Flying so far from me, Heart of my heart! + Above the eastern hill, I know the red leaves thrill, + But thou art distant still, Heart of my heart! + + Sinning, I've searched for thee, Heart of my heart! + Sinning, I've dreamed of thee, Heart of my heart! + I know no end nor gain; amongst the paths of pain + I follow thee in vain, Heart of my heart! + + Much have I lost for thee, Heart of my heart! + Not counting the cost for thee, Heart of my heart! + Through all this year of years thy form as mist appears, + So blind am I with tears, Heart of my heart! + + Mighty and mournful now, Heart of my heart! + Cometh the Shadow-Face, Heart of my heart! + The friends I've left for thee, their sad eyes trouble me-- + I cannot bear to be, Heart of my heart! + + + + +Deniehy's Dream + + + + Just when the western light + Flickered out dim, + Flushing the mountain-side, + Summit and rim, + A last, low, lingering gleam + Fell on a yellow stream, + And then there came a dream + Shining to him. + + Splendours miraculous + Mixed with his pain + All like a vision of + Radiance and rain! + He faced the sea, the skies, + Old star-like thoughts did rise; + But tears were in his eyes, + Stifled in vain. + + Infinite tokens of + Sorrows set free + Came in the dreaming wind + Far from the sea! + Past years about him trooped, + Fair phantoms round him stooped, + Sweet faces o'er him drooped + Sad as could be! + + "This is our brother now: + Sisters, deplore + Man without purpose, like + Ship without shore! + He tracks false fire," one said, + "But weep you--he must tread + Whereto he may be led-- + Lost evermore." + + "Look," said another, + "Summit and slope + Burn, in the mountain-land-- + Basement and cope! + Till daylight, dying dim, + Faints on the world's red rim, + We'll tint this Dream for him + Even--with hope!" + + + + +Cui Bono? + + + + A clamour by day and a whisper by night, + And the Summer comes--with the shining noons, + With the ripple of leaves, and the passionate light + Of the falling suns and the rising moons. + + And the ripple of leaves and the purple and red + Die for the grapes and the gleam of the wheat, + And then you may pause with the splendours, or tread + On the yellow of Autumn with lingering feet. + + You may halt with the face to a flying sea, + Or stand like a gloom in the gloom of things, + When the moon drops down and the desolate lea + Is troubled with thunder and desolate wings. + + But alas for the grey of the wintering eves, + And the pondering storms and the ruin of rains; + And alas for the Spring like a flame in the leaves, + And the green of the woods and the gold of the lanes! + + For, seeing all pathos is mixed with our past, + And knowing all sadness of storm and of surge + Is salt with our tears for the faith that was cast + Away like a weed o'er a bottomless verge, + + I am lost for these tokens, and wearied of ways + Wedded with ways that are waning amain, + Like those that are filled with the trouble that slays; + Having drunk of their life to the lees that are pain. + + And yet I would write to you! I who have turned + Away with a bitter disguise in the eyes, + And bitten the lips that have trembled and burned + Alone for you, darling, and breaking with sighs. + + Because I have touched with my fingers a dress + That was Beauty's; because that the breath of thy mouth + Is sweetness that lingers; because of each tress + Showered down on thy shoulders; because of the drouth + + That came in thy absence; because of the lights + In the Passion that grew to a level with thee-- + Is it well that our lives have been filled with the nights + And the days which have made it a sorrow to be? + + Yea, thus having tasted all love with thy lips, + And having the warmth of thy hand in mine own, + Is it well that we wander, like parallel ships, + With the silence between us, aloof and alone? + + With my face to the wall shall I sleep and forget + The shadow, the sweet sense of slumber denies, + If even I marvel at kindness, and fret, + And start while the tears are all wet in mine eyes? + + Oh, darling of mine, standing here with the Past, + Trampled under our feet in the bitterest ways, + Is this speech like a ghost that it keeps us aghast + On the track of the thorns and in alien days? + + When I know of you, love, how you break with our pain, + And sob for the sorrow of sorrowful dreams, + Like a stranger who stands in the wind and the rain + And watches and wails by impassable streams: + + Like a stranger who droops on a brink and deplores, + With famishing hands and frost in the feet, + For the laughter alive on the opposite shores + With the fervour of fire and the wind of the wheat. + + + + +In Hyde Park + + -- + * [This and the next poem were written for "Prince Alfred's Wreath", + published in Sydney in 1868. While in Sydney, the Prince was shot at + by a fanatic and slightly injured.] + -- + + + + They come from the highways of labour, + From labour and leisure they come; + But not to the sound of the tabor, + And not to the beating of drum. + + By thousands the people assemble + With faces of shadow and flame, + And spirits that sicken and tremble + Because of their sorrow and shame! + + Their voice is the voice of a nation; + But lo, it is muffled and mute, + For the sword of a strong tribulation + Hath stricken their peace to the root. + + The beautiful tokens of pity + Have utterly fled from their eyes, + For the demon who darkened the city + Is curst in the breaking of sighs. + + Their thoughts are as one; and together + They band in their terrible ire, + Like legions of wind in fierce weather + Whose footsteps are thunder and fire. + + But for ever, like springs of sweet water + That sings in the grass-hidden leas + As soft as the voice of a daughter, + There cometh a whisper from these. + + There cometh from shame and dejection, + From wrath and the blackness thereof, + A word at whose heart is affection + With a sighing whose meaning is love. + + In the land of distress and of danger, + With their foreheads in sackcloth and dust, + They weep for the wounds of the Stranger + And mourn o'er the ashes of trust! + + They weep for the Prince, and the Mother + Whose years have been smitten of grief-- + For the son and the lord and the brother, + And the widow, the queen and the chief! + + But he, having moved like a splendour + Amongst them in happier days, + With the grace that is manly and tender + And the kindness that passes all praise, + + Will think, in the sickness and shadow, + Of greetings in forest and grove, + And welcome in city and meadow, + Nor couple this sin with their love. + + For the sake of the touching devotion + That sobs through the depths of their woe, + This son of the kings of the ocean, + As he came to them, trusting will go. + + + + +Australia Vindex + + + + Who cometh from fields of the south + With raiment of weeping and woe, + And a cry of the heart in her mouth, + And a step that is muffled and slow? + + Her paths are the paths of the sun; + Her house is a beautiful light; + But she boweth her head, and is one + With the daughters of dolour and night. + + She is fairer than flowers of love; + She is fiercer than wind-driven flame; + And God from His thunders above + Hath smitten the soul of her shame. + + She saith to the bloody one curst + With the fever of evil, she saith + "My sorrow shall strangle thee first + With an agony wilder than death! + + "My sorrow shall hack at thy life! + Thou shalt wrestle with wraiths of thy sin, + And sleep on a pillow of strife + With demons without and within!" + + She whispers, "He came to the land + A lord and a lover of me-- + A son of the waves with a hand + As fearless and frank as the sea. + + "On the shores of the stranger he stood + With the sweetness of youth on his face; + Till there started a fiend from the wood, + Who stabbed at the peace of the place! + + "Because of the dastardly thing + Thou hast done in the sight of the day, + All horrors that sicken and sting + Shall make thee for ever their prey. + + "Because of the beautiful trust + Destroyed by a devil like thee, + Thy bed shall be low in the dust + And my heel as a shackle shall be! + + "Because" (and she mutters it deep + Who curseth the coward in chains) + "Thou hast stricken and murdered our sleep, + Thy sleep shall be perished with pains; + + "Thy sleep shall be broken and sharp + And filled with fierce spasms and dreams, + And shadow shall haunt thee and harp + On hellish and horrible themes! + + "I will set my right hand on thy neck + And my foot on thy body, nor bate, + Till thy name shall become as a wreck + And a byword for hisses and hate!" + + + + +Ned the Larrikin + + + + A song that is bitter with grief--a ballad as pale as the light + That comes with the fall of the leaf, I sing to the shadows to-night. + + The laugh on the lyrical lips is sadder than laughter of ghosts + Chained back in the pits of eclipse by wailing unnameable coasts. + + I gathered this wreath at the close of day that was dripping with dew; + The blossom you take for a rose was plucked from the branch of a yew. + + The flower you fancy is sweet has black in the place of the red; + For this is a song of the street--the ballad of larrikin Ned. + + He stands at the door of the sink that gapes like a fissure of death: + The face of him fiery with drink, the flame of its fume in his breath. + + He thrives in the sickening scenes that the devil has under his ban; + A rascal not out of his teens with the voice of a vicious old man. + + A blossom of blackness, indeed--of Satan a sinister fruit! + Far better the centipede's seed--the spawn of the adder or newt. + + Than terror of talon or fang this imp of the alleys is worse: + His speech is a poisonous slang--his phrases are coloured with curse. + + The prison, the shackles, and chain are nothing to him and his type: + He sings in the shadow of pain, and laughs at the impotent stripe. + + There under the walls of the gaols the half of his life has been passed. + He was born in the bosom of bale--he will go to the gallows at last. + + No angel in Paradise kneels for him at the feet of the Lord; + A Nemesis follows his heels in the flame of a sinister sword. + + The sins of his fathers have brought this bitterness into his days-- + His life is accounted as naught; his soul is a brand for the blaze. + + Did ever his countenance change? Did ever a moment supreme + Illumine his face with a strange ineffably beautiful dream? + + Before he was caught in the breach--in the pits of iniquity grim, + Did ever the Deity reach the hand of a Father to him? + + Behold, it is folly to say the evil was born in the blood; + The rose that is cankered to-day was once an immaculate bud! + + There might have been blossom and fruit--a harvest exceedingly fair, + Instead of the venomous root, and flowers that startle and scare. + + The burden--the burden is their's who, watching this garden about, + Assisted the thistle and tares, and stamped the divinity out! + + A growth like the larrikin Ned--a brutal unqualified clod, + Is what ye are helping who'd tread on the necks of the prophets of God. + + No more than a damnable weed ye water and foster, ye fools, + Whose aim is to banish indeed the beautiful Christ from the schools. + + The merciful, wonderful light of the seraph Religion behold + These evil ones shut from the sight of the children who weep in the cold! + + But verily trouble shall fall on such, and their portion shall be + A harvest of hyssop and gall, and sorrow as wild as the sea. + + For the rose of a radiant star is over the hills of the East, + And the fathers are heartened for war-- + the prophet, the Saint, and the priest. + + For a spirit of Deity makes the holy heirophants strong; + And a morning of majesty breaks, and blossoms in colour and song. + + Yea, now, by the altars august the elders are shining supreme; + And brittle and barren as dust is the spiritless secular dream. + + It's life as a vapour shall end as a fog in the fall of the year; + For the Lord is a Father and Friend, and the day of His coming is near. + + + + +_In Memoriam_--Nicol Drysdale Stenhouse + + + + Shall he, on whom the fair lord, Delphicus, + Turned gracious eyes and countenance of shine, + Be left to lie without a wreath from us, + To sleep without a flower upon his shrine? + + Shall he, the son of that resplendent Muse, + Who gleams, high priestess of sweet scholarship, + Still slumber on, and every bard refuse + To touch a harp or move a tuneful lip? + + No! let us speak, though feeble be our speech, + And let us sing, though faltering be our strain, + And haply echoes of the song may reach + And please the soul we cannot see again. + + We sing the beautiful, the radiant life + That shone amongst us like the quiet moon, + A fine exception in this sphere of strife, + Whose time went by us like a hallowed tune. + + Yon tomb, whereon the moonlit grasses sigh, + Hides from our view the shell of one whose days + Were set throughout to that grand harmony + Which fills all minor spirits with amaze. + + This was the man whose dear, lost face appears + To rise betimes like some sweet evening dream, + And holy memories of faultless years, + And touching hours of quietness supreme. + + He, having learned in full the golden rule, + Which guides great lives, stood fairly by the same, + Unruffled as the Oriental pool, + Before the bright, disturbing angel came. + + In Learning's halls he walked--a leading lord, + He trod the sacred temple's inner floors; + But kindness beamed in every look and word + He gave the humblest Levite at the doors. + + When scholars poor and bowed beneath the ban, + Which clings as fire, were like to faint and fall, + This was the gentle, good Samaritan, + Who stopped and held a helping hand to all. + + No term that savoured of unfriendliness, + No censure through those pure lips ever passed; + He saw the erring spirit's keen distress, + And hoped for it, long-suffering to the last. + + Moreover, in these days when Faith grows faint, + And Heaven seems blurred by speculation wild, + He, blameless as a mediaeval saint, + Had all the trust which sanctifies a child. + + But now he sleeps, and as the years go by, + We'll often pause above his sacred dust, + And think how grand a thing it is to die + The noble death which deifies the just. + + + + +Rizpah + + + + Said one who led the spears of swarthy Gad, + To Jesse's mighty son: "My Lord, O King, + I, halting hard by Gibeon's bleak-blown hill + Three nightfalls past, saw dark-eyed Rizpah, clad + In dripping sackcloth, pace with naked feet + The flinty rock where lie unburied yet + The sons of her and Saul; and he whose post + Of watch is in those places desolate, + Got up, and spake unto thy servant here + Concerning her--yea, even unto me:-- + 'Behold,' he said, 'the woman seeks not rest, + Nor fire, nor food, nor roof, nor any haunt + Where sojourns man; but rather on yon rock + Abideth, like a wild thing, with the slain, + And watcheth them, lest evil wing or paw + Should light upon the comely faces dead, + To spoil them of their beauty. Three long moons + Hath Rizpah, daughter of Aiah, dwelt + With drouth and cold and rain and wind by turns, + And many birds there are that know her face, + And many beasts that flee not at her step, + And many cunning eyes do look at her + From serpent-holes and burrows of the rat. + Moreover,' spake the scout, 'her skin is brown + And sere by reason of exceeding heat; + And all her darkness of abundant hair + Is shot with gray, because of many nights + When grief hath crouched in fellowship with frost + Upon that desert rock. Yea, thus and thus + Fares Rizpah,' said the spy, O King, to me." + + But David, son of Jesse, spake no word, + But turned himself, and wept against the wall. + + We have our Rizpahs in these modern days + Who've lost their households through no sin of theirs, + On bloody fields and in the pits of war; + And though their dead were sheltered in the sod + By friendly hands, these have not suffered less + Than she of Judah did, nor is their love + Surpassed by hers. The Bard who, in great days + Afar off yet, shall set to epic song + The grand pathetic story of the strife + That shook America for five long years, + And struck its homes with desolation--he + Shall in his lofty verse relate to men + How, through the heat and havoc of that time, + Columbia's Rachael in her Rama wept + Her children, and would not be comforted; + And sing of Woman waiting day by day + With that high patience that no man attains, + For tidings, from the bitter field, of spouse, + Or son, or brother, or some other love + Set face to face with Death. Moreover, he + Shall say how, through her sleepless hours at night, + When rain or leaves were dropping, every noise + Seemed like an omen; every coming step + Fell on her ears like a presentiment + And every hand that rested on the door + She fancied was a herald bearing grief; + While every letter brought a faintness on + That made her gasp before she opened it, + To read the story written for her eyes, + And cry, or brighten, over its contents. + + + + +Kiama Revisited + + + + We stood by the window and hearkened + To the voice of the runnels sea-driven, + While, northward, the mountain-heads darkened, + Girt round with the clamours of heaven. + One peak with the storm at his portal + Loomed out to the left of his brothers: + Sustained, and sublime, and immortal, + A king, and the lord of the others! + Beneath him a cry from the surges + Rang shrill, like a clarion calling; + And about him, the wind of the gorges + Went falling, and rising, and falling. + But _I_, as the roofs of the thunder + Were cloven with manifold fires, + Turned back from the wail and the wonder, + And dreamed of old days and desires. + A song that was made, I remembered-- + A song that was made in the gloaming + Of suns which are sunken and numbered + With times that my heart hath no home in. + But I said to my Dream, "I am calmer + Than waters asleep on the river. + I can look at the hills of Kiama + And bury that dead Past for ever." + "Past sight, out of mind, alienated," + Said the Dream to me, wearily sighing, + "Ah, where is the Winter you mated + To Love, its decline and its dying? + Here, five years ago, there were places + That knew of her cunning to grieve you, + But alas! for her eyes and her graces; + And wherefore and how did she leave you! + Have you hidden the ways of this Woman, + Her whispers, her glances, her power + To hold you, as demon holds human, + Chained back to the day and the hour? + Say, where have you buried her sweetness, + Her coldness for youth and its yearning? + Is the sleep of your Sorrow a witness + She is passed all the roads of returning? + Was she left with her beauty, O lover, + And the shreds of your passion about her, + Beyond reach and where none can discover? + _Ah! what is the wide world without her?_" + + I answered, "Behold, I was broken, + Because of this bright, bitter maiden, + Who helped me with never a token + To beat down the dark I had strayed in. + She knew that my soul was entangled + By what was too fiery to bear then; + Nor cared how she withered and strangled + My life with her eyes and her hair then. + But I have not leapt to the level + Where light and the shadows dissever? + She is fair, but a beautiful devil + That I have forgotten for ever!" + "She is sweeter than music or singing," + Said the Dream to me, heavily moaning, + "Her voice in your slumber is ringing; + And where is the end--the atoning? + Can you look at the red of the roses; + Are you friend of the fields and the flowers? + Can you bear the faint day as it closes + And dies into twilighted hours? + Do you love the low notes of the ballad + She sang in her darling old fashion?" + And I whispered, "O Dream, I am pallid + And perished because of my passion." + But the Wraith withered out, and the rifted + Gray hills gleaming over the granges, + Stood robed with moon-rainbows that shifted + And shimmered resplendent with changes! + While, for the dim ocean ledges, + The storm and the surges were blended, + Sheer down the bluff sides of the ridges + Spent winds and the waters descended. + The forests, the crags, and the forelands, + Grew sweet with the stars after raining; + But out in the north-lying moorlands, + I heard the lone plover complaining. + From these to Kiama, half-hidden + In a yellow sea-mist on the slopings + Of hills, by the torrents be-ridden, + I turned with my aches and my hopings, + Saying _this_--"There are those that are taken + By Fate to wear Love as a raiment + Whose texture is trouble with breaking + Of youth and no hope of repayment." + + + + +Passing Away + + + + The spirit of beautiful faces, + The light on the forehead of Love, + And the spell of past visited places, + And the songs and the sweetness thereof; + These, touched by a hand that is hoary; + These, vext with a tune of decay, + Are spoiled of their glow and their glory; + And the burden is, "Passing away! + Passing away!" + + Old years and their changes come trooping + At nightfall to you and to me, + When Autumn sits faded and drooping + By the sorrowful waves of the sea. + Faint phantoms that float in the gloaming, + Return with the whispers that say, + "The end which is quiet is coming; + Ye are weary, and passing away! + Passing away!" + + It is hard to awake and discover + The swiftness that waits upon Time; + But youth and its beauty are over, + And Love has a sigh in its rhyme. + The Life that looks back and remembers, + Is troubled and tired and gray, + And sick of the sullen Decembers, + Whose burden is, "Passing away! + Passing away!" + + We have wandered and wandered together, + And our joys have been many and deep; + But seasons of alien weather + Have ended in longings for sleep. + Pale purpose and perishing passion, + With never a farewell to say, + Die down into sobs of suppression; + The burden is, "Passing away! + Passing away!" + + We loved the soft tangle of tresses, + The lips that were fain and afraid. + And the silence of far wildernesses, + With their dower of splendour and shade! + For faces of sweetness we waited, + And days of delight and delay, + Ere Time and its voices were mated + To a voice that sighs, "Passing away! + Passing away!" + + O years interwoven with stories + Of strong aspirations and high, + How fleet and how false were the glories + That lived in your limited sky! + Here, sitting by ruinous altars + Of Promise, what word shall we say + To the speech that the rainy wind falters, + Whose burden is, "Passing away! + Passing away!" + + + + +James Lionel Michael + + + + Be his rest the rest he sought: + Calm and deep. + Let no wayward word or thought + Vex his sleep. + + Peace--the peace that no man knows-- + Now remains + Where the wasted woodwind blows, + Wakes and wanes. + + Latter leaves, in Autumn's breath, + White and sere, + Sanctify the scholar's death, + Lying here. + + Soft surprises of the sun-- + Swift, serene-- + O'er the mute grave-grasses run, + Cold and green. + + Wet and cold the hillwinds moan; + Let them rave! + Love that takes a tender tone + Lights his grave. + + He who knew the friendless face + Sorrows shew, + Often sought this quiet place + Years ago. + + One, too apt to faint and fail, + Loved to stray + Here where water-shallows wail + Day by day. + + Care that lays her heavy hand + On the best, + Bound him with an iron hand; + Let him rest. + + Life, that flieth like a tune, + Left his eyes, + As an April afternoon + Leaves the skies. + + Peace is best! If life was hard + Peace came next. + Thus the scholar, thus the bard, + Lies unvext. + + Safely housed at last from rack-- + Far from pain; + Who would wish to have him back? + Back again? + + Let the forms he loved so well + Hover near; + Shine of hill and shade of dell, + Year by year. + + All the wilful waifs that make + Beauty's face, + Let them sojourn for his sake + Round this place. + + Flying splendours, singing streams, + Lutes and lights, + May they be as happy dreams: + Sounds and sights; + + So that Time to Love may say, + "Wherefore weep? + Sweet is sleep at close of day! + Death is sleep." + + + + +Elijah + + + + Into that good old Hebrew's soul sublime + The spirit of the wilderness had passed; + For where the thunders of imperial Storm + Rolled over mighty hills; and where the caves + Of cloud-capt Horeb rang with hurricane; + And where wild-featured Solitude did hold + Supreme dominion; there the prophet saw + And heard and felt that large mysterious life + Which lies remote from cities, in the woods + And rocks and waters of the mountained Earth. + And so it came to pass, Elijah caught + That scholarship which gave him power to see + And solve the deep divinity that lies + With Nature, under lordly forest-domes, + And by the seas; and so his spirit waxed, + Made strong and perfect by its fellowship + With God's authentic world, until his eyes + Became a splendour, and his face was as + A glory with the vision of the seer. + Thereafter, thundering in the towns of men, + His voice, a trumpet of the Lord, did shake + All evil to its deep foundations. He, + The hairy man who ran before the king, + Like some wild spectre fleeting through the storm, + What time Jezreel's walls were smitten hard + By fourfold wind and rain; 'twas he who slew + The liars at the altars of the gods, + And, at the very threshold of a throne, + Heaped curses on its impious lord; 'twas he + Jehovah raised to grapple Sin that stalked, + Arrayed about with kingship; and to strike + Through gold and purple, to the heart of it. + And therefore Falsehood quaked before his face, + And Tyranny grew dumb at sight of him, + And Lust and Murder raged abroad no more; + But where these were he walked, a shining son + Of Truth, and cleared and sanctified the land. + + Not always was the dreaded Tishbite stern; + The scourge of despots, when he saw the face + Of Love in sorrow by the bed of Death, + Grew tender as a maid; and she who missed + A little mouth that used to catch, and cling-- + A small, sweet trouble--at her yearning breast;* + Yea, she of Zarephath, who sat and mourned + The silence of a birdlike voice that made + Her flutter with the joy of motherhood + In other days, she came to know the heart + Of Pity that the rugged prophet had. + And when he took the soft, still child away, + And laid it on his bed; and in the dark + Sent up a pleading voice to Heaven; and drew + The little body to his breast; and held + It there until the bright, young soul returned + To earth again; the gladdened woman saw + A radiant beauty in Elijah's eyes, + And knew the stranger was a man of God. + + -- + * [Note.--These lines were suggested by a passage in an unpublished drama + by my friend, the author of "Ashtaroth" {A. L. Gordon}-- + + "And she who missed + A little mouth that used to catch and cling-- + A small sweet trouble--at her yearning breast." + + The poem to which I am indebted is entitled "The Road to Avernus". + It is only fair that I should make this acknowledgment.--H.K.] + -- + + We want a new Elijah in these days, + A mighty spirit clad in shining arms + Of Truth--yea, one whose lifted voice would break, + Like thunder, on our modern Apathy, + And shake the fanes of Falsehood from their domes + Down to the firm foundations; one whose words, + Directly coming from a source divine, + Would fall like flame where Vice holds festival, + And search the inmost heart of nations; one + Made godlike with that scholarship supreme + Which comes of suffering; one, with eyes to see + The very core of things; with hands to grasp + High opportunities, and use them for + His glorious mission; one, whose face inspired + Would wear a terror for the lying soul, + But seem a glory in the sight of those + Who make the light and sweetness of the world, + And are the high priests of the Beautiful. + Yea, one like this we want amongst us now + To drive away the evil fogs that choke + Our social atmosphere, and leave it clear + And pure and hallowed with authentic light. + + + + +Manasseh + + + + Manasseh, lord of Judah, and the son + Of him who, favoured of Jehovah, saw + At midnight, when the skies were flushed with fire, + The splendid mystery of the shining air, + That flamed above the black Assyrian camps, + And breathed upon the evil hosts at rest, + And shed swift violent sleep into their eyes; + Manasseh, lord of Judah, when he came + To fortify himself upon his throne, + And saw great strength was gathered unto him, + Let slip satanic passions he had nursed + For years and years; and lo! the land that He + Who thundered on the Oriental Mount + Girt round with awful light, had set apart + For Jacob's seed--the land that Moses strained + On Nebo's topmost cone to see, grew black + Beneath the shadow of despotic Sin + That stalked on foot-ways dashed with human blood, + And mocked high Heaven by audacious fires; + And as when Storm, that voice of God, is loud + Within the mountained Syrian wilderness, + There flits a wailing through the wilted pines, + So in the city of the wicked king + A voice, like Abel's crying from the ground, + Made sorrow of the broken evening winds, + And darkness of the fair young morning lights, + And silence in the homes of hunted men. + + But in a time when grey-winged Autumn fogs + Shut off the sun from Carmel's seaward side, + And fitful gusts did speak within the trees + Of rain beyond the waters, while the priests + In Hinnom's echoing valley offered up + Unhallowed sacrifices unto gods + Of brass and stone, there came a trumpet's voice + Along the bald, bleak northern flats; and then + A harnessed horseman, riding furiously, + Dashed down the ridge with an exceeding cry + Of "Esarhaddon, Esarhaddon! haste + Away, ye elders, lo, the swarthy foe + Six leagues from hence hath made the land a fire, + And all the dwellers of the hollowed hills + Are flying hitherwards before a flame + Of fifty thousand swords!" At this the men + Of Baal turned about, set face, and fled + Towards the thickets, where the impious king, + Ringed round by grey, gaunt wizards with the brand + Of Belial on their features, cowered low, + And hid himself amongst the tangled thorns + And shivered in a bitter seaborn wind, + And caught the whiteness of a deathly fear. + + There where the ash-pale forest-leaves were touched + By Morning's shining fingers, and the inland depths + Sent out rain-plenished voices west and south, + The steel-clad scouts of Esarhaddon came + And searched, and found Manasseh whom they bound + And dragged before the swart Assyrian king; + And Esarhaddon, scourge of Heaven, sent + To strange Evil at its chiefest fanes, + And so fulfil a dread divine decree, + Took Judah's despot, fettered hand and foot, + And cast him bleeding on a dungeon floor + Hard by where swift Euphrates chafes his brink + And gleams from cataract to cataract, + And gives the gale a deep midwinter tone. + + So fared Manasseh for the sins which brought + Pale-featured Desolation to the tents + Of alienated Judah; but one night, + When ninety moons of wild unrest had passed, + The humbled son of Hezekiah turned + Himself towards the wall, and prayed and wept; + And in an awful darkness face to face + With God, he said--"I know, O Lord of Hosts, + That Thou art wise and just and kind, and I + Am shapen in iniquity; but by + The years of black captivity, whose days + And nights have marked my spirit passing through + Fierce furnaces of suffering, and seen + It groping in blind shadows with a hope + To reach Thy Hand--by these, O Father, these + That brought the swift, sad silver to my head + Which should have come with Age--which came with Pain, + I pray Thee hear these supplications now, + And stoop and lift me from my low estate, + And lend me this once my dominionship, + So I may strive to live the bad Past down, + And lead henceforth a white and wholesome life, + And be thy contrite servant, Lord, indeed!" + + The prayer was not in vain: for while the storm + Sang high above the dim Chaldean domes-- + While, in the pines, the spirit of the rain + Sobbed fitfully, Jehovah's angel came + And made a splendour of the dungeon walls, + And smote the bars, and led Manasseh forth + And caught him up, nor set him down again + Until the turrets of Jerusalem + Sprang white before the flying travellers + Against the congregated morning hills. + + And he, the broken man made whole again, + Was faithful to his promise. Every day + Thereafter passing, bore upon its wings + Some shining record of his faultless life, + Some brightness of a high resolve fulfilled; + And in good time, when all the land had rest, + He found that he had lived the bad Past down, + And gave God praise, and with his fathers slept. + + Thus ends the story of Manasseh. If + This verse should catch the eyes of one whose sin + Lies heavy on his soul; who finds himself + A shame-faced alien when he walks abroad, + A moping shadow when he sits at home; + Who has no human friends; who, day by day, + Is smitten down by icy level looks + From that cold Virtue which is merciless + Because it knoweth not what wrestling with + A fierce temptation means; if such a one + Should read my tale of Hezekiah's son, + Let him take heart, and gather up his strength, + And step above men's scorn, and find his way + By paths of fire, as brave Manasseh did, + Up to the white heights of a blameless life; + And it will come to pass that in the face + Of grey old enmities, whose partial eyes + Are blind to reformation, he will taste + A sweetness in his thoughts, and live his time + Arrayed with the efficient armour of + That noble power which grows of self-respect, + And makes a man a pillar in the world. + + + + +Caroline Chisholm + + "A perfect woman, nobly planned, + To warn, to comfort, and command." + + + + The Priests and the Levites went forth, to feast at the courts of the Kings; + They were vain of their greatness and worth, + and gladdened with glittering things; + They were fair in the favour of gold, and they walked on, with delicate feet, + Where, famished and faint with the cold, the women fell down in the street. + + The Priests and the Levites looked round, all vexed and perplexed at the cries + Of the maiden who crouched to the ground with the madness of want in her eyes; + And they muttered--"Few praises are earned + when good hath been wrought in the dark; + While the backs of the people are turned, we choose not to loiter nor hark." + + Moreover they said--"It is fair that our deeds in the daylight should shine: + If we feasted you, who would declare that we gave you our honey and wine." + They gathered up garments of gold, and they stepped with their delicate feet, + And the women who famished with cold, were left with the snow in the street. + + The winds and the rains were abroad--the homeless looked vainly for alms; + And they prayed in the dark to the Lord, with agony clenched in their palms, + "There is none of us left that is whole," + they cried, through their faltering breath, + "We are clothed with a sickness of soul, + and the shape of the shadow of death." + + He heard them, and turned to the earth!-- + "I am pained," said the Lord, "at the woe + Of my children so smitten with dearth; + but the night of their trouble shall go." + He called on His Chosen to come: she listened, and hastened to rise; + And He charged her to build them a home, + where the tears should be dried from their eyes. + + God's servant came forth from the South: she told of a plentiful land; + And wisdom was set in her mouth, and strength in the thews of her hand. + She lifted them out of their fear, and they thought her their Moses and said: + "We shall follow you, sister, from here to the country of sunshine and bread." + + She fed them, and led them away, through tempest and tropical heat, + Till they reached the far regions of day, and sweet-scented spaces of wheat. + She hath made them a home with her hand, + and they bloom like the summery vines; + For they eat of the fat of the land, and drink of its glittering wines. + + + + +Mount Erebus + + (A Fragment) + + + + A mighty theatre of snow and fire, + Girt with perpetual Winter, and sublime + By reason of that lordly solitude + Which dwells for ever at the world's white ends; + And in that weird-faced wilderness of ice, + There is no human foot, nor any paw + Or hoof of beast, but where the shrill winds drive + The famished birds of storm across the tracts + Whose centre is the dim mysterious Pole. + Beyond--yea far beyond the homes of man, + By water never dark with coming ships, + Near seas that know not feather, scale, or fin, + The grand volcano, like a weird Isaiah, + Set in that utmost region of the Earth, + Doth thunder forth the awful utterance, + Whose syllables are flame; and when the fierce + Antarctic Night doth hold dominionship + Within her fastnessess, then round the cone + Of Erebus a crown of tenfold light + Appears; and shafts of marvellous splendour shoot + Far out to east and west and south and north, + Whereat a gorgeous dome of glory roofs + Wild leagues of mountain and transfigured waves, + And lends all things a beauty terrible. + + Far-reaching lands, whereon the hand of Change + Hath never rested since the world began, + Lie here in fearful fellowship with cold + And rain and tempest. Here colossal horns + Of hill start up and take the polar fogs + Shot through with flying stars of fire; and here, + Above the dead-grey crescents topped with spires + Of thunder-smoke, one half the heaven flames + With that supremest light whose glittering life + Is yet a marvel unto all but One-- + The Entity Almighty, whom we feel + Is nearest us when we are face to face + With Nature's features aboriginal, + And in the hearing of her primal speech + And in the thraldom of her primal power. + + While like the old Chaldean king who waxed + Insane with pride, we human beings grow + To think we are the mightiest of the world, + And lords of all terrestrial things, behold + The sea rolls in with a superb disdain + Upon our peopled shores, omnipotent; + And while we set up things of clay and call + Our idols gods; and while we boast or fume + About the petty honours, or the poor, + Pale disappointments of our meagre lives, + Lo, changeless as Eternity itself, + The grand Antarctic mountain looms outside + All breathing life; and, with its awful speech, + Is as an emblem of the Power Supreme, + Whose thunders shake the boundless Universe, + Whose lightnings make a terror of all Space. + + + + +Our Jack + + + + Twelve years ago our Jack was lost. All night, + Twelve years ago, the Spirit of the Storm + Sobbed round our camp. A wind of northern hills + That hold a cold companionship with clouds + Came down, and wrestled like a giant with + The iron-featured woods; and fall and ford, + The night our Jack was lost, sent forth a cry + Of baffled waters, where the Murray sucked + The rain-replenished torrents at his source, + And gathered strength, and started for the sea. + + We took our Jack from Melbourne just two weeks + Before this day twelve years ago. He left + A home where Love upon the threshold paused, + And wept across the shoulder of the lad, + And blest us when we said we'd take good care + To keep the idol of the house from harm. + We were a band of three. We started thence + To look for watered lands and pastures new, + With faces set towards the down beyond + Where cool Monaro's topmost mountain breaks + The wings of many a seaward-going storm, + And shapes them into wreaths of subtle fire. + We were, I say, a band of three in all, + With brother Tom for leader. Bright-eyed Jack, + Who thought himself as big a man as Tom, + Was self-elected second in command, + And I was cook and groom. A week slipt by, + Brimful of life--of health, and happiness; + For though our progress northward had been slow, + Because the country on the track was rough, + No one amongst us let his spirits flag; + Moreover, being young, and at the stage + When all things novel wear a fine romance, + We found in ridge and glen, and wood and rock + And waterfall, and everything that dwells + Outside with nature, pleasure of that kind + Which only lives for those whose hearts are tired + Of noisy cities, and are fain to feel + The peace and power of the mighty hills. + + The second week we crossed the upper fork + Where Murray meets a river from the east; + And there one evening dark with coming storm, + We camped a furlong from the bank. Our Jack, + The little man that used to sing and shout + And start the merry echoes of the cliffs, + And gravely help me to put up the tent, + And try a thousand tricks and offices, + That made me scold and laugh by turns--the pet + Of sisters, and the youngest hope of one + Who grew years older in a single night-- + Our Jack, I say, strayed off into the dusk, + Lured by the noises of a waterfall; + And though we hunted, shouting right and left, + The whole night long, through wind and rain, and searched + For five days afterwards, we never saw + The lad again. + + I turned to Tom and said, + That wild fifth evening, "Which of us has heart + Enough to put the saddle on our swiftest horse, + And post away to Melbourne, there to meet + And tell his mother we have lost her son? + Or which of us can bear to stand and see + The white affliction of a faded face, + Made old by you and me? O, Tom, my boy, + Her heart will break!" Tom moaned, but did not speak + A word. He saddled horse, and galloped off. + O, Jack! Jack! Jack! When bright-haired Benjamin + Was sent to Egypt with his father's sons, + Those rough half-brothers took more care of him + Than we of you! But shall we never see + Your happy face, my brave lad, any more? + Nor hear you whistling in the fields at eve? + Nor catch you up to mischief with your knife + Amongst the apple trees? Nor find you out + A truant playing on the road to school? + Nor meet you, boy, in any other guise + You used to take? Is this worn cap I hold + The only thing you've left us of yourself? + Are we to sit from night to night deceived + Through rainy seasons by presentiments + That make us start at shadows on the pane, + And fancy that we hear you in the dark, + And wonder that your step has grown so slow, + And listen for your hand upon the door? + + + + +Camped by the Creek + + + + "All day a strong sun has been drinking + The ponds in the Wattletree Glen; + And now as they're puddles, I'm thinking + We were wise to head hitherwards, men! + The country is heavy to nor'ard, + But Lord, how you rattled along! + Jack's chestnut's best leg was put for'ard, + And the bay from the start galloped strong; + But for bottom, I'd stake my existence, + There's none of the lot like the mare; + For look! she has come the whole distance + With never the 'turn of a hair'. + + "But now let us stop, for the 'super' + Will want us to-morrow by noon; + And as he can swear like a trooper, + We can't be a minute too soon. + Here, Dick, you can hobble the filly + And chestnut, but don't take a week; + And, Jack, hurry off with the billy + And fill it. We'll camp by the creek." + + So spoke the old stockman, and quickly + We made ourselves snug for the night; + The smoke-wreaths above us curled thickly, + For our pipes were the first thing a-light! + As we sat round a fire that only + A well-seasoned bushman can make, + Far forests grew silent and lonely, + Though the paw was astir in the brake, + But not till our supper was ended, + And not till old Bill was asleep, + Did wild things by wonder attended + In shot of our camping-ground creep. + Scared eyes from thick tuft and tree-hollow + Gleamed out thro' the forest-boles stark; + And ever a hurry would follow + Of fugitive feet in the dark. + + While Dick and I yarned and talked over + Old times that had gone like the sun, + The wail of the desolate plover + Came up from the swamps in the run. + And sniffing our supper, elated, + From his den the red dingo crawled out; + But skulked in the darkness, and waited, + Like a cunning but cowardly scout. + Thereafter came sleep that soon falls on + A man who has ridden all day; + And when midnight had deepened the palls on + The hills, we were snoring away. + But ere we dozed off, the wild noises + Of forest, of fen, and of stream, + Grew strange, and were one with the voices + That died with a sweet semi-dream. + And the tones of the waterfall, blended + With the song of the wind on the shore, + Became a soft psalm that ascended, + Grew far, and we heard it no more. + + + + +Euterpe + + -- + * A cantata, set to music by C. E. Horsley, and sung at the opening + of the Melbourne Town Hall, 1870. + -- + + + + Argument. + + Hail to thee, Sound!--The power of Euterpe in all the scenes of life-- + in religion; in works of charity; in soothing troubles by means of music; + in all humane and high purposes; in war; in grief; in the social circle; + the children's lullaby; the dance; the ballad; in conviviality; + when far from home; at evening--the whole ending with an allegorical chorus, + rejoicing at the building of a mighty hall erected for the recreation + of a nation destined to take no inconsiderable part in the future history + of the world. + + + Overture + + + _No. 1 Chorus_ + + All hail to thee, Sound! Since the time + Calliope's son took the lyre, + And lulled in the heart of their clime + The demons of darkness and fire; + Since Eurydice's lover brought tears + To the eyes of the Princes of Night, + Thou hast been, through the world's weary years, + A marvellous source of delight-- + Yea, a marvellous source of delight! + + In the wind, in the wave, in the fall + Of the water, each note of thine dwells; + But Euterpe hath gathered from all + The sweetest to weave into spells. + She makes a miraculous power + Of thee with her magical skill; + And gives us, for bounty or dower, + The accents that soothe us or thrill! + Yea, the accents that soothe us or thrill! + + All hail to thee, Sound! Let us thank + The great Giver of light and of life + For the music divine that we've drank, + In seasons of peace and of strife, + Let us gratefully think of the balm + That falls on humanity tired, + At the tones of the song or the psalm + From lips and from fingers inspired-- + Yea, from lips and from fingers inspired. + + + _No. 2 Quartette and Chorus_ + + When, in her sacred fanes + God's daughter, sweet Religion, prays, + Euterpe's holier strains + Her thoughts from earth to heaven raise. + The organ notes sublime + Put every worldly dream to flight; + They sanctify the time, + And fill the place with hallowed light. + + + _No. 3 Soprano Solo_ + + Yea, and when that meek-eyed maiden + Men call Charity, comes fain + To raise up spirits, laden + With bleak poverty and pain: + Often, in her cause enlisted, + Music softens hearts like stones; + And the fallen are assisted + Through Euterpe's wondrous tones. + + + _No. 4 Orchestral Intermezzo_ + + + _No. 5 Chorus_ + + Beautiful is Sound devoted + To all ends humane and high; + And its sweetness never floated + Like a thing unheeded by. + Power it has on souls encrusted + With the selfishness of years; + Yea, and thousands Mammon-rusted, + Hear it, feel it, leave in tears. + + + _No. 6 Choral Recitative + (Men's voices only)_ + + When on the battlefield, and in the sight + Of tens of thousands bent to smite and slay + Their human brothers, how the soldier's heart + Must leap at sounds of martial music, fired + With all that spirit that the patriot loves + Who seeks to win, or nobly fall, for home! + + + _No. 7 Triumphal March_ + + + _No. 8 Funeral Chorus_ + + Slowly and mournfully moves a procession, + Wearing the signs + Of sorrow, through loss, and it halts like a shadow + Of death in the pines. + Come from the fane that is filled with God's presence, + Sad sounds and deep; + Holy Euterpe, she sings of our brother, + We listen and weep. + Death, like the Angel that passed over Egypt, + Struck at us sore; + Never again shall we turn at our loved one's + Step at the door. + + + _No. 9 Chorus + (Soprano voices only)_ + + But, passing from sorrow, the spirit + Of Music, a glory, doth rove + Where it lightens the features of beauty, + And burns through the accents of love-- + The passionate accents of love. + + + _No. 10 Lullaby Song--Contralto_ + + The night-shades gather, and the sea + Sends up a sound, sonorous, deep; + The plover's wail comes down the lea; + By slope and vale the vapours weep, + And dew is on the tree; + And now where homesteads be, + The children fall asleep, + Asleep. + + A low-voiced wind amongst the leaves, + The sighing leaves that mourn the Spring, + Like some lone spirit, flits and grieves, + And grieves and flits on fitful wing. + But where Song is a guest, + A lulling dreamy thing, + The children fall to rest, + To rest. + + + _No. 11 Waltz Chorus_ + + When the summer moon is beaming + On the stirless waters dreaming, + And the keen grey summits gleaming, + Through a silver starry haze; + In our homes to strains entrancing + To the steps, the quickly glancing + Steps of youths and maidens dancing, + Maidens light of foot as fays. + + Then the waltz, whose rhythmic paces + Make melodious happy places, + Brings a brightness to young faces, + Brings a sweetness to the eyes. + Sounds that move us like enthralling + Accents, where the runnel falling, + Sends out flute-like voices calling, + Where the sweet wild moss-bed lies. + + + _No. 12 Ballad--Tenor_ + + When twilight glides with ghostly tread + Across the western heights, + And in the east the hills are red + With sunset's fading lights; + Then music floats from cot and hall + Where social circles met, + By sweet Euterpe held in thrall-- + Their daily cares forget. + + What joy it is to watch the shine + That hallows beauty's face + When woman sings the strains divine, + Whose passion floods the place! + Then how the thoughts and feelings rove + At song's inspiring breath, + In homes made beautiful by love, + Or sanctified by death. + + What visions come, what dreams arise, + What Edens youth will limn, + When leaning over her whose eyes + Have sweetened life for him! + For while she sings and while she plays, + And while her voice is low, + His fancy paints diviner days + Than any we can know. + + + _No. 13 Drinking Song + (Men's voices only)_ + + But, hurrah! for the table that heavily groans + With the good things that keep in the life: + When we sing and we dance, and we drink to the tones + That are masculine, thorough and blithe. + + Good luck to us all! Over walnuts and wine + We hear the rare songs that we know + Are as brimful of mirth as the spring is of shine, + And as healthy and hearty, we trow. + + Then our glasses we charge to the ring of the stave + That the flush to our faces doth send; + For though life is a thing that winds up with the grave, + We'll be jolly, my boys, to the end. + Hurrah! Hurrah! + Yes, jolly, my boys, to the end! + + + _No. 14 Recitative--Bass_ + + When far from friends, and home, and all the things + That bind a man to life, how dear to him + Is any old familiar sound that takes + Him back to spots where Love and Hope + In past days used to wander hand in hand + Across high-flowered meadows, and the paths + Whose borders shared the beauty of the spring, + And borrowed splendour from autumnal suns. + + + _No. 15 Chorus + (The voices accompanied only by the violins playing_ "Home, Sweet Home".) + + Then at sea, or in wild wood, + Then ashore or afloat, + All the scenes of his childhood + Come back at a note; + At the turn of a ballad, + At the tones of a song, + Cometh Memory, pallid + And speechless so long; + And she points with her finger + To phantom-like years, + And loveth to linger + In silence, in tears. + + + _No. 16 Solo--Bass_ + + In the yellow flame of evening sounds of music come and go, + Through the noises of the river, and the drifting of the snow; + In the yellow flame of evening, at the setting of the day, + Sounds that lighten, fall, and lighten, flicker, faint, and fade away; + What they are, behold, we know not, but their honey slakes and slays + Half the want which whitens manhood in the stress of alien days. + Even as a wondrous woman, struck with love and great desire, + Hast thou been to us, EUTERPE, half of tears and half of fire; + But thy joy is swift and fitful, and a subtle sense of pain + Sighs through thy melodious breathings, takes the rapture from thy strain. + In the yellow flame of evening sounds of music come and go. + Through the noises of the river, and the drifting of the snow. + + + _No. 17 Recitative--Soprano_ + + And thus it is that Music manifold, + In fanes, in Passion's sanctuaries, or where + The social feast is held, is still the power + That bindeth heart to heart; and whether Grief, + Or Love, or Pleasure form the link, we know + 'Tis still a bond that makes Humanity, + That wearied entity, a single whole, + And soothes the trouble of the heart bereaved, + And lulls the beatings in the breast that yearns, + And gives more gladness to the gladdest things. + + + _No. 18 Finale--Chorus_ + + Now a vision comes, O brothers, blended + With supremest sounds of harmony-- + Comes, and shows a temple, stately, splendid, + In a radiant city by the sea. + Founders, fathers of a mighty nation, + Raised the walls, and built the royal dome, + Gleaming now from lofty, lordly station, + Like a dream of Athens, or of Rome! + And a splendour of sound, + A thunder of song, + Rolls sea-like around, + Comes sea-like along. + + The ringing, and ringing, and ringing, + Of voices of choristers singing, + Inspired by a national joy, + Strike through the marvellous hall, + Fly by the aisle and the wall, + While the organ notes roam + From basement to dome-- + Now low as a wail, + Now loud as a gale, + And as grand as the music that builded old Troy. + + + + +Sedan + + + + Another battle! and the sounds have rolled + By many a gloomy gorge and wasted plain + O'er huddled hills and mountains manifold, + Like winds that run before a heavy rain + When Autumn lops the leaves and drooping grain, + And earth lies deep in brown and cloudy gold. + My brothers, lo! our grand old England stands, + With weapons gleaming in her ready hands, + Outside the tumult! Let us watch and trust + That she will never darken in the dust + And drift of wild contention, but remain + The hope and stay of many troubled lands, + Where so she waits the issue of the fight, + Aloof; but praying "God defend the Right!" + + +[End of Early Poems, 1859-70.] + + + + + +OTHER POEMS, 1871-82 + + + + + +Adam Lindsay Gordon + + + + At rest! Hard by the margin of that sea + Whose sounds are mingled with his noble verse + Now lies the shell that never more will house + The fine strong spirit of my gifted friend. + Yea, he who flashed upon us suddenly, + A shining soul with syllables of fire, + Who sang the first great songs these lands can claim + To be their own; the one who did not seem + To know what royal place awaited him + Within the Temple of the Beautiful, + Has passed away; and we who knew him sit + Aghast in darkness, dumb with that great grief + Whose stature yet we cannot comprehend; + While over yonder churchyard, hearsed with pines, + The night wind sings its immemorial hymn, + And sobs above a newly-covered grave. + The bard, the scholar, and the man who lived + That frank, that open-hearted life which keeps + The splendid fire of English chivalry + From dying out; the one who never wronged + A fellow man; the faithful friend who judged + The many, anxious to be loved of him + By what he saw, and not by what he heard, + As lesser spirits do; the brave, great soul + That never told a lie, or turned aside + To fly from danger--he, as I say, was one + Of that bright company this sin-stained world + Can ill afford to lose. + + They did not know, + The hundreds who had read his sturdy verse + And revelled over ringing major notes, + The mournful meaning of the undersong + Which runs through all he wrote, and often takes + The deep autumnal, half-prophetic tone + Of forest winds in March; nor did they think + That on that healthy-hearted man there lay + The wild specific curse which seems to cling + Forever to the Poet's twofold life! + + To Adam Lindsay Gordon, I who laid + Two years ago on Lionel Michael's grave + A tender leaf of my regard; yea, I + Who culled a garland from the flowers of song + To place where Harpur sleeps; I, left alone, + The sad disciple of a shining band + Now gone--to Adam Lindsay Gordon's name + I dedicate these lines; and if 'tis true + That, past the darkness of the grave, the soul + Becomes omniscient, then the bard may stoop + From his high seat to take the offering, + And read it with a sigh for human friends, + In human bonds, and grey with human griefs. + + And having wove and proffered this poor wreath, + I stand to-day as lone as he who saw + At nightfall, through the glimmering moony mist, + The last of Arthur on the wailing mere, + And strained in vain to hear the going voice. + + + + +In Memory of Edward Butler + + + + A voice of grave, deep emphasis + Is in the woods to-night; + No sound of radiant day is this, + No cadence of the light. + Here in the fall and flights of leaves + Against grey widths of sea, + The spirit of the forests grieves + For lost Persephone. + + The fair divinity that roves + Where many waters sing + Doth miss her daughter of the groves-- + The golden-headed Spring. + She cannot find the shining hand + That once the rose caressed; + There is no blossom on the land, + No bird in last year's nest. + + Here, where this strange Demeter weeps-- + This large, sad life unseen-- + Where July's strong, wild torrent leaps + The wet hill-heads between, + I sit and listen to the grief, + The high, supreme distress, + Which sobs above the fallen leaf + Like human tenderness! + + Where sighs the sedge and moans the marsh, + The hermit plover calls; + The voice of straitened streams is harsh + By windy mountain walls; + There is no gleam upon the hills + Of last October's wings; + The shining lady of the rills + Is with forgotten things. + + Now where the land's worn face is grey + And storm is on the wave, + What flower is left to bear away + To Edward Butler's grave? + What tender rose of song is here + That I may pluck and send + Across the hills and seas austere + To my lamented friend? + + There is no blossom left at all; + But this white winter leaf, + Whose glad green life is past recall, + Is token of my grief. + Where love is tending growths of grace, + The first-born of the Spring, + Perhaps there may be found a place + For my pale offering. + + For this heroic Irish heart + We miss so much to-day, + Whose life was of our lives a part, + What words have I to say? + Because I know the noble woe + That shrinks beneath the touch-- + The pain of brothers stricken low-- + I will not say too much. + + But often in the lonely space + When night is on the land, + I dream of a departed face-- + A gracious, vanished hand. + And when the solemn waters roll + Against the outer steep, + I see a great, benignant soul + Beside me in my sleep. + + Yea, while the frost is on the ways + With barren banks austere, + The friend I knew in other days + Is often very near. + I do not hear a single tone; + But where this brother gleams, + The elders of the seasons flown + Are with me in my dreams. + + The saintly face of Stenhouse turns-- + His kind old eyes I see; + And Pell and Ridley from their urns + Arise and look at me. + By Butler's side the lights reveal + The father of his fold, + I start from sleep in tears, and feel + That I am growing old. + + Where Edward Butler sleeps, the wave + Is hardly ever heard; + But now the leaves above his grave + By August's songs are stirred. + The slope beyond is green and still, + And in my dreams I dream + The hill is like an Irish hill + Beside an Irish stream. + + + + +How the Melbourne Cup was Won + + + + In the beams of a beautiful day, + Made soft by a breeze from the sea, + The horses were started away, + The fleet-footed thirty and three; + Where beauty, with shining attire, + Shed more than a noon on the land, + Like spirits of thunder and fire + They flashed by the fence and the stand. + + And the mouths of pale thousands were hushed + When Somnus, a marvel of strength, + Past Bowes like a sudden wind rushed, + And led the bay colt by a length; + But a chestnut came galloping through, + And, down where the river-tide steals, + O'Brien, on brave Waterloo, + Dashed up to the big horse's heels. + + But Cracknell still kept to the fore, + And first by the water bend wheeled, + When a cry from the stand, and a roar + Ran over green furlongs of field; + Far out by the back of the course-- + A demon of muscle and pluck-- + Flashed onward the favourite horse, + With his hoofs flaming clear of the ruck. + + But the wonderful Queenslander came, + And the thundering leaders were three; + And a ring, and a roll of acclaim, + Went out, like a surge of the sea: + "An Epigram! Epigram wins!"-- + "The Colt of the Derby"--"The bay!" + But back where the crescent begins + The favourite melted away. + + And the marvel that came from the North, + With another, was heavily thrown; + And here at the turning flashed forth + To the front a surprising unknown; + By shed and by paddock and gate + The strange, the magnificent black, + Led Darebin a length in the straight, + With thirty and one at his back. + + But the Derby colt tired at the rails, + And Ivory's marvellous bay + Passed Burton, O'Brien, and Hales, + As fleet as a flash of the day. + But Gough on the African star + Came clear in the front of his "field", + Hard followed by Morrison's Czar + And the blood unaccustomed to yield. + + Yes, first from the turn to the end, + With a boy on him paler than ghost, + The horse that had hardly a friend + Shot flashing like fire by the post. + When Graham was "riding" 'twas late + For his friends to applaud on the stands, + The black, through the bend and "the straight", + Had the race of the year in his hands. + + In a clamour of calls and acclaim, + He landed the money--the horse + With the beautiful African name, + That rang to the back of the course. + Hurrah for the Hercules race, + And the terror that came from his stall, + With the bright, the intelligent face, + To show the road home to them all! + + + + +Blue Mountain Pioneers + + + + The dauntless three! For twenty days and nights + These heroes battled with the haughty heights; + For twenty spaces of the star and sun + These Romans kept their harness buckled on; + By gaping gorges, and by cliffs austere, + These fathers struggled in the great old year. + Their feet they set on strange hills scarred by fire, + Their strong arms forced a path through brake and briar; + They fought with Nature till they reached the throne + Where morning glittered on the great UNKNOWN! + There, in a time with praise and prayer supreme, + Paused Blaxland, Lawson, Wentworth, in a dream; + There, where the silver arrows of the day + Smote slope and spire, they halted on their way. + Behind them were the conquered hills--they faced + The vast green West, with glad, strange beauty graced; + And every tone of every cave and tree + Was as a voice of splendid prophecy. + + + + +Robert Parkes + + -- + * Son of Sir Henry Parkes. + -- + + + + High travelling winds by royal hill + Their awful anthem sing, + And songs exalted flow and fill + The caverns of the spring. + + To-night across a wild wet plain + A shadow sobs and strays; + The trees are whispering in the rain + Of long departed days. + + I cannot say what forest saith-- + Its words are strange to me: + I only know that in its breath + Are tones that used to be. + + Yea, in these deep dim solitudes + I hear a sound I know-- + The voice that lived in Penrith woods + Twelve weary years ago. + + And while the hymn of other years + Is on a listening land, + The Angel of the Past appears + And leads me by the hand; + + And takes me over moaning wave, + And tracts of sleepless change, + To set me by a lonely grave + Within a lonely range. + + The halo of the beautiful + Is round the quiet spot; + The grass is deep and green and cool, + Where sound of life is not. + + Here in this lovely lap of bloom, + The grace of glen and glade, + That tender days and nights illume, + My gentle friend was laid. + + I do not mark the shell that lies + Beneath the touching flowers; + I only see the radiant eyes + Of other scenes and hours. + + I only turn, by grief inspired, + Like some forsaken thing, + To look upon a life retired + As hushed Bethesda's spring. + + The glory of unblemished days + Is on the silent mound-- + The light of years, too pure for praise; + I kneel on holy ground! + + Here is the clay of one whose mind + Was fairer than the dew, + The sweetest nature of his kind + I haply ever knew. + + This Christian, walking on the white + Clear paths apart from strife, + Kept far from all the heat and light + That fills his father's life. + + The clamour and exceeding flame + Were never in his days: + A higher object was his aim + Than thrones of shine and praise. + + Ah! like an English April psalm, + That floats by sea and strand, + He passed away into the calm + Of the Eternal Land. + + The chair he filled is set aside + Upon his father's floor; + In morning hours, at eventide, + His step is heard no more. + + No more his face the forest knows; + His voice is of the past; + But from his life of beauty flows + A radiance that will last. + + Yea, from the hours that heard his speech + High shining mem'ries give + That fine example which will teach + Our children how to live. + + Here, kneeling in the body, far + From grave of flower and dew, + My friend beyond the path of star, + I say these words to you. + + Though you were as a fleeting flame + Across my road austere, + The memory of your face became + A thing for ever dear. + + I never have forgotten yet + The Christian's gentle touch; + And, since the time when last we met, + You know I've suffered much. + + I feel that I have given pain + By certain words and deeds, + But stricken here with Sorrow's rain, + My contrite spirit bleeds. + + For your sole sake I rue the blow, + But this assurance send: + I smote, in noon, the public foe, + But not the private friend. + + I know that once I wronged your sire, + But since that awful day + My soul has passed through blood and fire, + My head is very grey. + + Here let me pause! From years like yours + There ever flows and thrives + The splendid blessing which endures + Beyond our little lives. + + From lonely lands across the wave + Is sent to-night by me + This rose of reverence for the grave + Beside the mountain lea. + + + + +At Her Window + + + + To-night a strong south wind in thunder sings + Across the city. Now by salt wet flats, + And ridges perished with the breath of drought, + Comes up a deep, sonorous, gulf-like voice-- + Far-travelled herald of some distant storm-- + That strikes with harsh gigantic wings the cliff, + Where twofold Otway meets his straitened surf, + And makes a white wrath of a league of sea. + + To-night the fretted Yarra chafes its banks, + And dusks and glistens; while the city shows + A ring of windy light. From street to street + The noise of labour, linked to hurrying wheels, + Rolls off, as rolls the stately sound of wave, + When he that hears it hastens from the shore. + + To-night beside a moody window sits + A wife who watches for her absent love; + Her home is in a dim suburban street, + In which the winds, like one with straitened breath, + Now fleet with whispers dry and short half-sobs, + Or pause and beat against the showery panes + Like homeless mem'ries seeking for a home. + + There, where the plopping of the guttered rain + Sounds like a heavy footstep in the dark, + Where every shadow thrown by flickering light + Seems like her husband halting at the door, + I say a woman sits, and waits, and sits, + Then trims her fire, and comes to wait again. + + The chapel clock strikes twelve! He has not come. + The night grows wilder, and the wind dies off + The roads, now turned to thoroughfares of storm, + Save when a solitary, stumbling foot + Breaks through the clamour. Then the watcher starts, + And trembles, with her hand upon the key, + And flutters, with the love upon her lips; + Then sighs, returns, and takes her seat once more. + + Is this the old, old tale? Ah! do not ask, + My gentle reader, but across your doubts + Throw shining reasons on the happier side; + Or, if you cannot choose but doubt the man-- + If you do count him in your thoughts as one + Who leaves a good wife by a lonely hearth + For more than half the night, for scenes (we'll say) + Of revelry--I pray you think of how + That wretch must suffer in his waking times + (If he be human), when he recollects + That through the long, long hours of evil feasts + With painted sin, and under glaring gas, + His brightest friend was at a window-sill + A watcher, seated in a joyless room, + And haply left without a loaf of bread. + + I, having learnt from sources pure and high, + From springs of love that make the perfect wife, + Can say how much a woman will endure + For one to whom her tender heart has passed. + When fortune fails, and friends drop off, and time + Has shadows waiting in predestined ways-- + When shame that grows from want of money comes, + And sets its brand upon a husband's brow, + And makes him walk an alien in the streets: + One faithful face, on which a light divine + Becomes a glory when vicissitude + Is in its darkest mood--one face, I say, + Marks not the fallings-off that others see, + Seeks not to know the thoughts that others think, + Cares not to hear the words that others say: + But, through her deep and self-sufficing love, + She only sees the bright-eyed youth that won + Her maiden heart in other, happier days, + And not the silent, gloomy-featured man + That frets and shivers by a sullen fire. + + And, therefore, knowing this from you, who've shared + With me the ordeal of most trying times, + I sometimes feel a hot shame flushing up, + To think that there are those among my sex + Who are so cursed with small-souled selfishness + That they do give to noble wives like you, + For love--that first and final flower of life-- + The dreadful portion of a drunkard's home. + + + + +William Bede Dalley + + + + That love of letters which is as the light + Of deathless verse, intense, ineffable, + Hath made this scholar's nature like the white, + Pure Roman soul of whom the poets tell. + + He having lived so long with lords of thought, + The grand hierophants of speech and song, + Hath from the high, august communion caught + Some portion of their inspiration strong. + + The clear, bright atmosphere through which he looks + Is one by no dim, close horizon bound; + The power shed as flame from noble books + Hath made for him a larger world around. + + And he, thus strengthened with the fourfold force + Which scholarship to genius gives, is one + That liberal thinkers, pausing in their course, + With fine esteem are glad to look upon. + + He, with the faultless intuition born + Of splendid faculties, sees things aright, + And all his strong, immeasurable scorn + Falls like a thunder on the hypocrite. + + But for the sufferer and the son of shame + On whom remorse--a great, sad burden--lies, + His kindness glistens like a morning flame, + Immense compassion shines within his eyes. + + Firm to the Church by which his fathers stood, + But tolerant to every form of creed, + He longs for universal brotherhood, + And is a Christian gentleman indeed. + + These in his honour. May his life be long, + And, like a summer with a brilliant close, + As full of music as a perfect song, + As radiant as a rich, unhandled rose. + + + + +To the Spirit of Music + + + + I + + The cool grass blowing in a breeze + Of April valleys sooms and sways; + On slopes that dip to quiet seas + Through far, faint drifts of yellowing haze. + I lie like one who, in a dream + Of sounds and splendid coloured things, + Seems lifted into life supreme + And has a sense of waxing wings. + For through a great arch-light which floods + And breaks and spreads and swims along + High royal-robed autumnal woods, + I hear a glorious sunset song. + But, ah, Euterpe! I that pause + And listen to the strain divine + Can never learn its words, because + I am no son of thine. + + How sweet is wandering where the west + Is full of thee, what time the morn + Looks from his halls of rosy rest + Across green miles of gleaming corn! + + How sweet are dreams in shady nooks, + When bees are out, and day is mute, + While down the dell there floats the brook's + Fine echo of thy marvellous lute! + + And oh, how sweet is that sad tune + Of thine, within the evening breeze, + Which roams beneath the mirrored moon + On silver-sleeping summer seas! + + How blest are they whom thou hast crowned, + Thy priests--the lords who understand + The deep divinity of sound, + And live their lives in Wonderland! + + These stand within thy courts and see + The light exceeding round thy throne, + But I--an alien unto thee-- + I faint afar off, and alone. + + + II + + In hills where the keen Thessalonian + Made clamour with horse and with horn, + In oracular woods the Dodonian-- + The mystical maiden was born. + And the high, the Olympian seven, + Ringed round with ineffable flame, + Baptized her in halos of heaven, + And gave her her beautiful name. + And Delphicus, loving her, brought her + Immutable dower of dreams, + And clothed her with glory, and taught her + The words of the winds and the streams. + + She dwelt with the echoes that dwell + In far immemorial hills; + She wove of their speeches a spell-- + She borrowed the songs of the rills; + And anthems of forest and fire, + And passionate psalms of the rain + Had life in the life of the lyre, + And breath in its infinite strain. + + In a fair, in a floral abode, + Of purple and yellow and red, + The voice of her floated and flowed, + The light of her lingered and spread, + And ever there slipt through the bars + Of the leaves of her luminous bowers, + Syllables splendid as stars, + And faultless as moon-litten flowers. + + + III + + Lady of a land of wonder, + Daughter of the hill supernal, + Far from frost and far from thunder + Under sons and moons eternal! + Long ago the strong Immortals + Took her hence on wheels of fire, + Caught her up and shut their portals-- + Floral maid with fervent lyre. + But stray fallen notes of brightness + Yet within our world are ringing, + Floating on the winds of lightness + Glorious fragments of her singing. + + Bud of light, she shines above us; + But a few of starry pinions-- + Passioned souls who are her lovers-- + Dwell in her divine dominions. + Few they are, but in the centric + Fanes of Beauty hold their station; + Kings of music, lords authentic, + Of the worlds of Inspiration. + These are they to whom are given + Eyes to see the singing stream-land, + Far from earth and near to heaven, + Known to gods and men as Dreamland. + + Mournful humanity, stricken and worn, + Toiling for peace in undignified days, + Set in a sphere with the shadows forlorn, + Seeing sublimity dimmed by a haze-- + Mournful humanity wearing the sign + Of trouble with time and unequable things, + Long alienated from spaces divine, + Sometimes remembers that once it had wings. + Chiefly it is when the song and the light + Sweeten the heart of the summering west, + Music and glory that lend to the night + Glimpses of marvellous havens of rest. + + Chiefly it is when the beautiful day + Dies with a sound on its lips like a psalm-- + Anthem of loveliness drifting away + Over a sea of unspeakable calm. + + Then Euterpe's harmonies + In the ballad rich and rare, + Freighted with old memories, + Float upon the evening air-- + Float, like shine in films of rain, + Full of past pathetic themes, + Tales of perished joy and pain, + Frail and faint as dreams in dreams. + Then to far-off homes we rove, + Homes of youth and hope and faith, + Beautiful with lights of love-- + Sanctified by shrines of death. + + Ah! and in that quiet hour + Soul by soul is borne away + Over tracts of leaf and flower, + Lit with a supernal day; + Over Music-world serene, + Spheres unknown to woes and wars, + Homes of wildernesses green, + Silver seas and golden shores; + Then, like spirits glorified, + Sweet to hear and bright to see, + Lords in Eden they abide + Robed with strange new majesty. + + + + +John Dunmore Lang + + + + The song that is last of the many + Whose music is full of thy name, + Is weaker, O father! than any, + Is fainter than flickering flame. + But far in the folds of the mountains + Whose bases are hoary with sea, + By lone immemorial fountains + This singer is mourning for thee. + + Because thou wert chief and a giant + With those who fought on for the right + A hero determined, defiant; + As flame was the sleep of thy might. + Like Stephen in days that are olden, + Thy lot with a rabble was cast, + But seasons came on that were golden, + And Peace was thy mother at last. + + I knew of thy fierce tribulation, + Thou wert ever the same in my thought-- + The father and friend of a nation + Through good and through evil report. + At Ephesus, fighting in fetters, + Paul drove the wild beasts to their pen; + So thou with the lash of thy letters + Whipped infamy back to its den. + + The noise of thy battle is over, + Thy sword is hung up in its sheath; + Thy grave has been decked by its lover + With beauty of willowy wreath. + The winds sing about thee for ever, + The voices of hill and of sea; + But the cry of the conflict will never + Bring sorrow again unto thee. + + + + +On a Baby Buried by the Hawkesbury + + [_Lines sent to a Young Mother._] + + + + A grace that was lent for a very few hours, + By the bountiful Spirit above us; + She sleeps like a flower in the land of the flowers, + She went ere she knew how to love us. + Her music of Heaven was strange to this sphere, + Her voice is a silence for ever; + In the bitter, wild fall of a sorrowful year, + We buried our bird by the river. + + But the gold of the grass, and the green of the vine, + And the music of wind and of water, + And the torrent of song and superlative shine, + Are close to our dear little daughter. + The months of the year are all gracious to her, + A winter breath visits her never; + She sleeps like a bird in a cradle of myrrh, + By the banks of the beautiful river. + + + + +Song of the Shingle-Splitters + + + + In dark wild woods, where the lone owl broods + And the dingoes nightly yell-- + Where the curlew's cry goes floating by, + We splitters of shingles dwell. + And all day through, from the time of the dew + To the hour when the mopoke calls, + Our mallets ring where the woodbirds sing + Sweet hymns by the waterfalls. + And all night long we are lulled by the song + Of gales in the grand old trees; + And in the brakes we can hear the lakes + And the moan of the distant seas. + For afar from heat and dust of street, + And hall and turret and dome, + In forest deep, where the torrents leap, + Is the shingle-splitter's home. + + The dweller in town may lie upon down, + And own his palace and park: + We envy him not his prosperous lot, + Though we slumber on sheets of bark. + Our food is rough, but we have enough; + Our drink is better than wine: + For cool creeks flow wherever we go, + Shut in from the hot sunshine. + Though rude our roof, it is weather-proof, + And at the end of the days + We sit and smoke over yarn and joke, + By the bush-fire's sturdy blaze. + For away from din and sorrow and sin, + Where troubles but rarely come, + We jog along, like a merry song, + In the shingle-splitter's home. + + What though our work be heavy, we shirk + From nothing beneath the sun; + And toil is sweet to those who can eat + And rest when the day is done. + In the Sabbath-time we hear no chime, + No sound of the Sunday bells; + But yet Heaven smiles on the forest aisles, + And God in the woodland dwells. + We listen to notes from the million throats + Of chorister birds on high, + Our psalm is the breeze in the lordly trees, + And our dome is the broad blue sky. + Oh! a brave, frank life, unsmitten by strife, + We live wherever we roam, + And our hearts are free as the great strong sea, + In the shingle-splitter's home. + + + + +On a Street + + + + I dread that street--its haggard face + I have not seen for eight long years; + A mother's curse is on the place, + (There's blood, my reader, in her tears). + No child of man shall ever track, + Through filthy dust, the singer's feet-- + A fierce old memory drags me back; + I hate its name--I dread that street. + + Upon the lap of green, sweet lands, + Whose months are like your English Mays, + I try to hide in Lethe's sands + The bitter, old Bohemian days. + But sorrow speaks in singing leaf, + And trouble talketh in the tide; + The skirts of a stupendous grief + Are trailing ever at my side. + + I will not say who suffered there, + 'Tis best the name aloof to keep, + Because the world is very fair-- + Its light should sing the dark to sleep. + But, let me whisper, in that street + A woman, faint through want of bread, + Has often pawned the quilt and sheet + And wept upon a barren bed. + + How gladly would I change my theme, + Or cease the song and steal away, + But on the hill and by the stream + A ghost is with me night and day! + A dreadful darkness, full of wild, + Chaotic visions, comes to me: + I seem to hear a dying child, + Its mother's face I seem to see. + + Here, surely, on this bank of bloom, + My verse with shine would ever flow; + But ah! it comes--the rented room, + With man and wife who suffered so! + From flower and leaf there is no hint-- + I only see a sharp distress-- + A lady in a faded print, + A careworn writer for the press. + + I only hear the brutal curse + Of landlord clamouring for his pay; + And yonder is the pauper's hearse + That comes to take a child away. + Apart, and with the half-grey head + Of sudden age, again I see + The father writing by the dead + To earn the undertaker's fee. + + No tear at all is asked for him-- + A drunkard well deserves his life; + But voice will quiver, eyes grow dim, + For her, the patient, pure young wife, + The gentle girl of better days, + As timid as a mountain fawn, + Who used to choose untrodden ways, + And place at night her rags in pawn. + + She could not face the lighted square, + Or show the street her poor, thin dress; + In one close chamber, bleak and bare, + She hid her burden of distress. + Her happy schoolmates used to drive, + On gaudy wheels, the town about; + The meat that keeps a dog alive + She often had to go without. + + I tell you, this is not a tale + Conceived by me, but bitter truth; + Bohemia knows it, pinched and pale, + Beside the pyre of burnt-out youth: + These eyes of mine have often seen + The sweet girl-wife, in winters rude, + Steal out at night, through courts unclean, + To hunt about for chips of wood. + + Have I no word at all for him + Who used down fetid lanes to slink, + And squat in tap-room corners grim, + And drown his thoughts in dregs of drink? + This much I'll say, that when the flame + Of reason reassumed its force, + The hell the Christian fears to name, + Was heaven to his fierce remorse. + + Just think of him--beneath the ban, + And steeped in sorrow to the neck, + Without a friend--a feeble man, + In failing health--a human wreck. + With all his sense and scholarship, + How could he face his fading wife? + The devil never lifted whip + With thongs like those that scourged his life. + + But He in whom the dying thief + Upon the Cross did place his trust, + Forgets the sin and feels the grief, + And lifts the sufferer from the dust. + And now, because I have a dream, + The man and woman found the light; + A glory burns upon the stream, + With gold and green the woods are bright. + + But still I hate that haggard street, + Its filthy courts, its alleys wild; + In dreams of it I always meet + The phantom of a wailing child. + The name of it begets distress-- + Ah, song, be silent! show no more + The lady in the perished dress, + The scholar on the tap-room floor. + + + + +Heath from the Highlands + + + + Here, where the great hills fall away + To bays of silver sea, + I hold within my hand to-day + A wild thing, strange to me. + + Behind me is the deep green dell + Where lives familiar light; + The leaves and flowers I know so well + Are gleaming in my sight. + + And yonder is the mountain glen, + Where sings in trees unstirred + By breath of breeze or axe of men + The shining satin-bird. + + The old weird cry of plover comes + Across the marshy ways, + And here the hermit hornet hums, + And here the wild bee strays. + + No novel life or light I see, + On hill, in dale beneath: + All things around are known to me + Except this bit of heath. + + This touching growth hath made me dream-- + It sends my soul afar + To where the Scottish mountains gleam + Against the Northern star. + + It droops--this plant--like one who grieves; + But, while my fancy glows, + There is that glory on its leaves + Which never robed the rose. + + For near its wind-blown native spot + Were born, by crags uphurled, + The ringing songs of Walter Scott + That shook the whole wide world. + + There haply by the sounding streams, + And where the fountains break, + He saw the darling of his dreams, + The Lady of the Lake. + + And on the peaks where never leaf + Of lowland beauty grew, + Perhaps he met Clan Alpine's chief, + The rugged Roderick Dhu. + + Not far, perchance, this heather throve + (Above fair banks of ferns), + From that green place of stream and grove + That knew the voice of Burns. + + Against the radiant river ways + Still waves the noble wood, + Where in the old majestic days + The Scottish poet stood. + + Perhaps my heather used to beam + In robes of morning frost, + By dells which saw that lovely dream-- + The Mary that he lost. + + I hope, indeed, the singer knew + The little spot of land + On which the mountain beauty grew + That withers in my hand. + + A Highland sky my vision fills; + I feel the great, strong North-- + The hard grey weather of the hills + That brings men-children forth. + + The peaks of Scotland, where the din + And flame of thunders go, + Seem near me, with the masculine, + Hale sons of wind and snow. + + So potent is this heather here, + That under skies of blue, + I seem to breathe the atmosphere + That William Wallace knew. + + And under windy mountain wall, + Where breaks the torrent loose, + I fancy I can hear the call + Of grand old Robert Bruce. + + + + +The Austral Months + + + + January + + The first fair month! In singing Summer's sphere + She glows, the eldest daughter of the year. + All light, all warmth, all passion, breaths of myrrh, + And subtle hints of rose-lands, come with her. + She is the warm, live month of lustre--she + Makes glad the land and lulls the strong, sad sea. + The highest hope comes with her. In her face + Of pure, clear colour lives exalted grace; + Her speech is beauty, and her radiant eyes + Are eloquent with splendid prophecies. + + + February + + The bright-haired, blue-eyed last of Summer. Lo, + Her clear song lives in all the winds that blow; + The upland torrent and the lowland rill, + The stream of valley and the spring of hill, + The pools that slumber and the brooks that run + Where dense the leaves are, green the light of sun, + Take all her grace of voice and colour. She, + With rich warm vine-blood splashed from heel to knee, + Comes radiant through the yellow woodlands. Far + And near her sweet gifts shine like star by star. + She is the true Demeter. Life of root + Glows under her in gardens flushed with fruit; + She fills the fields with strength and passion--makes + A fire of lustre on the lawn-ringed lakes; + Her beauty awes the great wild sea; the height + Of grey magnificence takes strange delight + And softens at her presence, at the dear + Sweet face whose memory beams through all the year. + + + March + + Clear upland voices, full of wind and stream, + Greet March, the sister of the flying beam + And speedy shadow. She, with rainbow crowned, + Lives in a sphere of songs of mazy sound. + The hymn of waters and the gale's high tone, + With anthems from the thunder's mountain throne, + Are with her ever. This, behold, is she + Who draws its great cry from the strong, sad sea; + She is the month of majesty. Her force + Is power that moves along a stately course, + Within the lines of order, like no wild + And lawless strength of winter's fiercest child. + About her are the wind-whipped torrents; far + Above her gleams and flies the stormy star, + And round her, through the highlands and their rocks, + Rings loud the grand speech from the equinox. + + + April + + The darling of Australia's Autumn--now + Down dewy dells the strong, swift torrents flow! + This is the month of singing waters--here + A tender radiance fills the Southern year; + No bitter winter sets on herb and root, + Within these gracious glades, a frosty foot; + The spears of sleet, the arrows of the hail, + Are here unknown. But down the dark green dale + Of moss and myrtle, and the herby streams, + This April wanders in a home of dreams; + Her flower-soft name makes language falter. All + Her paths are soft and cool, and runnels fall + In music round her; and the woodlands sing + For evermore, with voice of wind and wing, + Because this is the month of beauty--this + The crowning grace of all the grace that is. + + + May + + Now sings a cool, bland wind, where falls and flows + The runnel by the grave of last year's rose; + Now, underneath the strong perennial leaves, + The first slow voice of wintering torrent grieves. + Now in a light like English August's day, + Is seen the fair, sweet, chastened face of May; + She is the daughter of the year who stands + With Autumn's last rich offerings in her hands; + Behind her gleams the ghost of April's noon, + Before her is the far, faint dawn of June; + She lingers where the dells and dewy leas + Catch stormy sayings from the great bold seas; + Her nightly raiment is the misty fold + That zones her round with moonlight-coloured gold; + And in the day she sheds, from shining wings, + A tender heat that keeps the life in things. + + + June + + Not like that month when, in imperial space, + The high, strong sun stares at the white world's face; + Not like that haughty daughter of the year + Who moves, a splendour, in a splendid sphere; + But rather like a nymph of afternoon, + With cool, soft sunshine, comes Australian June. + She is the calm, sweet lady, from whose lips + No breath of living passion ever slips; + The wind that on her virgin forehead blows + Was born too late to speak of last year's rose; + She never saw a blossom, but her eyes + Of tender beauty see blue, gracious skies; + She loves the mosses, and her feet have been + In woodlands where the leaves are always green; + Her days pass on with sea-songs, and her nights + Shine, full of stars, on lands of frosty lights. + + + July + + High travelling winds, filled with the strong storm's soul, + Are here, with dark, strange sayings from the Pole; + Now is the time when every great cave rings + With sharp, clear echoes caught from mountain springs; + This is the season when all torrents run + Beneath no bright, glad beauty of the sun. + Here, where the trace of last year's green is lost, + Are haughty gales, and lordships of the frost. + Far down, by fields forlorn and forelands bleak, + Are wings that fly not, birds that never speak; + But in the deep hearts of the glens, unseen, + Stand grave, mute forests of eternal green; + And here the lady, born in wind and rain, + Comes oft to moan and clap her palms with pain. + This is our wild-faced July, in whose breast + Is never faultless light or perfect rest. + + + August + + Across the range, by every scarred black fell, + Strong Winter blows his horn of wild farewell; + And in the glens, where yet there moves no wing, + A slow, sweet voice is singing of the Spring. + Yea, where the bright, quick woodland torrents run, + A music trembles under rain and sun. + The lips that breathe it are the lips of her + At whose dear touch the wan world's pulses stir-- + The nymph who sets the bow of promise high + And fills with warm life-light the bleak grey sky. + She is the fair-haired August. Ere she leaves + She brings the woodbine blossom round the eaves; + And where the bitter barbs of frost have been + She makes a beauty with her gold and green; + And, while a sea-song floats from bay and beach, + She sheds a mist of blossoms on the peach. + + + [For September, see p. 70.] {In this etext, search for + "September in Australia", in "Leaves from Australian Forests".--A. L.} + + + October + + Where fountains sing and many waters meet, + October comes with blossom-trammelled feet. + She sheds green glory by the wayside rills + And clothes with grace the haughty-featured hills. + This is the queen of all the year. She brings + The pure chief beauty of our southern springs. + Fair lady of the yellow hair! Her breath + Starts flowers to life, and shames the storm to death; + Through tender nights and days of generous sun + By prospering woods her clear strong torrents run; + In far deep forests, where all life is mute, + Of leaf and bough she makes a touching lute. + Her life is lovely. Stream, and wind, and bird + Have seen her face--her marvellous voice have heard; + And, in strange tracts of wildwood, all day long, + They tell the story in surpassing song. + + + November + + Now beats the first warm pulse of Summer--now + There shines great glory on the mountain's brow. + The face of heaven in the western sky, + When falls the sun, is filled with Deity! + And while the first light floods the lake and lea, + The morning makes a marvel of the sea; + The strong leaves sing; and in the deep green zones + Of rock-bound glens the streams have many tones; + And where the evening-coloured waters pass, + Now glides November down fair falls of grass. + She is the wonder with the golden wings, + Who lays one hand in Summer's--one in Spring's; + About her hair a sunset radiance glows; + Her mouth is sister of the dewy rose; + And all the beauty of the pure blue skies + Has lent its lustre to her soft bright eyes. + + + December + + The month whose face is holiness! She brings + With her the glory of majestic things. + What words of light, what high resplendent phrase + Have I for all the lustre of her days? + She comes, and carries in her shining sphere + August traditions of the world's great year; + The noble tale which lifts the human race + Has made a morning of her sacred face. + Now in the emerald home of flower and wing + Clear summer streams their sweet hosannas sing; + The winds are full of anthems, and a lute + Speaks in the listening hills when night is mute + And through dim tracks where talks the royal tree + There floats a grand hymn from the mighty sea; + And where the grey, grave, pondering mountains stand + High music lives--the place is holy land! + + + + +Aboriginal Death-Song + + + + Feet of the flying, and fierce + Tops of the sharp-headed spear, + Hard by the thickets that pierce, + Lo! they are nimble and near. + + Women are we, and the wives + Strong Arrawatta hath won; + Weary because of our lives, + Sick of the face of the sun. + + Koola, our love and our light, + What have they done unto you? + Man of the star-reaching sight, + Dipped in the fire and the dew. + + Black-headed snakes in the grass + Struck at the fleet-footed lord-- + Still is his voice at the pass, + Soundless his step at the ford. + + Far by the forested glen, + Starkly he lies in the rain; + Kings of the council of men + Shout for their leader in vain. + + Yea, and the fish-river clear + Never shall blacken below + Spear and the shadow of spear, + Bow and the shadow of bow. + + Hunter and climber of trees, + Now doth his tomahawk rust, + (Dread of the cunning wild bees), + Hidden in hillocks of dust. + + We, who were followed and bound, + Dashed under foot by the foe, + Sit with our eyes to the ground, + Faint from the brand and the blow. + + Dumb with the sorrow that kills, + Sorrow for brother and chief, + Terror of thundering hills, + Having no hope in our grief, + + Seeing the fathers are far + Seeking the spoils of the dead + Left on the path of the war, + Matted and mangled and red. + + + + +Sydney Harbour + + + + Where Hornby, like a mighty fallen star, + Burns through the darkness with a splendid ring + Of tenfold light, and where the awful face + Of Sydney's northern headland stares all night + O'er dark, determined waters from the east, + From year to year a wild, Titanic voice + Of fierce aggressive sea shoots up and makes,-- + When storm sails high through drifts of driving sleet, + And in the days when limpid waters glass + December's sunny hair and forest face,-- + A roaring down by immemorial caves, + A thunder in the everlasting hills. + + But calm and lucid as an English lake, + Beloved by beams and wooed by wind and wing, + Shut in from tempest-trampled wastes of wave, + And sheltered from white wraths of surge by walls-- + Grand ramparts founded by the hand of God, + The lordly Harbour gleams. Yea, like a shield + Of marvellous gold dropped in his fiery flight + By some lost angel in the elder days, + When Satan faced and fought Omnipotence, + It shines amongst fair, flowering hills, and flows + By dells of glimmering greenness manifold. + And all day long, when soft-eyed Spring comes round + With gracious gifts of bird and leaf and grass-- + And through the noon, when sumptuous Summer sleeps + By yellowing runnels under beetling cliffs, + This royal water blossoms far and wide + With ships from all the corners of the world. + + And while sweet Autumn with her gipsy face + Stands in the gardens, splashed from heel to thigh + With spinning vine-blood--yea, and when the mild, + Wan face of our Australian Winter looks + Across the congregated southern fens, + Then low, melodious, shell-like songs are heard + Beneath proud hulls and pompous clouds of sail, + By yellow beaches under lisping leaves + And hidden nooks to Youth and Beauty dear, + And where the ear may catch the counter-voice + Of Ocean travelling over far, blue tracts. + + Moreover, when the moon is gazing down + Upon her lovely reflex in the wave, + (What time she, sitting in the zenith, makes + A silver silence over stirless woods), + Then, where its echoes start at sudden bells, + And where its waters gleam with flying lights, + The haven lies, in all its beauty clad, + More lovely even than the golden lakes + The poet saw, while dreaming splendid dreams + Which showed his soul the far Hesperides. + + + + +A Birthday Trifle + + + + Here in this gold-green evening end, + While air is soft and sky is clear, + What tender message shall I send + To her I hold so dear? + What rose of song with breath like myrrh, + And leaf of dew and fair pure beams + Shall I select and give to her-- + The lady of my dreams? + + Alas! the blossom I would take, + The song as sweet as Persian speech, + And carry for my lady's sake, + Is not within my reach. + I have no perfect gift of words, + Or I would hasten now to send + A ballad full of tunes of birds + To please my lovely friend. + + But this pure pleasure is my own, + That I have power to waft away + A hope as bright as heaven's zone + On this her natal day. + May all her life be like the light + That softens down in spheres divine, + "As lovely as a Lapland night," + All grace and chastened shine! + + + + +Frank Denz + + + + In the roar of the storm, in the wild bitter voice of the tempest-whipped sea, + The cry of my darling, my child, comes ever and ever to me; + And I stand where the haggard-faced wood stares down on a sinister shore, + But all that is left is the hood of the babe I can cherish no more. + + A little blue hood, with the shawl of the girl that I took for my wife + In a happy old season, is all that remains of the light of my life; + The wail of a woman in pain, and the sob of a smothering bird, + They come through the darkness again-- + in the wind and the rain they are heard. + + Oh, women and men who have known the perils of weather and wave, + It is sad that my sweet ones are blown under sea without shelter of grave; + I sob like a child in the night, when the gale on the waters is loud-- + My darlings went down in my sight, with neither a coffin nor shroud. + + In the whistle of wind, and the whirl of ominous fragments of wreck, + The wife, with her poor little girl, saw death on the lee of the deck; + But, sirs, she depended on me--she trusted my comforting word; + She is down in the depths of the sea--my love, with her beautiful bird. + + In the boat I was ordered to go--I was not more afraid than the rest, + But a husband will falter, you know, with the love of his life at his breast; + My captain was angry a space, but soon he grew tender in tone-- + Perhaps there had flashed by his face a wife and a child of his own. + + I was weak for some moments, and cried; but only one hope was in life; + The hood upon baby I tied--I fastened the shawl on my wife. + The skipper took charge of the child--he stuck to his word till the last; + But only this hood on the wild, bitter shore of the sea had been cast. + + In the place of a coward, who shook like a leaf in the quivering boat, + A seat by the rowlocks I took; but the sea had me soon by the throat, + The surge gripped me fast by the neck--in a ring, and a roll, and a roar, + I was cast like a piece of the wreck, on a bleak, beaten, shelterless shore. + + And there were my darlings on board for the rest of that terrible day, + And I watched and I prayed to the Lord, as never before I could pray. + The windy hills stared at the black, heavy clouds coming over the wave; + My girl was expecting me back, but where was my power to save? + + Ah! where was my power, when Death was glaring at me from the reef? + I cried till I gasped for my breath, aloof with a maddening grief. + We couldn't get back to the deck: I wanted to go, but the sea + Dashed over the sides of the wreck, and carried my darling from me. + + Oh, girl that I took by the hand to the altar two summers ago, + I would you were buried on land--my dear, it would comfort me so! + I would you were sleeping where grows the grass and the musical reed! + For how can you find a repose in the toss of the tangle and weed? + + The night sped along, and I strained to the shadow and saw to the end + My captain and bird--he remained to the death a superlative friend: + In the face of the hurricane wild, he clung with the babe to the mast; + To the last he was true to my child--he was true to my child to the last. + + The wind, like a life without home, comes mocking at door and at pane + In the time of the cry of the foam--in the season of thunder and rain, + And, dreaming, I start in the bed, and feel for my little one's brow-- + But lost is the beautiful head; the cradle is tenantless now! + + My home was all morning and glow when wife and her baby were there, + But, ah! it is saddened, you know, by dresses my girl used to wear. + I cannot re-enter the door; its threshold can never be crossed, + For fear I should see on the floor the shoes of the child I have lost. + + There were three of us once in the world; but two are deep down in the sea, + Where waif and where tangle are hurled--the two that were portions of me; + They are far from me now, but I hear, when hushed are the night and the tide, + The voice of my little one near--the step of my wife by my side. + + + + +Sydney Exhibition Cantata + + + + Part I + + + _Chorus_ + + Songs of morning, with your breath + Sing the darkness now to death; + Radiant river, beaming bay, + Fair as Summer, shine to-day; + Flying torrent, falling slope, + Wear the face as bright as Hope; + Wind and woodland, hill and sea, + Lift your voices--sing for glee! + Greet the guests your fame has won-- + Put your brightest garments on. + + + _Recitative and Chorus_ + + Lo, they come--the lords unknown, + Sons of Peace, from every zone! + See above our waves unfurled + All the flags of all the world! + North and south and west and east + Gather in to grace our feast. + Shining nations! let them see + How like England we can be. + Mighty nations! let them view + Sons of generous sires in you. + + + _Solo--Tenor_ + + By the days that sound afar, + Sound, and shine like star by star; + By the grand old years aflame + With the fires of England's fame-- + Heirs of those who fought for right + When the world's wronged face was white-- + Meet these guests your fortune sends, + As your fathers met their friends; + Let the beauty of your race + Glow like morning in your face. + + + Part II + + + _Solo--Bass_ + + Where now a radiant city stands, + The dark oak used to wave, + The elfin harp of lonely lands + Above the wild man's grave; + Through windless woods, one clear, sweet stream + (Sing soft and very low) + Stole like the river of a dream + A hundred years ago. + + + _Solo--Alto_ + + Upon the hills that blaze to-day + With splendid dome and spire, + The naked hunter tracked his prey, + And slumbered by his fire. + Within the sound of shipless seas + The wild rose used to blow + About the feet of royal trees, + A hundred years ago. + + + _Solo--Soprano_ + + Ah! haply on some mossy slope, + Against the shining springs, + In those old days the angel Hope + Sat down with folded wings; + Perhaps she touched in dreams sublime, + In glory and in glow, + The skirts of this resplendent time, + A hundred years ago. + + + Part III + + + _Children_ + + A gracious morning on the hills of wet + And wind and mist her glittering feet has set; + The life and heat of light have chased away + Australia's dark, mysterious yesterday. + A great, glad glory now flows down and shines + On gold-green lands where waved funereal pines. + + + _Solo--Soprano_ + + And hence a fair dream goes before our gaze, + And lifts the skirts of the hereafter days, + And sees afar, as dreams alone can see, + The splendid marvel of the years to be. + + + Part IV + + + _Basses and Chorus_ + + Father, All-Bountiful, humbly we bend to Thee; + Heads are uncovered in sight of Thy face. + Here, in the flow of the psalms that ascend to Thee, + Teach us to live for the light of Thy grace. + Here, in the pause of the anthems of praise to Thee, + Master and Maker--pre-eminent Friend-- + Teach us to look to Thee--give all our days to Thee, + Now and for evermore, world without end! + + + + +Hymn of Praise + + [_Closing of Sydney International Exhibition._] + + + + Encompassed by the psalm of hill and stream, + By hymns august with their majestic theme, + Here in the evening of exalted days + To Thee, our Friend, we bow with breath of praise. + + The great, sublime hosannas of the sea + Ascend on wings of mighty winds to Thee, + And mingled with their stately words are tones + Of human love, O Lord of all the zones! + + Ah! at the close of many splendid hours, + While falls Thy gracious light in radiant showers, + We seek Thy face, we praise Thee, bless Thee, sing + This song of reverence, Master, Maker, King! + + To Thee, from whom all shining blessings flow, + All gifts of lustre, all the joys we know, + To Thee, O Father, in this lordly space, + The great world turns with worship in its face. + + For that glad season which will pass to-day + With light and music like a psalm away, + The gathered nations with a grand accord, + In sight of Thy high heaven, thank Thee, Lord! + + All praise is Thine--all love that we can give + Is also Thine, in whose large grace we live, + In whom we find the _One_ long-suffering Friend, + Whose immemorial mercy has no end. + + + + +Basil Moss + + + + Sing, mountain-wind, thy strong, superior song-- + Thy haughty alpine anthem, over tracts + Whose passes and whose swift, rock-straitened streams + Catch mighty life and voice from thee, and make + A lordly harmony on sea-chafed heights. + Sing, mountain-wind, and take thine ancient tone, + The grand, austere, imperial utterance. + Which drives my soul before it back to days + In one dark hour of which, when Storm rode high + Past broken hills, and when the polar gale + Roared round the Otway with the bitter breath + That speaks for ever of the White South Land + Alone with God and Silence in the cold, + I heard the touching tale of Basil Moss, + + A story shining with a woman's love! + And who that knows that love can ever doubt + How dear, divine, sublime a thing it is; + For while the tale of Basil Moss was one + Not blackened with those stark, satanic sins + Which call for superhuman sacrifice, + Still, from the records of the world's sad life, + This great, sweet, gladdening fact at length we've learned, + There's not a depth to which a man can fall, + No slough of crime in which such one can lie + Stoned with the scorn and curses of his kind, + But that some tender woman can be found + To love and shield him still. + + What was the fate + Of Basil Moss who, thirty years ago, + A brave, high-minded, but impetuous youth, + Left happy homesteads in the sweetest isle + That wears the sober light of Northern suns? + What happened him, the man who crossed far, fierce + Sea-circles of the hoarse Atlantic--who, + Without a friend to help him in the world, + Commenced his battle in this fair young land, + A Levite in the Temple Beautiful + Of Art, who struggled hard, but found that here + Both Bard and Painter learn, by bitter ways, + That they are aliens in the working world, + And that all Heaven's templed clouds at morn + And sunset do not weigh one loaf of bread! + + _This_ was his tale. For years he kept himself + Erect, and looked his troubles in the face + And grappled them; and, being helped at last + By one who found she loved him, who became + The patient sharer of his lot austere, + He beat them bravely back; but like the heads + Of Lerna's fabled hydra, they returned + From day to day in numbers multiplied; + And so it came to pass that Basil Moss + (Who was, though brave, no mental Hercules, + Who hid beneath a calmness forced, the keen + Heart-breaking sensibility--which is + The awful, wild, specific curse that clings + Forever to the Poet's twofold life) + Gave way at last; but not before the hand + Of sickness fell upon him--not before + The drooping form and sad averted eyes + Of hectic Hope, that figure far and faint, + Had given all his later thoughts a tongue-- + "It is too late--too late!" + + There is no need + To tell the elders of the English world + What followed this. From step to step, the man-- + Now fairly gripped by fierce Intemperance-- + Descended in the social scale; and though + He struggled hard at times to break away, + And take the old free, dauntless stand again, + He came to be as helpless as a child, + And Darkness settled on the face of things, + And Hope fell dead, and Will was paralysed. + + Yet sometimes, in the gloomy breaks between + Each fit of madness issuing from his sin, + He used to wander through familiar woods + With God's glad breezes blowing in his face, + And try to feel as he was wont to feel + In other years; but never could he find + Again his old enthusiastic sense + Of Beauty; never could he exorcize + The evil spell which seemed to shackle down + The fine, keen, subtle faculty that used + To see into the heart of loveliness; + And therefore Basil learned to shun the haunts + Where Nature holds her chiefest courts, because + They forced upon him in the saddest light + The fact of what he was, and once had been. + + So fared the drunkard for five awful years-- + The last of which, while lighting singing dells, + With many a flame of flowers, found Basil Moss + Cooped with his wife in one small wretched room; + And there, one night, the man, when ill and weak-- + A sufferer from his latest bout of sin-- + Moaned, stricken sorely with a fourfold sense + Of all the degradation he had brought + Upon himself, and on his patient wife; + And while he wrestled with his strong remorse + He looked upon a sweet but pallid face, + And cried, "My God! is this the trusting girl + I swore to love, to shield, to cherish so + But ten years back? O, what a liar I am!" + She, shivering in a thin and faded dress + Beside a handful of pale, smouldering fire, + On hearing Basil's words, moved on her chair, + And turning to him blue, beseeching eyes, + And pinched, pathetic features, faintly said-- + "O, Basil, love! now that you seem to feel + And understand how much I've suffered since + You first gave way--now that you comprehend + The bitter heart-wear, darling, that has brought + The swift, sad silver to this hair of mine + Which should have come with Age--which came with Pain, + Do make one more attempt to free yourself + From what is slowly killing both of us; + And if you do the thing I ask of you, + If you but try this _once_, we may indeed-- + We may be happy yet." + + Then Basil Moss, + Remembering in his marvellous agony + How often he had found her in the dead + Of icy nights with uncomplaining eyes, + A watcher in a cheerless room for him; + And thinking, too, that often, while he threw + His scanty earnings over reeking bars, + The darling that he really loved through all + Was left without enough to eat--then Moss, + I say, sprang to his feet with sinews set + And knotted brows, and throat that gasped for air, + And cried aloud--"My poor, poor girl, _I will_." + + And so he did; and fought this time the fight + Out to the bitter end; and with the help + Of prayers and unremitting tenderness + He gained the victory at last; but not-- + No, not before the agony and sweat + Of fierce Gethsemanes had come to him; + And not before the awful nightly trials, + When, set in mental furnaces of flame, + With eyes that ached and wooed in vain for sleep, + He had to fight the devil holding out + The cup of Lethe to his fevered lips. + But still he conquered; and the end was this, + That though he often had to face the eyes + Of that bleak Virtue which is not of Christ + (Because the gracious Lord of Love was one with Him + Who blessed the dying thief upon the cross), + He held his way with no unfaltering steps, + And gathered hope and light, and never missed + To do a thing for the sake of good. + And every day that glided through the world + Saw some fine instance of his bright reform, + And some assurance he would never fall + Into the pits and traps of hell again. + And thus it came to pass that Basil's name + Grew sweet with men; and, when he died, his end + Was calm--was evening-like, and beautiful. + + Here ends the tale of Basil Moss. To wives + Who suffer as the Painter's darling did, + I dedicate these lines; and hope they'll bear + In mind those efforts of her lovely life, + Which saved her husband's soul; and proved that while + A man who sins can entertain remorse, + He is not wholly lost. If such as they + But follow her, they may be sure of this, + That Love, that sweet authentic messenger + From God, can never fail while there is left + Within the fallen one a single pulse + Of what the angels call humanity. + + + + +Hunted Down + + + + Two years had the tiger, whose shape was that of a sinister man, + Been out since the night of escape--two years under horror and ban. + In a time full of thunder and rain, when hurricanes hackled the tree, + He slipt through the sludge of a drain, and swam a fierce fork of the sea. + Through the roar of the storm, and the ring + and the wild savage whistle of hail, + Did this naked, whipt, desperate thing + break loose from the guards of the gaol. + And breasting the foam of the bay, and facing the fangs of the bight, + With a great cruel cry on his way, he dashed through the darkness of night. + + But foiled was the terror of fin, and baffled the strength of the tide, + For a devil supported his chin and a fiend kept a watch at his side. + And hands of iniquity drest the hellish hyena, and gave + Him food in the hills of the west--in cells of indefinite cave. + Then, strengthened and weaponed, this peer + of the brute, on the track of its prey, + Sprang out, and shed sorrow and fear through the beautiful fields of the day. + And pillage and murder, and worse, swept peace from the face of the land-- + The black, bitter work of this curse with the blood on his infamous hand. + + But wolf of the hills at the end--chased back to the depths of his lair-- + Had horror for neighbour and friend--he supped in the dark with despair. + A whisper of leaf or a breath of the wind in the watch of the night + Was ever as message of death to this devil bent double with fright. + For now were the hunters abroad; and the fiend like an adder at bay, + Cast out of the sight of the Lord, in the folds of his fastnesses lay. + Yea, skulking in pits of the slime--in venomous dens of eclipse-- + He cowered and bided his time, with the white malice set on his lips. + + Two years had his shadow been cast in forest, on highway, and run; + But Nemesis tracked him at last, and swept him from under the sun. + Foul felons in chains were ashamed to speak of the bloodthirsty thing + Who lived, like a panther inflamed, the life that no singer can sing-- + Who butchered one night in the wild three women, a lad, and a maid, + And cut the sweet throat of a child--its mother's pure blood on his blade! + But over the plains and away by the range and the forested lake, + Rode hard, for a week and a day, the terrible tracker, Dick Blake. + + Dick Blake had the scent of a hound, the eye of a lynx, and could track + Where never a sign on the ground or the rock could be seen by the black. + A rascal at large, when he heard that Blake was out hard at his heels, + Felt just as the wilderness bird, in the snare fettered hopelessly, feels. + And, hence, when the wolf with the brand of Cain written thrice on his face, + Knew terrible Dick was at hand, he slunk like a snake to his place-- + To the depths of his kennel he crept, far back in the passages dim; + But Blake and his mates never slept; they hunted and listened for him. + + The mountains were many, but he who had captured big Terrigal Bill, + The slayer of Hawkins and Lee, found tracks by a conical hill. + There were three in the party--no more: Dick Blake and his brother, and one + Who came from a far-away shore, called here by the blood of his son. + Two nights and two days did they wait on the trail of the curst of all men; + But on the third morning a fate led Dick to the door of the den; + And a thunder ran up from the south and smote all the woods into sound; + And Blake, with an oath on his mouth, called out for the fiend underground. + + But the answer was blue, bitter lead, and the brother of Dick, with a cry, + Fell back, and the storm overhead set night like a seal on the sky; + And the strength of the hurricane tore asunder hill-turrets uphurled; + And a rushing of rain and a roar made wan the green widths of the world. + The flame, and the roll, and the ring, and the hiss of the thunder and hail + Set fear on the face of the Spring laid bare to the arrow of gale. + But here in the flash and the din, in the cry of the mountain and wave, + Dick Blake, through the shadow, dashed in and strangled the wolf in his cave. + + + + +Wamberal + + + + Just a shell, to which the seaweed glittering yet with greenness clings, + Like the song that once I loved so, softly of the old time sings-- + Softly of the old time speaketh--bringing ever back to me + Sights of far-off lordly forelands--glimpses of the sounding sea! + Now the cliffs are all before me--now, indeed, do I behold + Shining growths on wild wet hillheads, quiet pools of green and gold. + And, across the gleaming beaches, lo! the mighty flow and fall + Of the great ingathering waters thundering under Wamberal! + + Back there are the pondering mountains; there the dim, dumb ranges loom-- + Ghostly shapes in dead grey vapour--half-seen peaks august with gloom. + There the voice of troubled torrents, hidden in unfathomed deeps, + Known to moss and faint green sunlight, wanders down the oozy steeps. + There the lake of many runnels nestles in a windless wild + Far amongst thick-folded forests, like a radiant human child. + And beyond surf-smitten uplands--high above the highest spur-- + Lo! the clouds like tents of tempest on the crags of Kincumber! + + Wamberal, the home of echoes! Hard against a streaming strand, + Sits the hill of blind black caverns, at the limits of the land. + Here the haughty water marches--here the flights of straitened sea + Make a noise like that of trumpets, breaking wide across the lea! + But behold, in yonder crescent that a ring of island locks + Are the gold and emerald cisterns shining moonlike in the rocks! + Clear, bright cisterns, zoned by mosses, where the faint wet blossoms dwell + With the leaf of many colours--down beside the starry shell. + + Friend of mine beyond the mountains, here and here the perished days + Come like sad reproachful phantoms, in the deep grey evening haze-- + Come like ghosts, and sit beside me when the noise of day is still, + And the rain is on the window, and the wind is on the hill. + Then they linger, but they speak not, while my memory roams and roams + Over scenes by death made sacred--other lands and other homes! + Places sanctified by sorrow--sweetened by the face of yore-- + Face that you and I may look on (friend and brother) nevermore! + + Seasons come with tender solace--time lacks neither light nor rest; + But the old thoughts were such _dear_ ones, and the old days seem the best. + And to those who've loved and suffered, every pulse of wind or rain-- + Every song with sadness in it, brings the peopled Past again. + Therefore, just this shell yet dripping, with this weed of green and grey, + Sets me thinking--sets me dreaming of the places far away; + Dreaming of the golden rockpools--of the foreland and the fall; + And the home behind the mountains looming over Wamberal. + + + + +_In Memoriam_--Alice Fane Gunn Stenhouse + + -- + * Daughter of Nicol Drysdale Stenhouse. + -- + + + + The grand, authentic songs that roll + Across grey widths of wild-faced sea, + The lordly anthems of the Pole, + Are loud upon the lea. + + Yea, deep and full the South Wind sings + The mighty symphonies that make + A thunder at the mountain springs-- + A whiteness on the lake. + + And where the hermit hornet hums, + When Summer fires his wings with gold, + The hollow voice of August comes, + Across the rain and cold. + + Now on the misty mountain tops, + Where gleams the crag and glares the fell, + Wild Winter, like one hunted, stops + And shouts a fierce farewell. + + Keen fitful gusts shoot past the shore + And hiss by moor and moody mere-- + The heralds bleak that come before + The turning of the year. + + A sobbing spirit wanders where + By fits and starts the wild-fire shines; + Like one who walks in deep despair, + With Death amongst the pines. + + And ah! the fine, majestic grief + Which fills the heart of forests lone, + And makes a lute of limb and leaf + Is human in its tone. + + Too human for the thought to slip-- + How every song that sorrow sings + Betrays the broad relationship + Of all created things. + + Man's mournful speech, the wail of tree, + The words the winds and waters say, + Make up that general elegy, + Whose burden is decay. + + To-night my soul looks back and sees, + Across wind-broken wastes of wave, + A widow on her bended knees + Beside a new-made grave. + + A sufferer with a touching face + By love and grief made beautiful; + Whose rapt religion lights the place + Where death holds awful rule. + + The fair, tired soul whose twofold grief + For child and father lends a tone + Of pathos to the pallid leaf + That sighs above the stone. + + The large beloved heart whereon + She used to lean, lies still and cold, + Where, like a seraph, shines the sun + On flowerful green and gold. + + I knew him well--the grand, the sweet, + Pure nature past all human praise; + The dear Gamaliel at whose feet + I sat in other days. + + He, glorified by god-like lore, + First showed my soul Life's highest aim; + When, like one winged, I breathed--before + The years of sin and shame. + + God called him Home. And, in the calm + Beyond our best possessions priced, + He passed, as floats a faultless psalm, + To his fair Father, Christ. + + But left as solace for the hours + Of sorrow and the loss thereof; + A sister of the birds and flowers, + The daughter of his love. + + She, like a stray sweet seraph, shed + A healing spirit, that flamed and flowed + As if about her bright young head + A crown of saintship glowed. + + Suppressing, with sublime self-slight, + The awful face of that distress + Which fell upon her youth like blight, + She shone like happiness. + + And, in the home so sanctified + By death in its most noble guise, + She kissed the lips of love, and dried + The tears in sorrow's eyes. + + And helped the widowed heart to lean, + So broken up with human cares, + On one who must be felt and seen + By such pure souls as hers. + + Moreover, having lived, and learned + The taste of Life's most bitter spring, + For all the sick this sister yearned-- + The poor and suffering. + + But though she had for every one + The phrase of comfort and the smile, + This shining daughter of the sun + Was dying all the while. + + Yet self-withdrawn--held out of reach + Was grief; except when music blent + Its deep, divine, prophetic speech + With voice and instrument. + + Then sometimes would escape a cry + From that dark other life of hers-- + The half of her humanity-- + And sob through sound and verse. + + At last there came the holy touch, + With psalms from higher homes and hours; + And she who loved the flowers so much + Now sleeps amongst the flowers. + + By hearse-like yews and grey-haired moss, + Where wails the wind in starts and fits, + Twice bowed and broken down with loss, + The wife, the mother sits. + + God help her soul! She cannot see, + For very trouble, anything + Beyond this wild Gethsemane + Of swift, black suffering; + + Except it be that faltering faith + Which leads the lips of life to say: + "There must be something past this death-- + Lord, teach me how to pray!" + + Ah, teach her, Lord! And shed through grief + The clear full light, the undefiled, + The blessing of the bright belief + Which sanctified her child. + + Let me, a son of sin and doubt, + Whose feet are set in ways amiss-- + Who cannot read Thy riddle out, + Just plead, and ask Thee this; + + Give her the eyes to see the things-- + The Life and Love I cannot see; + And lift her with the helping wings + Thou hast denied to me. + + Yea, shining from the highest blue + On those that sing by Beulah's streams, + Shake on her thirsty soul the dew + Which brings immortal dreams. + + So that her heart may find the great, + Pure faith for which it looks so long; + And learn the noble way to wait, + To suffer, and be strong. + + + + +From the Forests + + -- + * Introductory verses for "The Sydney University Review", 1881. + -- + + + + Where in a green, moist, myrtle dell + The torrent voice rings strong + And clear, above a star-bright well, + I write this woodland song. + + The melodies of many leaves + Float in a fragrant zone; + And here are flowers by deep-mossed eaves + That day has never known. + + I'll weave a garland out of these, + The darlings of the birds, + And send it over singing seas + With certain sunny words-- + + With certain words alive with light + Of welcome for a thing + Of promise, born beneath the white, + Soft afternoon of Spring. + + The faithful few have waited long + A life like this to see; + And they will understand the song + That flows to-day from me. + + May every page within this book + Be as a radiant hour; + Or like a bank of mountain brook, + All flower and leaf and flower. + + May all the strength and all the grace + Of Letters make it beam + As beams a lawn whose lovely face + Is as a glorious dream. + + And may that strange divinity + That men call Genius write + Some deathless thing in days to be, + To fill those days with light. + + Here where the free, frank waters run, + I pray this book may grow + A sacred candour like the sun + Above the morning snow. + + May noble thoughts in faultless words-- + In clean white diction--make + It shine as shines the home of birds + And moss and leaf and lake. + + This fair fresh life with joy I hail, + And this belief express, + Its days will be a brilliant tale + Of effort and success. + + Here ends my song; I have a dream + Of beauty like the grace + Which lies upon the land of stream + In yonder mountain place. + + + + +John Bede Polding + + -- + * Roman Catholic Archbishop of Sydney + -- + + + + With reverent eyes and bowed, uncovered head, + A son of sorrow kneels by fanes you knew; + But cannot say the words that should be said + To crowned and winged divinities like you. + + The perfect speech of superhuman spheres + Man has not heard since He of Nazareth, + Slain for the sins of twice two thousand years, + Saw Godship gleaming through the gates of Death. + + And therefore he who in these latter days + Has lost a Father--falling by the shrine, + Can only use the world's ephemeral phrase, + Not, Lord, the faultless language that is Thine. + + But he, Thy son upon whose shoulders shone + So long Elisha's gleaming garments, may + Be pleased to hear a pleading human tone + To sift the spirit of the words I say. + + O, Master, since the gentle Stenhouse died + And left the void that none can ever fill, + One harp at least has sorrow thrown aside, + Its strings all broken, and its notes all still. + + Some lofty lord of music yet may find + Its pulse of passion. I can never touch + The chords again--my life has been too blind; + I've sinned too long and suffered far too much. + + But you will listen to the voice, although + The harp is silent--you who glorified + Your great, sad gift of life, because you know + How souls are tempted and how hearts are tried. + + O marvellous follower in the steps of Christ, + How pure your spirit must have been to see + That light beyond our best expression priced + The effluence of benignant Deity. + + You saw it, Father? Let me think you did + Because I, groping in the mists of Doubt, + Am sometimes fearful that God's face is hid + From all--that none can read His riddle out! + + A hope from lives like yours must everywhere + Become like faith--that blessing undefiled, + The refuge of the grey philosopher-- + The consolation of the simple child. + + Here in a land of many sects, where God + As shaped by man in countless forms appears, + Few comprehend how carefully you trod + Without a slip for two and forty years. + + How wonderful the self-repression must + Have been, that made you to the lovely close + The Christian crowned with universal trust, + The foe-less Father in a land of foes. + + How patiently--with how divine a strength + Of tolerance you must have watched the frays + Of fighting churches--warring through the length + Of your bright, beautiful, unruffled days! + + Because men strove you did not love them less; + You felt for each--for everyone and all-- + With that same apostolic tenderness + Which Samuel felt when yearning over Saul. + + A crowned hierophant--a high Chief-Priest + On flame with robes of light, you used to be; + But yet you were as humble as the least + Of those who followed Him of Galilee. + + 'Mid splendid forms of faith which flower and fill + God's oldest Church with gleams ineffable + You stand, Our Lord's serene disciple still, + In all the blaze which on your pallium fell. + + The pomp of altars, chasubles, and fires + Of incense, moved you not; nor yet the dome + Of haughty beauty--follower of the Sires-- + Who made a holiness of elder Rome. + + A lord of scholarship whose knowledge ran + Through every groove of human history, you + Were this and more--a Christian gentleman; + A fount of learning with a heart like dew. + + O Father! I who at your feet have knelt, + On wings of singing fall, and fail to sing, + Remembering the immense compassion felt + By you for every form of suffering. + + As dies a gentle April in a sky + Of faultless beauty--after many days + Of loveliness and grand tranquillity-- + So passed your presence from our human gaze. + + But though your stately face is as the dust + That windy hills to wintering hollows give, + Your memory like a deity august + Is with us still, to teach us how to live. + + Ah! may it teach us--may the lives that are + Take colour from the life that was; and may + Those souls be helped that in the dark so far + Have strayed, and have forgotten how to pray! + + Let one of these at least retain the hope + That fine examples, like a blessed dew + Of summer falling in a fruitful scope, + Give birth to issues beautiful and true. + + Such hope, O Master, is a light indeed + To him that knows how hard it is to save + The spirit resting on no certain creed + Who kneels to plant this blossom on your grave. + + + + +Outre Mer + + + + I see, as one in dreaming, + A broad, bright, quiet sea; + Beyond it lies a haven-- + The only home for me. + Some men grow strong with trouble, + But all my strength is past, + And tired and full of sorrow, + I long to sleep at last. + By force of chance and changes + Man's life is hard at best; + And, seeing rest is voiceless, + The dearest thing is rest. + + Beyond the sea--behold it, + The home I wish to seek + The refuge of the weary, + The solace of the weak! + Sweet angel fingers beckon, + Sweet angel voices ask + My soul to cross the waters; + And yet I dread the task. + God help the man whose trials + Are tares that he must reap; + He cannot face the future-- + His only hope is sleep. + + Across the main a vision + Of sunset coasts and skies, + And widths of waters gleaming, + Enchant my human eyes. + I, who have sinned and suffered, + Have sought--with tears have sought-- + To rule my life with goodness, + And shape it to my thought; + And yet there is no refuge + To shield me from distress, + Except the realm of slumber + And great forgetfulness. + + +[End of Other Poems, 1871-82.] + + + + + +Note on corrections made: Less than a dozen errors were corrected, +mostly punctuation, and one incorrect letter. However, one correction +is in question. On p. 339 of this 1920 edition, or in this etext, +the 1st line of the 9th stanza of "On a Street", the copy reads: + + I tell you, this not a tale + +which is neither grammatically nor rhythmically correct, +for the poem in question. It has been corrected as: + + I tell you, this is not a tale + +which is probably correct. As this is the most serious error +noticed in the text, I trust the reader will find the whole +to be satisfactory.--A. L. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Poems of Henry Kendall, by Henry Kendall + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF HENRY KENDALL *** + +***** This file should be named 962.txt or 962.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/6/962/ + +Produced by Alan R. 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