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 voiceSo 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!
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 glareWhere 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 lookOut 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 eyesNever 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 fleeCliffs 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 yearnFor 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.
Towards the hills of JamberooSome few fantastic shadows haste,Uplit with firesLike castle spiresOutshining through a mirage waste.Behold, a mournful glory sitsOn feathered ferns and woven brakes,Where sobbing wild like restless childThe gusty breeze of evening wakes!Methinks I hear on every breathA 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 healthHas 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 brideSits by my side,Oh, where's the scene surpassing this?Kiama slumbers, robed with mist,All glittering in the dewy lightThat, brooding o'erThe 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 crowdIn angry numbers up the bay.The holy stars come looking downOn 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 heartEmotions startThat 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 riseBeneath the skiesWhen all things else have died again.A white sail glimmers out at sea—A vessel walking in her sleep;Some Power goes pastThat bends the mast,While frighted waves to leeward leap.The moonshine veils the naked sandAnd ripples upward with the tide,As underground there rolls a soundFrom where the caverned waters glide.A face that bears affection's glow,The soul that speaks from gentle eyes,And joy which slipsFrom loving lipsHave made this spot my Paradise!
The heart that once was rich with light,And happy in your grace,Now lieth cold beneath the scornThat gathers on your face;And every joy it knew before,And every templed dream,Is paler than the dying flashOn yonder mountain stream.The soul, regretting foundered blissAmid the wreck of years,Hath mourned it with intensityToo deep for human tears!The forest fadeth underneathThe blast that rushes by—The dripping leaves are white with death,But Love will never die!We both have seen the starry mossThat clings where Ruin reigns,Andonemust knowhislonely breastAffection 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 creptAcross the tranquil scene:Had fervent feelings in your soulNot failed nor ceased to shineAs pure as those existing on,And burning still in mine.Had every treasure at your feetThat I was wont to pour,Been never thrown like worthless weedsUpon 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 chaseThe falsehood from your brow—Iknow, with all that borrowed light,You are not happy now:Since those that once have trampled downAffection's early claim,Have lost a peace they need not hopeTo find on earth again.
A splendid sun betwixt the treesLong 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 onWith strength returned to me,I set my face against the noon,And reached a denser forest soon;Which dipped into a still lagoonHard by the sooming sea.All day the ocean beat on barAnd 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 stirredBy breath of wind, or wing of bird;It was so still, you might have heardThe footfalls of the hours.Faint slumbrous scents of roses filledThe air which covered me:My words were low—"she loved them so,In Eden vales such odours blow:How strange it is that roses growSo near the shores of Sea!"A sweeter fragrance never cameAcross 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 hintsOf fairest face, and rarest blooms;You Spirit of a darling DreamWhich links itself with every themeAnd 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 theeWith 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 belowFar gleaming peaks and walls of snowAnd there, a weary way, I go,Towards the Sunrise seas.
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 darkWhere 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 flashFrom 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?
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 restTill 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 throughWith a soul so weak and fearful, with the doubtsInever 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 reedOut 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 mouthLooked 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 rillsLeaping from their shady caverns, streaming round a thousand hills!Leave me, brother, all is fruitless, barren, measureless, and dry,And my God willneverhelp 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 streamSinging 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 partWith the peace, as calm as sunset, folded round my weary heart.
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' feetStart the echoes away from their caves!As the beat and the beatOf our swift horses' feetStart 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' feetWill die with the echoes away!Where the beat and the beatOf our swift horses' feetWill die with the echoes away!
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 doorWith 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 flightTo look through the shivering pane,"There are memories moaning and homeless to-nightThat can never be tranquil again!"And said to the woods, as their burdens were borneWith 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 withoutTo 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 LifeIs so fair in that world as they say;Was it worth all this yearning, and weeping, and strifeWhen 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 loreYou 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!"
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, higherPile 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 shoreBut that some heart did moanFor a darling voice it would hear no moreAnd a face that had left it lone, lone, lone—A face that had left it lone!I am watching by a paneDarkened with the gusty rain,Watching, through a mist of tears,Sad with thoughts of other years,For a brother I did missIn 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 findThy hand within the gale;And cries may rise on the wings of the windFrom 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 comeToo 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!
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 wildO'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 daysTrooping 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 toilWherefore should we mourn;There were shadows near the shine,Flowers with the thorn?And we still can recollectEvenings 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 throwsSlept 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 wildO'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 daysTrooping to and fro!
Amongst the thunder-splintered cavesOn Ocean's long and windy shore,I catch the voice of dying wavesBelow the ridges old and hoar;The spray descends in silver showers,And lovely whispers come and go,Like echoes from the happy hoursI never more may hope to know!The low mimosa droops with locksOf yellow hair, in dewy glade,While far above the caverned rocksI hear the dark Bellambi's Maid!The moonlight dreams upon the sailThat 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 glowThat streams from yonder airy hallAnd robes the sleeping hills below;The wandering meteors of the skyBeneath 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 graveYet springing green and fresh to view?And does the gleam on Ocean's waveTide gladness now to me and you?Oh! cold and cheerless falls the nightOn withered hearts and hopes decayed:And I have seen but little lightSince died the dark Bellambi's Maid!
The viewless blast flies moaning past,Away to the forest trees,Where giant pines and leafless vinesBend 'neath the wandering breeze!From ferny streams, unearthly screamsAre heard in the midnight blue;As afar they roam to the shepherd's home,The shrieks of the wild Curlew!As afar they roamTo 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 moonIn her hazy glory crowned;While dingoes howl, and wake the growlOf the watchdog brave and true;Whose loud, rough bark shoots up in the dark,With the song of the lone Curlew!Whose loud, rough barkShoots up in the dark,With the song of the lone Curlew!Near herby banks the dark green ranksOf 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 plainWith the wails of the sad Curlew!And join againO'er ridge and plainWith the wails of the sad Curlew!The clouds are thrown around the coneOf 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 vinesBend 'neath the wandering breeze!From ferny streams, unearthly screamsAre heard in the midnight blue;As afar they roam to the shepherd's home,The shrieks of the wild Curlew!As afar they roamTo the shepherd's home,The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
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 foeTill 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 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 feetThe 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 gravesthat hold the wrecks of bygone days.I tell ye that Ilovethe storm, for think we not ofthoughtsof 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!
—* Another spelling of Orara, a tributary of the river Clarence.—
Euroka, go over the tops of the hill,For theDeath-cloudshave 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 glenOn 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 passWhere the boomerangs sleep with the spear!Oh! our hearts will be lonely and low to-nightWhen 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 glenOn 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 foesFor 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 glenOn the banks of the gloomy Urara!Urara! Urara!On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
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.
The sunsets fall and the sunsets fade,But still I walk this shadowy land;And grapple the dark and only the darkIn 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 childFor 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 deadIs hidden beneath its caves.
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 brokeThrough 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 tellWhere 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.