B. HIGGINS(B. N. C.)
B. HIGGINS(B. N. C.)
B. HIGGINS(B. N. C.)
Themoan of centuries breaks around these shores,Whispers of sultry ages, and of woesLow-trumpeted against the arch of Heaven....A land that bows beneath the crescent moonAnd shrinks within its glinting gaze—is thisThe mausoleum of our nation's dead?Yea, for their glory gathers on this strand!Mourn not the brave with tears. These pagan hillsAre touched with sanctity: the Voice of GodThrills thro' the barrenness of shrivell'd fieldsAnd lingers where these warriors lie entombed—'Neath the vast solitudes of Asian skies,Where sleep they in a hush of eventide,The sea their dirge, the stars their monuments!
Themoan of centuries breaks around these shores,Whispers of sultry ages, and of woesLow-trumpeted against the arch of Heaven....A land that bows beneath the crescent moonAnd shrinks within its glinting gaze—is thisThe mausoleum of our nation's dead?Yea, for their glory gathers on this strand!Mourn not the brave with tears. These pagan hillsAre touched with sanctity: the Voice of GodThrills thro' the barrenness of shrivell'd fieldsAnd lingers where these warriors lie entombed—'Neath the vast solitudes of Asian skies,Where sleep they in a hush of eventide,The sea their dirge, the stars their monuments!
Themoan of centuries breaks around these shores,Whispers of sultry ages, and of woesLow-trumpeted against the arch of Heaven....
Themoan of centuries breaks around these shores,
Whispers of sultry ages, and of woes
Low-trumpeted against the arch of Heaven....
A land that bows beneath the crescent moonAnd shrinks within its glinting gaze—is thisThe mausoleum of our nation's dead?Yea, for their glory gathers on this strand!Mourn not the brave with tears. These pagan hillsAre touched with sanctity: the Voice of GodThrills thro' the barrenness of shrivell'd fieldsAnd lingers where these warriors lie entombed—'Neath the vast solitudes of Asian skies,Where sleep they in a hush of eventide,The sea their dirge, the stars their monuments!
A land that bows beneath the crescent moon
And shrinks within its glinting gaze—is this
The mausoleum of our nation's dead?
Yea, for their glory gathers on this strand!
Mourn not the brave with tears. These pagan hills
Are touched with sanctity: the Voice of God
Thrills thro' the barrenness of shrivell'd fields
And lingers where these warriors lie entombed—
'Neath the vast solitudes of Asian skies,
Where sleep they in a hush of eventide,
The sea their dirge, the stars their monuments!
Melbourne, 1917.
A thrushthrobs out his mournful melody,And shadowy fingers of approaching DuskClutch vaguely at the treesAnd shroud the purple hills:And softly sobbing noon-winds float astir,Bedewing tearful kisses on the budsThat freeze in filmy fold:The waters, icy-chill,Are gurgling from their depths, and nestling birdsStand sunset-splashed, with plumage all dismay'd,To join the woeful chant,The dirge of waning day.
A thrushthrobs out his mournful melody,And shadowy fingers of approaching DuskClutch vaguely at the treesAnd shroud the purple hills:And softly sobbing noon-winds float astir,Bedewing tearful kisses on the budsThat freeze in filmy fold:The waters, icy-chill,Are gurgling from their depths, and nestling birdsStand sunset-splashed, with plumage all dismay'd,To join the woeful chant,The dirge of waning day.
A thrushthrobs out his mournful melody,And shadowy fingers of approaching DuskClutch vaguely at the treesAnd shroud the purple hills:
A thrushthrobs out his mournful melody,
And shadowy fingers of approaching Dusk
Clutch vaguely at the trees
And shroud the purple hills:
And softly sobbing noon-winds float astir,Bedewing tearful kisses on the budsThat freeze in filmy fold:The waters, icy-chill,
And softly sobbing noon-winds float astir,
Bedewing tearful kisses on the buds
That freeze in filmy fold:
The waters, icy-chill,
Are gurgling from their depths, and nestling birdsStand sunset-splashed, with plumage all dismay'd,To join the woeful chant,The dirge of waning day.
Are gurgling from their depths, and nestling birds
Stand sunset-splashed, with plumage all dismay'd,
To join the woeful chant,
The dirge of waning day.
Gippsland Hills, 1917.