ADAMS
They lie unwatched, in waste and vacant places,In sombre bush or wind-swept tussock spaces,Where seldom human treadAnd never human trace is—The dwellings of our dead!No insolence of stone is o’er them builded;By mockery of monuments unshielded,Far on the unfenced plainForgotten graves have yieldedEarth to free earth again.Above their crypts no air with incense reeling,No chant of choir or sob of organ pealing;But ever over themThe evening breezes kneelingWhisper a requiem.For some the margeless plain where no one passes,Save when at morning far in misty massesThe drifting flock appears.Lo, here the greener grassesGlint like a stain of tears!For some the common trench where, not all fameless,They fighting fell who thought to tame the tameless,And won their barren crown;Where one grave holds them nameless—Brave white and braver brown.But, in their sleep, like troubled children turning,A dream of mother-country in them burning,They whisper their despair,And one vague, voiceless yearningBurdens the pausing air....‘Unchanging here the drab year onward presses,No Spring comes trysting here with new-loosed tresses,And never may the yearsWin Autumn’s sweet caresses—Her leaves that fall like tears.And we would lie ’neath old-remembered beeches,Where we could hear the voice of him who preachesAnd the deep organ’s call,While close about us reachesThe cool, grey, lichened wall.’But they are ours, and jealously we hold them;Within our children’s ranks we have enrolled them,And till all Time shall ceaseOur brooding bush shall fold themIn her broad-bosomed peace.They came as lovers come, all else forsaking,The bonds of home and kindred proudly breaking;They lie in splendour lone—The nation of their makingTheir everlasting throne!Arthur Adams.
They lie unwatched, in waste and vacant places,In sombre bush or wind-swept tussock spaces,Where seldom human treadAnd never human trace is—The dwellings of our dead!No insolence of stone is o’er them builded;By mockery of monuments unshielded,Far on the unfenced plainForgotten graves have yieldedEarth to free earth again.Above their crypts no air with incense reeling,No chant of choir or sob of organ pealing;But ever over themThe evening breezes kneelingWhisper a requiem.For some the margeless plain where no one passes,Save when at morning far in misty massesThe drifting flock appears.Lo, here the greener grassesGlint like a stain of tears!For some the common trench where, not all fameless,They fighting fell who thought to tame the tameless,And won their barren crown;Where one grave holds them nameless—Brave white and braver brown.But, in their sleep, like troubled children turning,A dream of mother-country in them burning,They whisper their despair,And one vague, voiceless yearningBurdens the pausing air....‘Unchanging here the drab year onward presses,No Spring comes trysting here with new-loosed tresses,And never may the yearsWin Autumn’s sweet caresses—Her leaves that fall like tears.And we would lie ’neath old-remembered beeches,Where we could hear the voice of him who preachesAnd the deep organ’s call,While close about us reachesThe cool, grey, lichened wall.’But they are ours, and jealously we hold them;Within our children’s ranks we have enrolled them,And till all Time shall ceaseOur brooding bush shall fold themIn her broad-bosomed peace.They came as lovers come, all else forsaking,The bonds of home and kindred proudly breaking;They lie in splendour lone—The nation of their makingTheir everlasting throne!Arthur Adams.
They lie unwatched, in waste and vacant places,In sombre bush or wind-swept tussock spaces,Where seldom human treadAnd never human trace is—The dwellings of our dead!
No insolence of stone is o’er them builded;By mockery of monuments unshielded,Far on the unfenced plainForgotten graves have yieldedEarth to free earth again.
Above their crypts no air with incense reeling,No chant of choir or sob of organ pealing;But ever over themThe evening breezes kneelingWhisper a requiem.
For some the margeless plain where no one passes,Save when at morning far in misty massesThe drifting flock appears.Lo, here the greener grassesGlint like a stain of tears!
For some the common trench where, not all fameless,They fighting fell who thought to tame the tameless,And won their barren crown;Where one grave holds them nameless—Brave white and braver brown.
But, in their sleep, like troubled children turning,A dream of mother-country in them burning,They whisper their despair,And one vague, voiceless yearningBurdens the pausing air....
‘Unchanging here the drab year onward presses,No Spring comes trysting here with new-loosed tresses,And never may the yearsWin Autumn’s sweet caresses—Her leaves that fall like tears.
And we would lie ’neath old-remembered beeches,Where we could hear the voice of him who preachesAnd the deep organ’s call,While close about us reachesThe cool, grey, lichened wall.’
But they are ours, and jealously we hold them;Within our children’s ranks we have enrolled them,And till all Time shall ceaseOur brooding bush shall fold themIn her broad-bosomed peace.
They came as lovers come, all else forsaking,The bonds of home and kindred proudly breaking;They lie in splendour lone—The nation of their makingTheir everlasting throne!
Arthur Adams.