You that sit and sob beside me — you, upon whose golden headMany rains of many sorrows have from day to day been shed;Who, because your love was noble, faced with me the lot austereEver 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.
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 tuneOf 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 birdsAre singing in the sunny rain,I think I hear its words.
I think I hear the echo stillOf long-forgotten tones,When evening winds are on the hillAnd 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 revealHer gracious green and gold;I sit where youth was once, and feelThat I am growing old.The lustre from the face of thingsIs wearing all away;Like one who halts with tired wings,I rest and muse to-day.
There is a river in the rangeI love to think about;Perhaps the searching feet of changeHave never found it out.Ah! oftentimes I used to lookUpon its banks, and longTo steal the beauty of that brookAnd 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 placeThose old familiar thingsTo which I turn a wistful faceHave never taken wings.Let me retain the fancy stillThat, past the lordly range,There always shines, in folds of hill,One spot secure from change!
I trust that yet the tender screenThat shades a certain nookRemains, with all its gold and green,The glory of the brook.It hides a secret to the birdsAnd waters only known:The letters of two lovely words —A poem on a stone.
Perhaps the lady of the pastUpon 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 nameHas been for years asleep.
But in the night, and when the rainThe troubled torrent fills,I often think I see againThe river in the hills;And when the day is very near,And birds are on the wing,My spirit fancies it can hearThe song I cannot sing.
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 runsPast 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, dazedBy 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 kneeIn the sight of Eden floating — floating on the sapphire sea!
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 changesMan'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 askMy soul to cross the waters;And yet I dread the task.God help the man whose trialsAre tares that he must reap!He cannot face the future —His only hope is sleep.
Across the main a visionOf 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 refugeTo shield me from distress,Except the realm of slumberAnd great forgetfulness.
Marcus Clarke.
The Song of Tigilau
The song of Tigilau the brave,Sina's wild lover,Who across the heaving waveFrom Samoa came over:Came over, Sina, at the setting moon!
The moon shines round and bright;She, with her dark-eyed maidens at her side,Watches the rising tide.While balmy breathes the starry southern night,While languid heaves the lazy southern tide;The rising tide, O Sina, and the setting moon!
The night is past, is past and gone,The moon sinks to the West,The sea-heart beats opprest,And Sina's passionate breastHeaves like the sea, when the pale moon has gone,Heaves like the passionate sea, Sina, left by the moon alone!
Silver on silver sands, the rippling waters meet —Will he come soon?The rippling waters kiss her delicate feet,The rippling waters, lisping low and sweet,Ripple with the tide,The rising tide,The rising tide, O Sina, and the setting moon!
He comes! — her lover!Tigilau, the son of Tui Viti.Her maidens round her hover,The rising waves her white feet cover.O Tigilau, son of Tui Viti,Through the mellow dusk thy proas glide,So soon!So soon by the rising tide,The rising tide, my Sina, and the setting moon!
The mooring-poles are left,The whitening waves are cleft,By the prows of Tui Viti!By the sharp keels of Tui Viti!Broad is the sea, and deep,The yellow Samoans sleep,But they will wake and weep —Weep in their luxurious odorous vales,While the land breeze swells the sailsOf Tui Viti!Tui Viti — far upon the rising tide,The rising tide —The rising tide, my Sina, beneath the setting moon!
She leaps to meet him!Her mouth to greet himBurns at his own.Away! To the canoes,To the yoked war canoes!The sea in murmurous toneWhispers the story of their loves,Re-echoes the story of their loves —The story of Tui Viti,Of Sina and Tui Viti,By the rising tide,The rising tide, Sina, beneath the setting moon!
She has gone!She has fled!Sina!Sina, for whom the warriors decked their shining hair,Wreathing with pearls their bosoms brown and bare,Flinging beneath her dainty feetMats crimson with the feathers of the parrakeet.Ho, Samoans! rouse your warriors full soon,For Sina is across the rippling wave,With Tigilau, the bold and brave.Far, far upon the rising tide!Far upon the rising tide!Far upon the rising tide, Sina, beneath the setting moon.
Patrick Moloney.
Melbourne
O sweet Queen-city of the golden South,Piercing the evening with thy star-lit spires,Thou wert a witness when I kissed the mouthOf her whose eyes outblazed the skyey fires.I saw the parallels of thy long streets,With lamps like angels shining all a-row,While overhead the empyrean seatsOf gods were steeped in paradisic glow.The Pleiades with rarer fires were tipt,Hesper sat throned upon his jewelled chair,The belted giant's triple stars were diptIn all the splendour of Olympian air,On high to bless, the Southern Cross did shine,Like that which blazed o'er conquering Constantine.
Alfred Domett.
An Invitation
Well! if Truth be all welcomed with hardy reliance,All the lovely unfoldings of luminous Science,All that Logic can prove or disprove be avowed:Is there room for no faith — though such Evil intrude —In the dominance still of a Spirit of Good?Is there room for no hope — such a handbreadth we scan —In the permanence yet of the Spirit of Man? —May we bless the far seeker, nor blame the fine dreamer?Leave Reason her radiance — Doubt her due cloud;Nor their Rainbows enshroud? —
From our Life of realities — hard — shallow-hearted,Has Romance — has all glory idyllic departed —From the workaday World all the wonderment flown?Well, but what if there gleamed, in an Age cold as this,The divinest of Poets' ideal of bliss?Yea, an Eden could lurk in this Empire of ours,With the loneliest love in the loveliest bowers? —In an era so rapid with railway and steamer,And with Pan and the Dryads like Raphael gone —What if this could be shown?
O my friends, never deaf to the charms of Denial,Were its comfortless comforting worth a life-trial —Discontented content with a chilling despair? —Better ask as we float down a song-flood unchecked,If our Sky with no Iris be glory-bedecked?Through the gloom of eclipse as we wistfully stealIf no darkling aureolar rays may revealThat the Future is haply not utterly cheerless:While the Present has joy and adventure as rareAs the Past when most fair?
And if weary of mists you will roam undisdainingTo a land where the fanciful fountains are rainingSwift brilliants of boiling and beautiful sprayIn the violet splendour of skies that illumeSuch a wealth of green ferns and rare crimson tree-bloom;Where a people primeval is vanishing fast,With its faiths and its fables and ways of the past:O with reason and fancy unfettered and fearless,Come plunge with us deep into regions of Day —Come away — and away! —
A Maori Girl's Song
"Alas, and well-a-day! they are talking of me still:By the tingling of my nostril, I fear they are talking ill;Poor hapless I — poor little I — so many mouths to fill —And all for this strange feeling — O, this sad, sweet pain!
"O! senseless heart — O simple! to yearn so, and to pineFor one so far above me, confest o'er all to shine,For one a hundred dote upon, who never can be mine!O, 'tis a foolish feeling — all this fond, sweet pain!
"When I was quite a child — not so many moons ago —A happy little maiden — O, then it was not so;Like a sunny-dancing wavelet then I sparkled to and fro;And I never had this feeling — O, this sad, sweet pain!
"I think it must be owing to the idle life I leadIn the dreamy house for ever that this new bosom-weedHas sprouted up and spread its shoots till it troubles me indeedWith a restless, weary feeling — such a sad, sweet pain!
"So in this pleasant islet, O, no longer will I stay —And the shadowy summer dwelling I will leave this very day;On Arapa I'll launch my skiff, and soon be borne awayFrom all that feeds this feeling — O, this fond, sweet pain!
"I'll go and see dear Rima — she'll welcome me, I know,And a flaxen cloak — her gayest — o'er my weary shoulders throw,With purfle red and points so free — O, quite a lovely show —To charm away this feeling — O, this sad, sweet pain!
"Two feathers I will borrow, and so gracefully I'll wearTwo feathers soft and snowy, for my long, black, lustrous hair.Of the albatross's down they'll be — O, how charming they'll look there —All to chase away this feeling — O, this fond, sweet pain!
"Then the lads will flock around me with flattering talk all day —And, with anxious little pinches, sly hints of love convey;And I shall blush with happy pride to hear them, I daresay,And quite forget this feeling — O, this sad, sweet pain!"
James Brunton Stephens.
The Dominion of Australia
(A Forecast, 1877)
She is not yet; but he whose earThrills to that finer atmosphereWhere footfalls of appointed things,Reverberant of days to be,Are heard in forecast echoings,Like wave-beats from a viewless sea —Hears in the voiceful tremors of the skyAuroral heralds whispering, "She is nigh."
She is not yet; but he whose sightForeknows the advent of the light,Whose soul to morning radiance turnsEre night her curtain hath withdrawn,And in its quivering folds discernsThe mute monitions of the dawn,With urgent sense strained onward to descryHer distant tokens, starts to find Her nigh.
Not yet her day. How long "not yet"? . . .There comes the flush of violet!And heavenward faces, all aflameWith sanguine imminence of morn,Wait but the sun-kiss to proclaimThe Day of The Dominion born.Prelusive baptism! — ere the natal hourNamed with the name and prophecy of power.
Already here to hearts intense,A spirit-force, transcending sense,In heights unscaled, in deeps unstirred,Beneath the calm, above the storm,She waits the incorporating wordTo bid her tremble into form.Already, like divining-rods, men's soulsBend down to where the unseen river rolls; —
For even as, from sight concealed,By never flush of dawn revealed,Nor e'er illumed by golden noon,Nor sunset-streaked with crimson bar,Nor silver-spanned by wake of moon,Nor visited of any star,Beneath these lands a river waits to bless(So men divine) our utmost wilderness, —
Rolls dark, but yet shall know our skies,Soon as the wisdom of the wiseConspires with nature to discloseThe blessing prisoned and unseen,Till round our lessening wastes there glowsA perfect zone of broadening green, —Till all our land, Australia Felix called,Become one Continent-Isle of Emerald;
So flows beneath our good and illA viewless stream of Common Will,A gathering force, a present might,That from its silent depths of gloomAt Wisdom's voice shall leap to light,And hide our barren feuds in bloom,Till, all our sundering lines with love o'ergrown,Our bounds shall be the girdling seas alone.
The Dark Companion
There is an orb that mocked the lore of sagesLong time with mystery of strange unrest;The steadfast law that rounds the starry agesGave doubtful token of supreme behest.
But they who knew the ways of God unchanging,Concluded some far influence unseen —Some kindred sphere through viewless ethers ranging,Whose strong persuasions spanned the void between.
And knowing it alone through perturbationAnd vague disquiet of another star,They named it, till the day of revelation,"The Dark Companion" — darkly guessed afar.
But when, through new perfection of appliance,Faith merged at length in undisputed sight,The mystic mover was revealed to science,No Dark Companion, but — a speck of light.
No Dark Companion, but a sun of glory;No fell disturber, but a bright compeer;The shining complement that crowned the story;The golden link that made the meaning clear.
Oh, Dark Companion, journeying ever by us,Oh, grim Perturber of our works and ways —Oh, potent Dread, unseen, yet ever nigh us,Disquieting all the tenor of our days —
Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose wide embracesO'ertake remotest change of clime and skies —Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose grievous tracesAre scattered shreds of riven enterprise —
Thou, too, in this wise, when, our eyes unsealing,The clearer day shall change our faith to sight,Shalt show thyself, in that supreme revealing,No Dark Companion, but a thing of light.
No ruthless wrecker of harmonious order;No alien heart of discord and caprice;A beckoning light upon the Blissful Border;A kindred element of law and peace.
So, too, our strange unrest in this our dwelling,The trembling that thou joinest with our mirth,Are but thy magnet-communings compellingOur spirits farther from the scope of earth.
So, doubtless, when beneath thy potence swerving,'Tis that thou lead'st us by a path unknown,Our seeming deviations all subservingThe perfect orbit round the central throne.
. . . . .
The night wind moans. The Austral wilds are round me.The loved who live — ah, God! how few they are!I looked above; and heaven in mercy found meThis parable of comfort in a star.
Day
Linger, oh Sun, for a little, nor close yet this day of a million!Is there not glory enough in the rose-curtained halls of the West?Hast thou no joy in the passion-hued folds of thy kingly pavilion?Why shouldst thou only pass through it? Oh rest thee a little while, rest!
Why should the Night come and take it, the wan Night that cannot enjoy it,Bringing pale argent for golden, and changing vermilion to grey?Why should the Night come and shadow it, entering but to destroy it?Rest 'mid thy ruby-trailed splendours! Oh stay thee a little while, stay!
Rest thee at least a brief hour in it! 'Tis a right royal pavilion.Lo, there are thrones for high dalliance all gloriously canopied o'er!Lo, there are hangings of purple, and hangings of blue and vermilion,And there are fleeces of gold for thy feet on the diapered floor!
Linger, a little while linger. To-morrow my heart may not sing to thee:This shall be Yesterday, numbered with memories, folded away.Now should my flesh-fettered soul be set free! I would soar to thee,cling to thee,And be thy rere-ward Aurora, pursuing the skirts of To-day!
Night
Hark how the tremulous night-wind is passing in joy-laden sighs;Soft through my window it comes, like the fanning of pinions angelic,Whispering to cease from myself, and look out on the infinite skies.
Out on the orb-studded night, and the crescent effulgence of Dian;Out on the far-gleaming star-dust that marks where the angels have trod;Out on the gem-pointed Cross, and the glittering pomp of Orion,Flaming in measureless azure, the coronal jewels of God;
Luminous streams of delight in the silent immensity flowing,Journeying surgelessly on through impalpable ethers of peace.How can I think of myself when infinitude o'er me is glowing,Glowing with tokens of love from the land where my sorrows shall cease?
Oh, summer-night of the South! Oh, sweet languor of zephyrs love-sighing!Oh, mighty circuit of shadowy solitude, holy and still!Music scarce audible, echo-less harmony joyously dying,Dying in faint suspirations o'er meadow, and forest, and hill!
I must go forth and be part of it, part of the night and its gladness.But a few steps, and I pause on the marge of the shining lagoon.Here then, at length, I have rest; and I lay down my burden of sadness,Kneeling alone 'neath the stars and the silvery arc of the moon.
Thomas Bracken.
Not Understood
Not understood, we move along asunder;Our paths grow wider as the seasons creepAlong the years; we marvel and we wonderWhy life is life, and then we fall asleepNot understood.
Not understood, we gather false impressionsAnd hug them closer as the years go by;Till virtues often seem to us transgressions;And thus men rise and fall, and live and dieNot understood.
Not understood! Poor souls with stunted visionOft measure giants with their narrow gauge;The poisoned shafts of falsehood and derisionAre oft impelled 'gainst those who mould the age,Not understood.
Not understood! The secret springs of actionWhich lie beneath the surface and the show,Are disregarded; with self-satisfactionWe judge our neighbours, and they often goNot understood.
Not understood! How trifles often change us!The thoughtless sentence and the fancied slightDestroy long years of friendship, and estrange us,And on our souls there falls a freezing blight;Not understood.
Not understood! How many breasts are achingFor lack of sympathy! Ah! day by dayHow many cheerless, lonely hearts are breaking!How many noble spirits pass away,Not understood.
O God! that men would see a little clearer,Or judge less harshly where they cannot see!O God! that men would draw a little nearerTo one another, — they'd be nearer Thee,And understood.
Spirit of Song
Where is thy dwelling-place? Echo of sweetness,Seraph of tenderness, where is thy home?Angel of happiness, herald of fleetness,Thou hast the key of the star-blazon'd dome.Where lays that never endUp to God's throne ascend,And our fond heart-wishes lovingly throng,Soaring with thee above,Bearer of truth and love,Teacher of heaven's tongue — Spirit of Song!
Euphony, born in the realms of the tearless,Mingling thy notes with the voices of Earth;Wanting thee, all would be dreary and cheerless,Weaver of harmony, giver of mirth.Comfort of child and sage,With us in youth and age,Soothing the weak and inspiring the strong,Illuming the blackest night,Making the day more bright,Oh! thou art dear to us, Spirit of Song!
Oft in the springtime, sweet words of affectionAre whispered by thee in thy tenderest tone,And in the winter dark clouds of dejectionBy thee are dispelled till all sorrow has flown.Thou'rt with the zephyrs low,And with the brooklet's flow,And with the feathered choir all the year long;Happy each child of thine,Blest with thy gifts divine,Charming our senses, sweet Spirit of Song!
Ada Cambridge.
What of the Night?
To you, who look below,Where little candles glow —Who listen in a narrow street,Confused with noise of passing feet —
To you 'tis wild and dark;No light, no guide, no ark,For travellers lost on moor and lea,And ship-wrecked mariners at sea.
But they who stand apart,With hushed but wakeful heart —They hear the lulling of the gale,And see the dawn-rise faint and pale.
A dawn whereto they gropeIn trembling faith and hope,If haply, brightening, it may castA gleam on path and goal at last.
Good-bye
Good-bye! — 'tis like a churchyard bell — good-bye!Poor weeping eyes! Poor head, bowed down with woe!Kiss me again, dear love, before you go.Ah, me, how fast the precious moments fly!Good-bye! Good-bye!
We are like mourners when they stand and cryAt open grave in wintry wind and rain.Yes, it is death. But you shall rise again —Your sun return to this benighted sky.Good-bye! Good-bye!
The great physician, Time, shall pacifyThis parting anguish with another friend.Your heart is broken now, but it will mend.Though it is death, yet still you will not die.Good-bye! Good-bye!
Dear heart! dear eyes! dear tongue, that cannot lie!Your love is true, your grief is deep and sore;But love will pass — then you will grieve no more.New love will come. Your tears will soon be dry.Good-bye! Good-bye!
The Virgin Martyr
Every wild she-bird has nest and mate in the warm April weather,But a captive woman, made for love — no mate, no nest has she.In the spring of young desire, young men and maids are wed together,And the happy mothers flaunt their bliss for all the world to see:Nature's sacramental feast for these — an empty board for me.
I, a young maid once, an old maid now, deposed, despised, forgotten —I, like them have thrilled with passion and have dreamed of nuptial rest,Of the trembling life within me of my children unbegotten,Of a breathing new-born body to my yearning bosom prest,Of the rapture of a little soft mouth drinking at my breast.
Time, that heals so many sorrows, keeps mine ever freshly aching;Though my face is growing furrowed and my brown hair turning white,Still I mourn my irremediable loss, asleep or waking —Still I hear my son's voice calling "mother" in the dead of night,And am haunted by my girl's eyes that will never see the light.
O my children that I might have had! my children, lost for ever!O the goodly years that might have been — now desolate and bare!O malignant God or Fate, what have I done that I should neverTake my birthright like the others, take the crown that women wear,And possess the common heritage to which all flesh is heir?
Honour
Me let the world disparage and despise —As one unfettered with its gilded chains,As one untempted by its sordid gains,Its pleasant vice, its profitable lies;Let Justice, blind and halt and maimed, chastiseThe rebel spirit surging in my veins,Let the Law deal me penalties and painsAnd make me hideous in my neighbours' eyes.
But let me fall not in mine own esteem,By poor deceit or selfish greed debased.Let me be clean from secret stain and shame,Know myself true, though false as hell I seem —Know myself worthy, howsoe'er disgraced —Know myself right, though every tongue should blame.
Despair
Alone! Alone! No beacon, far or near!No chart, no compass, and no anchor stay!Like melting fog the mirage melts awayIn all-surrounding darkness, void and clear.Drifting, I spread vain hands, and vainly peerAnd vainly call for pilot, — weep and pray;Beyond these limits not the faintest rayShows distant coast whereto the lost may steer.
O what is life, if we must hold it thusAs wind-blown sparks hold momentary fire?What are these gifts without the larger boon?O what is art, or wealth, or fame to usWho scarce have time to know what we desire?O what is love, if we must part so soon?
Faith
And is the great cause lost beyond recall?Have all the hopes of ages come to naught?Is life no more with noble meaning fraught?Is life but death, and love its funeral pall?Maybe. And still on bended knees I fall,Filled with a faith no preacher ever taught.O God — MY God — by no false prophet wrought —I believe still, in despite of it all!
Let go the myths and creeds of groping men.This clay knows naught — the Potter understands.I own that Power divine beyond my ken,And still can leave me in His shaping hands.But, O my God, that madest me to feel,Forgive the anguish of the turning wheel!
Alexander Bathgate.
The Clematis
Fair crown of stars of purest ray,Hung aloft on Mapau tree,What floral beauties ye display,Stars of snowy purity;Around the dark-leaved mapau's headUnsullied garlands ye have spread.
Concealed were all thy beauties rare'Neath the dark umbrageous shade,But still to gain the loftiest spray,Thy weak stem its efforts made;Now, every obstacle o'ercome,Thou smilest from thy leafy home.
That home secure, 'mid sombre leavesYielded by thy stalwart spouse,Helps thee to show thy fairy crown,Decorates his dusky boughs:His strength, thy beauty, both uniteAnd form a picture to delight.
Fair flower, methinks thou dost affordEmblem of a perfect wife,Whose work is hidden from the world,Till, perchance, her husband's lifeIs by her influence beautified,And this by others is descried.
Philip Joseph Holdsworth.
Quis Separabit?
All my life's short years had been stern and sterile —I stood like one whom the blasts blow back —As with shipmen whirled through the straits of Peril,So fierce foes menaced my every track.
But I steeled my soul to a strong endeavour,I bared my brow as the sharp strokes fell,And I said to my heart — "Hope on! Hope ever:Have Courage — Courage, and all is well."
Then, bright as the blood in my heart's rich chalice,O Blossom, Blossom! — you came from far;And life rang joy, till the World's loud maliceShrilled to the edge of our utmost star.
And I said: "On me let the rough storms hurtle,The great clouds gather and shroud my sun —But you shall be Queen where the rose and myrtleLaugh with the year till the year is done."
So my Dream fell dead; and the fluctuant passion —The stress and strain of the past re-grew,The world laughed on in its heedless fashion,But Earth whirled worthless, because of you!
In that Lake of Tears which my grief discovered,I laid dead Love with a passionate kiss,And over those soundless depths has hoveredThe sweet, sad wraith of my vanished bliss.
Heart clings to Heart — let the strange years severThe fates of two who had met — to part;Love's strength survives, and the harsh world neverShall crush the passion of heart for heart;
For I know my life, though it droop and dwindle,Shall leave me Love till I fade and die,And when hereafter our Souls re-kindle,Who shall be fonder — You or I?
My Queen of Dreams
In the warm flushed heart of the rose-red west,When the great sun quivered and died to-day,You pulsed, O star, by yon pine-clad crest —And throbbed till the bright eve ashened grey —Then I saw you swimBy the shadowy rimWhere the grey gum dips to the western plain,And you rayed delightAs you winged your flightTo the mystic spheres where your kinsmen reign.
O star, did you see her? My queen of dreams!Was it you that glimmered the night we strayedA month ago by these scented streams?Half-checked by the litter the musk-buds made?Did you sleep or wake?Ah, for Love's sweet sake(Though the world should fail and the soft stars wane!)I shall dream delightTill our souls take flightTo the mystic spheres where your kinsmen reign!
Mary Hannay Foott.
Where the Pelican Builds
The horses were ready, the rails were down,But the riders lingered still —One had a parting word to say,And one had his pipe to fill.Then they mounted, one with a granted prayer,And one with a grief unguessed."We are going," they said, as they rode away —"Where the pelican builds her nest!"
They had told us of pastures wide and green,To be sought past the sunset's glow;Of rifts in the ranges by opal lit;And gold 'neath the river's flow.And thirst and hunger were banished wordsWhen they spoke of that unknown West;No drought they dreaded, no flood they feared,Where the pelican builds her nest!
The creek at the ford was but fetlock deepWhen we watched them crossing there;The rains have replenished it thrice since then,And thrice has the rock lain bare.But the waters of Hope have flowed and fled,And never from blue hill's breastCome back — by the sun and the sands devoured —Where the pelican builds her nest.
New Country
Conde had come with us all the way —Eight hundred miles — but the fortnight's restMade him fresh as a youngster, the sturdy bay!And Lurline was looking her very best.
Weary and footsore, the cattle strayed'Mid the silvery saltbush well content;Where the creeks lay cool 'neath the gidya's shadeThe stock-horses clustered, travel-spent.
In the bright spring morning we left them all —Camp, and cattle, and white, and black —And rode for the Range's westward fall,Where the dingo's trail was the only track.
Slow through the clay-pans, wet to the knee,With the cane-grass rustling overhead;Swift o'er the plains with never a tree;Up the cliffs by a torrent's bed.
Bridle on arm for a mile or moreWe toiled, ere we reached Bindanna's vergeAnd saw — as one sees a far-off shore —The blue hills bounding the forest surge.
An ocean of trees, by the west wind stirred,Rolled, ever rolled, to the great cliff's base;And its sound like the noise of waves was heard'Mid the rocks and the caves of that lonely place.
. . . . .
We recked not of wealth in stream or soilAs we heard on the heights the breezes sing;We felt no longer our travel-toil;We feared no more what the years might bring.
No Message
She heard the story of the end,Each message, too, she heard;And there was one for every friend;For her alone — no word.
And shall she bear a heavier heart,And deem his love was fled;Because his soul from earth could partLeaving her name unsaid?
No — No! — Though neither sign nor soundA parting thought expressed —Not heedless passed the Homeward-BoundOf her he loved the best.
Of voyage-perils, bravely borne,He would not tell the tale;Of shattered planks and canvas torn,And war with wind and gale.
He waited till the light-house starShould rise against the sky;And from the mainland, looming far,The forest scents blow by.
He hoped to tell — assurance sweet! —That pain and grief were o'er —What blessings haste the soul to meet,Ere yet within the door.
Then one farewell he thought to speakWhen all the rest were past —As in the parting-hour we seekThe dearest hand the last.
And while for this delaying butTo see Heaven's opening Gate —Lo, it received him — and was shut —Ere he could say "I wait."
Happy Days
A fringe of rushes — one green lineUpon a faded plain;A silver streak of water-shine —Above, tree-watchers twain.It was our resting-place awhile,And still, with backward gaze,We say: "'Tis many a weary mile —But there were happy days."
And shall no ripple break the sandUpon our farther way?Or reedy ranks all knee-deep stand?Or leafy tree-tops sway?The gold of dawn is surely metIn sunset's lavish blaze;And — in horizons hidden yet —There shall be happy days.
Henry Lea Twisleton.
To a Cabbage Rose
Thy clustering leaves are steeped in splendour;No evening red, no morning dun,Can show a hue as rich and tenderAs thine — bright lover of the sun!
What wondrous hints of hidden glory,Of strains no human lips can sing;What symbols rare of life's strange story,Dost thou from earth's dark bosom bring!
What elements have made thy sweetness,Thy glowing hue, thy emerald stem?What hand has fashioned to completenessFrom tiny germ, thy diadem?
Thou art the fair earth's fond expressionOf tenderness for heaven above —The virgin blush that yields confession —Thou bright "ambassador of love"!
Fair are thy leaves when summer glowingLies in the lap of swooning spring;But where art thou when autumn, blowing,Bids youth and tenderness take wing?
Sweet messenger! thou waftest beautyWherever human lives are sown,Around the peasant's humble dutyOr weary grandeurs of a throne.
Transfused through hearts in future ages,Thy glowing power anew may shineEffulgent in the poets' pagesOr music's harmony divine.
But not to thee from future gloryCan shine one added charm or day;Sweet is thy life's unwritten storyOf radiant bloom and swift decay.
Give, then, to vagrant winds thy sweetness,Shine, tearful, in the summer shower;And, heedless of thy season's fleetness,Enrich with joy the passing hour.
Mrs. James Glenny Wilson.
Fairyland
Do you remember that careless band,Riding o'er meadow and wet sea-sand,One autumn day, in a mist of sunshine,Joyously seeking for fairyland?
The wind in the tree-tops was scarcely heard,The streamlet repeated its one silver word,And far away, o'er the depths of wood-land,Floated the bell of the parson-bird.
Pale hoar-frost glittered in shady slips,Where ferns were dipping their finger-tips,From mossy branches a faint perfumeBreathed o'er honeyed Clematis lips.
At last we climbed to the ridge on highAh, crystal vision! Dreamland nigh!Far, far below us, the wide PacificSlumbered in azure from sky to sky.
And cloud and shadow, across the deepWavered, or paused in enchanted sleep,And eastward, the purple-misted isletsFretted the wave with terrace and steep.
We looked on the tranquil, glassy bay,On headlands sheeted in dazzling spray,And the whitening ribs of a wreck forlornThat for twenty years had wasted away.
All was so calm, and pure and fair,It seemed the hour of worship there,Silent, as where the great North-MinsterRises for ever, a visible prayer.
Then we turned from the murmurous forest-land,And rode over shingle and silver sand,For so fair was the earth in the golden autumn,That we sought no farther for Fairyland.
A Winter Daybreak
From the dark gorge, where burns the morning star,I hear the glacier river rattling onAnd sweeping o'er his ice-ploughed shingle-bar,While wood owls shout in sombre unison,And fluttering southern dancers glide and go;And black swan's airy trumpets wildly, sweetly blow.
The cock crows in the windy winter morn,Then must I rise and fling the curtain by.All dark! But for a strip of fiery skyBehind the ragged mountains, peaked and torn.One planet glitters in the icy cold,Poised like a hawk above the frozen peaks,And now again the wild nor'-wester speaks,And bends the cypress, shuddering, to his fold,While every timber, every casement creaks.But still the skylarks sing aloud and bold;The wooded hills arise; the white cascadeShakes with wild laughter all the silent shadowy glade.
Now from the shuttered east a silvery barShines through the mist, and shows the mild daystar.The storm-wrapped peaks start out and fade again,And rosy vapours skirt the pastoral plain;The garden paths with hoary rime are wet;And sweetly breathes the winter violet;The jonquil half unfolds her ivory cup,With clouds of gold-eyed daisies waking up.
Pleasant it is to turn and see the fireDance on the hearth, as he would never tire;The home-baked loaf, the Indian bean's perfume,Fill with their homely cheer the panelled room.Come, crazy storm! And thou, wild glittering hail,Rave o'er the roof and wave your icy veil;Shout in our ears and take your madcap way!I laugh at storms! for Roderick comes to-day.
The Lark's Song
The morning is wild and dark,The night mist runs on the vale,Bright Lucifer dies to a spark,And the wind whistles up for a gale.And stormy the day may beThat breaks through its prison bars,But it brings no regret to me,For I sing at the door of the stars!
Along the dim ocean-vergeI see the ships labouring on;They rise on the lifting surgeOne moment, and they are gone.I see on the twilight plainThe flash of the flying cars;Men travail in joy or pain —But I sing at the door of the stars!
I see the green, sleeping world,The pastures all glazed with rime;The smoke from the chimney curled;I hear the faint church bells chime.I see the grey mountain crest,The slopes, and the forest spars,With the dying moon on their breast —While I sing at the door of the stars!
Edward Booth Loughran.
Dead Leaves
When these dead leaves were green, love,November's skies were blue,And summer came with lips aflame,The gentle spring to woo;And to us, wandering hand in hand,Life was a fairy scene,That golden morning in the woodsWhen these dead leaves were green!
How dream-like now that dewy morn,Sweet with the wattle's flowers,When love, love, love was all our theme,And youth and hope were ours!Two happier hearts in all the landThere were not then, I ween,Than those young lovers' — yours and mine —When these dead leaves were green.
How gaily did you pluck these leavesFrom the acacia's bough,To mark the lyric we had read —I can repeat it now!While came the words, like music sweet,Your smiling lips between —"So fold my love within your heart,"When these dead leaves were green!
How many springs have passed since then?Ah, wherefore should we count,The years that sped, like waters fledFrom Time's unstaying fount?We've had our share of happiness,Our share of care have seen;But love alone has never flownSince these dead leaves were green.
Your heart is kind and loving still,Your face to me as fair,As when, that morn, the sunshine playedAmid your golden hair.So, dearest, sweethearts still we'll be,As we have ever been,And keep our love as fresh and trueAs when these leaves were green.
Isolation
Man lives alone; star-like, each soulIn its own orbit circles ever;Myriads may by or round it roll —The ways may meet, but mingle never.
Self-pois'd, each soul its course pursuesIn light or dark, companionless:Drop into drop may blend the dews —The spirit's law is loneliness.
If seemingly two souls unite,'Tis but as joins yon silent mereThe stream that through it, flashing bright,Carries its waters swift and clear.
The fringes of the rushing tideMay on the lake's calm bosom sleep —Its hidden spirit doth abideApart, still bearing toward the deep.
O Love, to me more dear than life!O Friend, more faithful than a brother!How many a bitter inward strifeOur souls have never told each other!
We journey side by side for years,We dream our lives, our hopes are one —And with some chance-said word appearsThe spanless gulf, so long unknown!
For candour's want yet neither blame;Even to ourselves but half-confessed,Glows in each heart some silent flame,Blooms some hope-violet of the breast.
And temptings dark, and struggles deepThere are, each soul alone must bear,Through midnight hours unblest with sleep,Through burning noontides of despair.
And kindly is the ordinance sentBy which each spirit dwells apart —Could Love or Friendship live, if rentThe "Bluebeard chambers of the heart"?
Ishmonie
The traveller tells how, in that ancient climeWhose mystic monuments and ruins hoarStill struggle with the antiquary's lore,To guard the secrets of a by-gone time,He saw, uprising from the desert bare,Like a white ghost, a city of the dead,With palaces and temples wondrous fair,Where moon-horn'd Isis once was worshipped.But silence, like a pall, did all enfold,And the inhabitants were turn'd to stone —Yea, stone the very heart of every one!Once to a rich man I this tale re-told."Stone hearts! A traveller's myth!" — he turn'd aside,As Hunger begg'd, pale-featured and wild-eyed.
John Liddell Kelly.
Immortality
At twenty-five I cast my horoscope,And saw a future with all good things rife —A firm assurance of eternal lifeIn worlds beyond, and in this world the hopeOf deathless fame. But now my sun doth slopeTo setting, and the toil of sordid strife,The care of food and raiment, child and wife,Have dimmed and narrowed all my spirit's scope.
Eternal life — a river gulphed in sands!Undying fame — a rainbow lost in clouds!What hope of immortality remainsBut this: "Some soul that loves and understandsShall save thee from the darkness that enshrouds";And this: "Thy blood shall course in others' veins"?
Heredity
More than a fleshly immortalityIs mine. Though I myself return againTo dust, my qualities of heart and brain,Of soul and spirit, shall not cease to be.I view them growing, day by day, in thee,My first-begotten son; I trace them plainIn you, my daughters; and I count it gainMyself renewed and multiplied to see.
But sadness mingles with my selfish joy,At thought of what you may be called to bear.Oh, passionate maid! Oh, glad, impulsive boy!Your father's sad experience you must share —Self-torture, the unfeeling world's annoy,Gross pleasure, fierce exultance, grim despair!
Robert Richardson.
A Ballade of Wattle Blossom
There's a land that is happy and fair,Set gem-like in halcyon seas;The white winters visit not there,To sadden its blossoming leas,More bland than the Hesperides,Or any warm isle of the West,Where the wattle-bloom perfumes the breeze,And the bell-bird builds her nest.
When the oak and the elm are bare,And wild winds vex the shuddering trees;There the clematis whitens the air,And the husbandman laughs as he seesThe grass rippling green to his knees,And his vineyards in emerald drest —Where the wattle-bloom bends in the breeze,And the bell-bird builds her nest.
What land is with this to compare?Not the green hills of Hybla, with beesHoney-sweet, are more radiant and rareIn colour and fragrance than theseBoon shores, where the storm-clouds cease,And the wind and the wave are at rest —Where the wattle-bloom waves in the breeze,And the bell-bird builds her nest.
Envoy.
Sweetheart, let them praise as they pleaseOther lands, but we know which is best —Where the wattle-bloom perfumes the breeze,And the bell-bird builds her nest.
A Song
Above us onlyThe Southern stars,And the moon o'er brimmingHer golden bars.And a song sweet and clearAs the bell-bird's plaint,Hums low in my earLike a dream-echo faint.The kind old song —How did it go?With its ripple and flow,That you used to sing, dear,Long ago.
Hand fast in hand,I, love, and thou;Hand locked in hand,And on my browYour perfumed lipsBreathing love and life —The love of the maiden,The trust of the wife.And I'm listening stillTo the ripple and flow —How did it go? —Of the little French songOf that long ago.
Can you recall itAcross the years?You used to sing itWith laughter and tears.If you sang it now, dear,That kind old refrain,It would bring back the fragranceOf the dead years again.Le printemps pour l'amour —How did it go?Only we know;Sing it, sweetheart, to-night,As you did long ago.
James Lister Cuthbertson.
Australia Federata
Australia! land of lonely lakeAnd serpent-haunted fen;Land of the torrent and the fireAnd forest-sundered men:Thou art not now as thou shalt beWhen the stern invaders come,In the hush before the hurricane,The dread before the drum.
A louder thunder shall be heardThan echoes on thy shore,When o'er the blackened basalt cliffsThe foreign cannon roar —When the stand is made in the sheoaks' shadeWhen heroes fall for thee,And the creeks in gloomy gullies runDark crimson to the sea:
When under honeysuckles gray,And wattles' swaying gold,The stalwart arm may strike no more,The valiant heart is cold —When thou shalt know the agony,The fever, and the strifeOf those who wrestle against oddsFor liberty and life:
Then is the great Dominion born,The seven sisters bound,From Sydney's greenly wooded portTo lone King George's Sound —Then shall the islands of the south,The lands of bloom and snow,Forth from their isolation comeTo meet the common foe.
Then, only then — when after warIs peace with honour born,When from the bosom of the nightComes golden-sandalled morn,When laurelled victory is thine,And the day of battle done,Shall the heart of a mighty people stir,And Australia be as one.
At Cape Schanck
Down to the lighthouse pillarThe rolling woodland comes,Gay with the gold of she-oaksAnd the green of the stunted gums,With the silver-grey of honeysuckle,With the wasted bracken red,With a tuft of softest emeraldAnd a cloud-flecked sky o'erhead.
We climbed by ridge and boulder,Umber and yellow scarred,Out to the utmost precipice,To the point that was ocean-barred,Till we looked below on the fastnessOf the breeding eagle's nest,And Cape Wollomai opened eastwardAnd the Otway on the west.
Over the mirror of azureThe purple shadows crept,League upon league of rollersLandward evermore swept,And burst upon gleaming basalt,And foamed in cranny and crack,And mounted in sheets of silver,And hurried reluctant back.
And the sea, so calm out yonder,Wherever we turned our eyes,Like the blast of an angel's trumpetRang out to the earth and skies,Till the reefs and the rocky rampartsThrobbed to the giant fray,And the gullies and jutting headlandsWere bathed in a misty spray.
Oh, sweet in the distant ranges,To the ear of inland men,Is the ripple of falling waterIn sassafras-haunted glen,The stir in the ripening cornfieldThat gently rustles and swells,The wind in the wattle sighing,The tinkle of cattle bells.
But best is the voice of ocean,That strikes to the heart and brain,That lulls with its passionate musicTrouble and grief and pain,That murmurs the requiem sweetestFor those who have loved and lost,And thunders a jubilant anthemTo brave hearts tempest-tossed.
That takes to its boundless bosomThe burden of all our care,That whispers of sorrow vanquished,Of hours that may yet be fair,That tells of a Harbour of RefugeBeyond life's stormy straits,Of an infinite peace that gladdens,Of an infinite love that waits.
Wattle and Myrtle
Gold of the tangled wilderness of wattle,Break in the lone green hollows of the hills,Flame on the iron headlands of the ocean,Gleam on the margin of the hurrying rills.
Come with thy saffron diadem and scatterOdours of Araby that haunt the air,Queen of our woodland, rival of the roses,Spring in the yellow tresses of thy hair.
Surely the old gods, dwellers on Olympus,Under thy shining loveliness have strayed,Crowned with thy clusters, magical Apollo,Pan with his reedy music may have played.
Surely within thy fastness, Aphrodite,She of the sea-ways, fallen from above,Wandered beneath thy canopy of blossom,Nothing disdainful of a mortal's love.
Aye, and Her sweet breath lingers on the wattle,Aye, and Her myrtle dominates the glade,And with a deep and perilous enchantmentMelts in the heart of lover and of maid.
The Australian Sunrise
The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea,And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free,The lustrous purple blackness of the soft Australian night,Waned in the gray awakening that heralded the light;Still in the dying darkness, still in the forest dimThe pearly dew of the dawning clung to each giant limb,Till the sun came up from ocean, red with the cold sea mist,And smote on the limestone ridges, and the shining tree-tops kissed;Then the fiery Scorpion vanished, the magpie's note was heard,And the wind in the she-oak wavered, and the honeysuckles stirred,The airy golden vapour rose from the river breast,The kingfisher came darting out of his crannied nest,And the bulrushes and reed-beds put off their sallow grayAnd burnt with cloudy crimson at dawning of the day.
John Farrell.
Australia to England
June 22nd, 1897
What of the years of Englishmen?What have they brought of growth and graceSince mud-built London by its fenBecame the Briton's breeding-place?What of the Village, where our bloodWas brewed by sires, half man, half brute,In vessels of wild womanhood,From blood of Saxon, Celt and Jute?
What are its gifts, this Harvest HomeOf English tilth and English cost,Where fell the hamlet won by RomeAnd rose the city that she lost?O! terrible and grand and strangeBeyond all phantasy that gleamsWhen Hope, asleep, sees radiant ChangeCome to her through the halls of dreams!
A heaving sea of life, that beatsLike England's heart of pride to-day,And up from roaring miles of streetsFlings on the roofs its human spray;And fluttering miles of flags aflow,And cannon's voice, and boom of bell,And seas of fire to-night, as thoughA hundred cities flamed and fell;
While, under many a fair festoonAnd flowering crescent, set ablazeWith all the dyes that English JuneCan lend to deck a day of days,And past where mart and palace rise,And shrine and temple lift their spears,Below five million misted eyesGoes a grey Queen of Sixty Years —
Go lords, and servants of the lordsOf earth, with homage on their lips,And kinsmen carrying English swords,And offering England battle-ships;And tribute-payers, on whose handsTheir English fetters scarce appear;And gathered round from utmost landsAmbassadors of Love and Fear!
Dim signs of greeting waved afar,Far trumpets blown and flags unfurled,And England's name an AvatarOf light and sound throughout the world —Hailed Empress among nations, QueenEnthroned in solemn majesty,On splendid proofs of what has been,And presages of what will be!
For this your sons, foreseeing notOr heeding not, the aftermath,Because their strenuous hearts were hotWent first on many a cruel path,And, trusting first and last to blows,Fed death with such as would gainsayTheir instant passing, or opposeWith talk of Right strength's right of way!
For this their names are on the stoneOf mountain spires, and carven treesThat stand in flickering wastes unknownWait with their dying messages;When fire blasts dance with desert driftsThe English bones show white below,And, not so white, when summer liftsThe counterpane of Yukon's snow.
Condemned by blood to reach for grapesThat hang in sight, however high,Beyond the smoke of Asian capes,The nameless, dauntless, dead ones lie;And where Sierran morning shinesOn summits rolling out like waves,By many a brow of royal pinesThe noisiest find quiet graves.
By lust of flesh and lust of gold,And depth of loins and hairy breadthOf breast, and hands to take and hold,And boastful scorn of pain and death,And something more of manlinessThan tamer men, and growing shameOf shameful things, and something lessOf final faith in sword and flame —
By many a battle fought for wrong,And many a battle fought for right,So have you grown august and strong,Magnificent in all men's sight —A voice for which the kings have ears,A face the craftiest statesmen scan;A mind to mould the after years,And mint the destinies of man!