An Anthology of Australian Verse

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An Anthology of Australian Verse Edited by Bertram Stevens

Dedicated to DAVID SCOTT MITCHELL, Esq. Sydney

Preface

The Editor has endeavoured to make this selection representative of the best short poems written by Australians or inspired by Australian scenery and conditions of life, -- "Australian" in this connection being used to include New Zealand. The arrangement is as nearly as possible chronological; and the appendix contains brief biographical particulars of the authors, together with notes which may be useful to readers outside Australia.

The Editor thanks Messrs. H. H. Champion, Henry Gyles Turner, E. B. Loughran, A. Brazier and Walter Murdoch (Melbourne), Mr. Sydney Jephcott (Upper Murray, Vic.), Mr. Fred. Johns (Adelaide), Mr. Thomas Cottle (Auckland), Mr. J. C. Andersen (Christchurch), Messrs. David Scott Mitchell, Alfred Lee, A. W. Jose, and J. Le Gay Brereton (Sydney), for their generous help. Mr. Douglas Sladen's anthologies, Messrs. Turner and Sutherland's "Development of Australian Literature", and `The Bulletin' have also furnished much useful information.

Contents

Introduction

William Charles Wentworth. Australasia "Australasia: a Poem"

Charles Harpur. Love Words A Coast View "Poems"

William Forster. `The Love in her Eyes lay Sleeping' "Midas"

James Lionel Michael. `Through Pleasant Paths' "John Cumberland" Personality Periodical (Sydney, 1858)

Daniel Henry Deniehy. Love in a Cottage A Song for the Night Periodical (Sydney, 1847)

Richard Rowe. Superstites Rosae Soul Ferry "Peter 'Possum's Portfolio"

Sir Henry Parkes. The Buried Chief "Fragmentary Thoughts"

Thomas Alexander Browne (`Rolf Boldrewood'). Perdita "Old Melbourne Memories"

Adam Lindsay Gordon. A Dedication "Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes" Thora's Song "Ashtaroth: A Dramatic Lyric" The Sick Stock-rider "Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes"

Henry Kendall. Prefatory Sonnets September in Australia Rose Lorraine "Leaves from Australian Forests" To a Mountain Araluen After Many Years Hy-Brasil "Songs from the Mountains" Outre Mer "Poems"

Marcus Clarke. The Song of Tigilau "Austral Edition of the collected Works of Marcus Clarke"

Patrick Moloney. Melbourne "An Easter Omelette" (Melbourne, 1879)

Alfred Domett. An Invitation A Maori Girl's Song "Ranolf and Amohia"

James Brunton Stephens. The Dominion of Australia The Dark Companion "Miscellaneous Poems" Day Night "Convict Once"

Thomas Bracken. Not Understood Spirit of Song "Musings in Maoriland"

Ada Cambridge. What of the Night? Good-bye The Virgin Martyr Honour Despair Faith Manuscript

Alexander Bathgate. The Clematis "Far South Fancies"

Philip Joseph Holdsworth. Quis Separabit? Manuscript My Queen of Dreams "Station Hunting on the Warrego"

Mary Hannay Foott. Where the Pelican Builds New Country No Message Happy Days "Morna Lee and other Poems"

Henry Lea Twisleton. To a Cabbage Rose "Poems"

Mrs. James Glenny Wilson. Fairyland A Winter Daybreak The Lark's Song "A Book of Verses"

Edward Booth Loughran. Dead Leaves Isolation Ishmonie "'Neath Austral Skies"

John Liddell Kelly. Immortality Heredity "Heather and Fern"

Robert Richardson. A Ballade of Wattle Blossom A Song "Willow and Wattle"

James Lister Cuthbertson. Australia Federata At Cape Schanck "Barwon Ballads" Wattle and Myrtle Periodical (Melbourne) The Australian Sunrise Periodical (Geelong)

John Farrell. Australia to England Periodical (Sydney, 1897)

Arthur Patchett Martin. Bushland "The Withered Jester, and other Verses"

Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen. Under the Wattle Periodical (1888)

Victor James Daley. Players Periodical (Sydney, 1900) Anna Periodical (Sydney, 1902) The Night Ride Manuscript

Alice Werner. Bannerman of the Dandenong "A Time and Times"

Ethel Castilla. An Australian Girl A Song of Sydney "The Australian Girl, and other Verses"

Francis William Lauderdale Adams. Something Gordon's Grave To A. L. Gordon "Poetical Works" Love and Death Manuscript

Thomas William Heney. Absence "In Middle Harbour, and other Verse" A Riverina Road Periodical (Sydney, 1891)

Patrick Edward Quinn. A Girl's Grave Periodical (Sydney, 1889)

John Sandes. `With Death's Prophetic Ear' "Ballads of Battle"

Inez K. Hyland. To a Wave Bread and Wine "In Sunshine and in Shadow"

George Essex Evans. An Australian Symphony A Nocturne A Pastoral "Loraine, and other Verses" The Women of the West Periodical (Melbourne)

Mary Colborne-Veel. `What Look hath She?' Saturday Night `Resurgam' "The Fairest of the Angels, and other Verse" Distant Authors Periodical (London)

John Bernard O'Hara. Happy Creek A Country Village Flinders "Lyrics of Nature"

M. A. Sinclair. The Chatelaine Periodical (Dunedin, N.Z.)

Sydney Jephcott. Chaucer White Paper Splitting "The Secrets of the South" Home-woe A Ballad of the last King of Thule A Fragment Manuscript

Andrew Barton Paterson (`Banjo'). The Daylight is Dying Clancy of the Overflow Black Swans The Travelling Post Office "The Man from Snowy River" The Old Australian Ways By the Grey Gulf-Water "Rio Grande's Last Race, and other Verses"

Jessie Mackay. The Grey Company A Folk Song Dunedin in the Gloaming The Burial of Sir John Mackenzie Periodical (Dunedin, N.Z.)

Henry Lawson. Andy's gone with Cattle Out Back The Star of Australasia Middleton's Rouseabout The Vagabond The Sliprails and the Spur "In the Days when the World was Wide, and other Verses"

Arthur Albert Dawson Bayldon. Sunset The Sea To Poesy "The Western Track, and other Verses"

Jennings Carmichael. An Old Bush Road A Woman's Mood "Poems"

Agnes L. Storrie. Twenty Gallons of Sleep A Confession "Poems"

Martha M. Simpson. To an Old Grammar Periodical (Sydney)

William Gay. Primroses "Christ on Olympus, and other Poems" To M. Vestigia Nulla Retrorsum "Sonnets"

Edward Dyson. The Old Whim Horse "Rhymes from the Mines, and other Lines"

Dowell O'Reilly. The Sea-Maiden Periodical (Sydney, 1895)

David MacDonald Ross. Love's Treasure House The Sea to the Shell The Silent Tide The Watch on Deck Autumn "The After Glow"

Mary Gilmore. A Little Ghost Periodical (Orange, N.S.W.) Good-Night Periodical (Brisbane)

Bernard O'Dowd. Love's Substitute Our Duty Manuscript

Edwin James Brady. The Wardens of the Seas Manuscript

Will. H. Ogilvie. Queensland Opal Periodical (London) Wind o' the Autumn Periodical (London) Daffodils Periodical (Edinburgh) A Queen of Yore Periodical (Sydney) Drought Periodical (London) The Shadow on the Blind Periodical (London)

Roderic Quinn. The House of the Commonwealth Periodical (Sydney) The Lotus-Flower Manuscript

David McKee Wright. An Old Colonist's Reverie "Station Ballads, and other Verses"

Christopher John Brennan. Romance "XXI Poems: Towards the Source" Poppies Manuscript

John Le Gay Brereton. The Sea Maid "Oithona" Home "Sea and Sky" Wilfred Periodical (Sydney)

Arthur H. Adams. Bayswater, W. Manuscript Bond Street Periodical (London)

Ethel Turner. A Trembling Star `Oh, if that Rainbow up there!' "Gum Leaves"

Johannes Carl Andersen. Soft, Low and Sweet "Songs Unsung" Maui Victor Periodical (Dunedin, N.Z.)

Dora Wilcox. In London "Verses from Maoriland"

Ernest Currie. Laudabunt Alii Periodical (Timaru, N.Z.)

George Charles Whitney. Sunset Manuscript

James Lister Cuthbertson. [reprise] Ode to Apollo Periodical (Melbourne)

Notes on the Poems

Biographical Notes

---------------------------------- An Anthology of Australian Verse ----------------------------------

Introduction

As the literature of a country is, in certain respects, a reflex of its character, it may be advisable to introduce this Anthology with some account of the main circumstances which have affected the production of Australian poetry.

Australia was first settled by the British a little more than a century ago, so that we are still a young community. The present population, including that of New Zealand, is a little under five millions, or about the same as that of London; it is chiefly scattered along the coast and the few permanent waterways, and a vast central region is but sparsely inhabited as yet. All climates, from tropical to frigid, are included within the continent, but the want of satisfactory watersheds renders it peculiarly liable to long droughts and sudden floods. The absence of those broad, outward signs of the changing seasons which mark the pageant of the year in the old world is probably a greater disadvantage than we are apt to suspect. Here, too, have existed hardly any of the conditions which obtained in older communities where great literature arose. There is no glamour of old Romance about our early history, no shading off from the actual into a dim region of myth and fable; our beginnings are clearly defined and of an eminently prosaic character. The early settlers were engaged in a hand-to-hand struggle with nature, and in the establishment of the primitive industries. Their strenuous pioneering days were followed by the feverish excitement of the gold period and a consequent rapid expansion of all industries. Business and politics have afforded ready roads to success, and have absorbed the energies of the best intellects. There has been no leisured class of cultured people to provide the atmosphere in which literature is best developed as an art; and, until recently, we have been content to look to the mother country for our artistic standards and supplies. The principal literary productions of our first century came from writers who had been born elsewhere, and naturally brought with them the traditions and sentiments of their home country.

We have not yet had time to settle down and form any decided racial characteristics; nor has any great crisis occurred to fuse our common sympathies and create a national sentiment. Australia has produced no great poet, nor has any remarkable innovation in verse forms been successfully attempted. But the old forms have been so coloured by the strange conditions of a new country, and so charged with the thoughts and feelings of a vigorous, restless democracy now just out of its adolescence, that they have an interest and a value beyond that of perhaps technically better minor poetry produced under English skies.

The first verses actually written and published in Australia seem to have been the Royal Birthday Odes of Michael Robinson, which were printed as broadsides from 1810 to 1821. Their publication in book form was announced in `The Hobart Town Gazette' of 23rd March, 1822, but no copy of such a volume is at present known to exist. The famous "Prologue", said to have been recited at the first dramatic performance in Australia, on January 16th, 1796 (when Dr. Young's tragedy "The Revenge" and "The Hotel" were played in a temporary theatre at Sydney), was for a long time attributed to the notorious George Barrington, and ranked as the first verse produced in Australia. There is, however, no evidence to support this claim. The lines first appeared in a volume called "Original Poems and Translations" chiefly by Susannah Watts, published in London in 1802, a few months before the appearance of the "History of New South Wales" (1803) -- known as George Barrington's -- which also, in all probability, was not written by Barrington. In Susannah Watts' book the Prologue is stated to be written by "A Gentleman", but there is no clue to the name of the author. Mr. Barron Field, Judge of the Supreme Court of New South Wales, printed in Sydney in 1819 his "First Fruits of Australian Poetry", for private circulation. Field was a friend of Charles Lamb, who addressed to him the letter printed in "The Essays of Elia" under the title of "Distant Correspondents". Lamb reviewed the "First Fruits" in `The Examiner', and one wishes for his sake that the verses were more worthy.

The first poem of any importance by an Australian is William Charles Wentworth's "Australasia", written in 1823 at Cambridge University in competition for the Chancellor's medal. There were twenty-seven competitors, and the prize was awarded to W. Mackworth Praed, Wentworth being second on the list. Wentworth's poem was printed in London in the same year, and shortly afterwards in `The Sydney Gazette', the first Australian newspaper. In 1826 there was printed at the Albion Press, Sydney, "Wild Notes from the Lyre of a Native Minstrel" by Charles Tompson, Junior, the first verse of an Australian-born writer published in this country. There was also published in Sydney in 1826 a book of verses by Dr. John Dunmore Lang, called "Aurora Australis". Both Lang and Wentworth afterwards conducted newspapers and wrote histories of New South Wales, but their names are more famous in the political than in the literary annals of the country. At Hobart Town in 1827 appeared "The Van Diemen's Land Warriors, or the Heroes of Cornwall" by "Pindar Juvenal", the first book of verse published in Tasmania. During the next ten years various poetical effusions were printed in the colonies, which are of bibliographical interest but of hardly any intrinsic value. Newspapers had been established at an early date, but until the end of this period they were little better than news-sheets or official gazettes, giving no opportunities for literature. The proportion of well-educated persons was small, the majority of the free settlers being members of the working classes, as very few representatives of British culture came willingly to this country until after the discovery of gold.

It was not until 1845 that the first genuine, though crude, Australian poetry appeared, in the form of a small volume of sonnets by Charles Harpur, who was born at Windsor, N.S.W., in 1817. He passed his best years in the lonely bush, and wrote largely under the influence of Wordsworth and Shelley. He had some imagination and poetic faculty of the contemplative order, but the disadvantages of his life were many. Harpur's best work is in his longer poems, from which extracts cannot conveniently be given here. The year 1842 had seen the publication of Henry Parkes' "Stolen Moments", the first of a number of volumes of verse which that statesman bravely issued, the last being published just before his eightieth year. The career of Parkes is coincident with a long and important period of our history, in which he is the most striking figure. Not the least interesting aspect of his character, which contained much of rugged greatness, was his love of poetry and his unfailing kindness to the struggling writers of the colony. Others who deserve remembrance for their services at this time are Nicol D. Stenhouse and Dr. Woolley. Among the writers of the period D. H. Deniehy, Henry Halloran, J. Sheridan Moore and Richard Rowe contributed fairly good verse to the newspapers, the principal of which were `The Atlas' (1845-9), `The Empire' (1850-8), and two papers still in existence -- `The Freeman's Journal' (1850) and `The Sydney Morning Herald', which began as `The Sydney Herald' in 1831. None of their writings, however, reflected to any appreciable extent the scenery or life of the new country.

With the discovery of gold a new era began for Australia. That event induced the flow of a large stream of immigration, and gave an enormous impetus to the development of the colonies. Among the ardent spirits attracted here were J. Lionel Michael, Robert Sealy, R. H. Horne, the Howitts, Henry Kingsley and Adam Lindsay Gordon. Michael was a friend of Millais, and an early champion of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. Soon after his arrival in Sydney he abandoned the idea of digging for gold, and began to practise again as a solicitor. Later on he removed to Grafton on the Clarence River; there in 1857 Henry Kendall, a boy of 16, found work in his office, and Michael, discerning his promise, encouraged him to write. Most of the boy's earliest verses were sent from Michael's office to Parkes, who printed them in his paper `The Empire'. When Kendall left Grafton, Michael gave him a letter of introduction to Stenhouse, which brought him in touch with the small literary group in Sydney; and his first volume, "Poems and Songs", was published in Sydney in 1862. It was not long before he recognised the extreme weakness of most of its contents, and did what he could to suppress the book. He sent specimens of his best work to the London `Athenaeum', and wrote a pathetic letter to the Editor, which was printed in the issue of 27th September, 1862, together with some of the poems and a most kindly comment. Kendall soon wrote again, sending more poems, and received encouraging notices in `The Athenaeum' on 19th September, 1863, 27th February, 1864, and 17th February, 1866. These form the first favourable pronouncement upon Australian poetry by an English critical journal of importance. Their stimulating effect upon Kendall was very great. From the indifference of the many and the carping criticisms of some of the magnates here, he had appealed to one of the highest literary authorities in England, and received praise beyond his wildest expectations.

Meanwhile the colony of Victoria, which began its independent career in 1851, had been advancing even more rapidly than New South Wales. `The Argus' newspaper had been in existence since 1846, and other periodicals sprang up in Melbourne which gave further scope to letters. `The Australasian' was established in 1854, and soon became the most important literary journal in Australia. Adam Lindsay Gordon, who had landed in Adelaide in the same year as Henry Kingsley -- 1853 -- published a little book of verse in 1864 at Mt. Gambier, S.A., and began to contribute verses to a Melbourne sporting paper in 1866. These were printed anonymously, and attracted some attention; but a collection of his ballads -- "Sea Spray and Smoke Drift" -- brought very little praise and no profit. Marcus Clarke came to Melbourne in 1864, and soon afterwards began to write for `The Argus' and other papers. About the same time the presence of R. H. Horne, the distinguished author of "Orion", in Melbourne lent a lustre to that city, which was for the time the literary centre of Australia. Horne corresponded with Kendall, and contributed to a paper edited by Deniehy in Sydney -- `The Southern Cross' (1859-60). He was the presiding genius of the literary gatherings at Dwight's book-shop in Melbourne, and no doubt exercised a beneficial influence upon the writers around him.

In 1870, after a series of crushing disappointments, Gordon committed suicide. His dramatic end awakened sympathy and gave an additional interest to his writings. It was soon found that in the city and the bush many of his spirited racing ballads were well known. The virile, athletic tone of his verse, which taught

"How a man should uphold the sports of his land And strike his best with a strong right hand And take his strokes in return" --

and the practical philosophy, summed up in the well-known quatrain --

"Life is mostly froth and bubble, Two things stand like stone; Kindness in another's trouble, Courage in your own" --

appeal strongly to Australians. Gordon's work cannot be considered as peculiarly Australian in character; but much of it is concerned with the horse, and all of it is a-throb with the manly, reckless personality of the writer. Horses and horse-racing are especially interesting to Australians, the Swinburnian rush of Gordon's ballads charms their ear, and in many respects he embodies their ideal of a man. There are few Australians who do not know some of his poems, even if they know no others, and his influence upon subsequent writers has been very great.

Brunton Stephens, who came to Queensland in 1866, wrote there a long poem called "Convict Once" which, when published in London in 1871, gained high praise from competent critics, and gave the author an academic reputation. A little book of humorous verses issued in Melbourne in 1873 almost immediately became popular, and a later volume of "Miscellaneous Poems" (1880), containing some fine patriotic utterances as well as many in lighter vein, established him as one of our chief singers.

The first important poem from New Zealand -- Domett's "Ranolf and Amohia" -- was published in London in 1872. Domett spent thirty years in New Zealand. He wrote a good deal of verse before leaving England and after his return, but "Ranolf and Amohia" is the only poem showing traces of Australian influence. It is a miscellany in verse rather than an epic, and contains some fine descriptions of New Zealand scenery.

The death of Kendall in Sydney in 1882 closed what may be regarded as the second literary period. He had published his finest work in "Songs from the Mountains" (1880), and had the satisfaction of knowing that it was a success, financially and otherwise. Kendall's audience is not so large as Gordon's, but it is a steadily growing one; and many readers who have been affected by his musical verse hold the ill-fated singer in more tender regard than any other. He lived at a time when Australians had not learned to think it possible that any good thing in art could come out of Australia, and were too fully occupied with things of the market-place to concern themselves much about literature.

Several attempts have been made to maintain magazines and reviews in Sydney and Melbourne, but none of them could compete successfully with the imported English periodicals. `The Colonial Monthly', `The Melbourne Review', `The Sydney Quarterly', and `The Centennial Magazine' were the most important of these. They cost more to produce than their English models, and the fact that their contents were Australian was not sufficient in itself to obtain for them adequate support. Newspapers have played a far more important part in our literary world. `The Australasian', `Sydney Mail' and `Queenslander' have done a good deal to encourage local writers, but the most powerful influence has been that of `The Bulletin', started in Sydney in 1880. Its racy, irreverent tone and its humour are characteristically Australian, and through its columns the first realistic Australian verse of any importance -- the writings of Henry Lawson and A. B. Paterson -- became widely known. When published in book form, their verses met with phenomenal success; Paterson's "The Man from Snowy River" (1895) having already attained a circulation of over thirty thousand copies. It is the first of a long series of volumes, issued during the last ten years, whose character is far more distinctively Australian than that of their predecessors. Their number and success are evidences of the lively interest taken by the present generation here in its native literature.

Australia has now come of age, and is becoming conscious of its strength and its possibilities. Its writers to-day are, as a rule, self-reliant and hopeful. They have faith in their own country; they write of it as they see it, and of their work and their joys and fears, in simple, direct language. It may be that none of it is poetry in the grand manner, and that some of it is lacking in technical finish; but it is a vivid and faithful portrayal of Australia, and its ruggedness is in character. It is hoped that this selection from the verse that has been written up to the present time will be found a not unworthy contribution to the great literature of the English-speaking peoples.

William Charles Wentworth.

Australasia

Celestial poesy! whose genial sway Earth's furthest habitable shores obey; Whose inspirations shed their sacred light, Far as the regions of the Arctic night, And to the Laplander his Boreal gleam Endear not less than Phoebus' brighter beam, -- Descend thou also on my native land, And on some mountain-summit take thy stand; Thence issuing soon a purer font be seen Than charmed Castalia or famed Hippocrene; And there a richer, nobler fane arise, Than on Parnassus met the adoring eyes. And tho', bright goddess, on the far blue hills, That pour their thousand swift pellucid rills Where Warragamba's rage has rent in twain Opposing mountains, thundering to the plain, No child of song has yet invoked thy aid 'Neath their primeval solitary shade, -- Still, gracious Pow'r, some kindling soul inspire, To wake to life my country's unknown lyre, That from creation's date has slumbering lain, Or only breathed some savage uncouth strain; And grant that yet an Austral Milton's song Pactolus-like flow deep and rich along, -- An Austral Shakespeare rise, whose living page To nature true may charm in ev'ry age; -- And that an Austral Pindar daring soar, Where not the Theban eagle reach'd before. And, O Britannia! shouldst thou cease to ride Despotic Empress of old Ocean's tide; -- Should thy tamed Lion -- spent his former might, -- No longer roar the terror of the fight; -- Should e'er arrive that dark disastrous hour, When bow'd by luxury, thou yield'st to pow'r; -- When thou, no longer freest of the free, To some proud victor bend'st the vanquish'd knee; -- May all thy glories in another sphere Relume, and shine more brightly still than here; May this, thy last-born infant, then arise, To glad thy heart and greet thy parent eyes; And Australasia float, with flag unfurl'd, A new Britannia in another world.

Charles Harpur.

Love

She loves me! From her own bliss-breathing lips The live confession came, like rich perfume From crimson petals bursting into bloom! And still my heart at the remembrance skips Like a young lion, and my tongue, too, trips As drunk with joy! while every object seen In life's diurnal round wears in its mien A clear assurance that no doubts eclipse. And if the common things of nature now Are like old faces flushed with new delight, Much more the consciousness of that rich vow Deepens the beauteous, and refines the bright, While throned I seem on love's divinest height 'Mid all the glories glowing round its brow.

Words

Words are deeds. The words we hear May revolutionize or rear A mighty state. The words we read May be a spiritual deed Excelling any fleshly one, As much as the celestial sun Transcends a bonfire, made to throw A light upon some raree-show. A simple proverb tagged with rhyme May colour half the course of time; The pregnant saying of a sage May influence every coming age; A song in its effects may be More glorious than Thermopylae, And many a lay that schoolboys scan A nobler feat than Inkerman.

A Coast View

High 'mid the shelves of a grey cliff, that yet Riseth in Babylonian mass above, In a benched cleft, as in the mouldered chair Of grey-beard Time himself, I sit alone, And gaze with a keen wondering happiness Out o'er the sea. Unto the circling bend That verges Heaven, a vast luminous plain It stretches, changeful as a lover's dream -- Into great spaces mapped by light and shade In constant interchange -- either 'neath clouds The billows darken, or they shimmer bright In sunny scopes of measureless expanse. 'Tis Ocean dreamless of a stormy hour, Calm, or but gently heaving; -- yet, O God! What a blind fate-like mightiness lies coiled In slumber, under that wide-shining face! While o'er the watery gleam -- there where its edge Banks the dim vacancy, the topmost sails Of some tall ship, whose hull is yet unseen, Hang as if clinging to a cloud that still Comes rising with them from the void beyond, Like to a heavenly net, drawn from the deep And carried upward by ethereal hands.

William Forster.

`The Love in her Eyes lay Sleeping'

The love in her eyes lay sleeping, As stars that unconscious shine, Till, under the pink lids peeping, I wakened it up with mine; And we pledged our troth to a brimming oath In a bumper of blood-red wine. Alas! too well I know That it happened long ago; Those memories yet remain, And sting, like throbs of pain, And I'm alone below, But still the red wine warms, and the rosy goblets glow; If love be the heart's enslaver, 'Tis wine that subdues the head. But which has the fairest flavour, And whose is the soonest shed? Wine waxes in power in that desolate hour When the glory of love is dead. Love lives on beauty's ray, But night comes after day, And when the exhausted sun His high career has run, The stars behind him stay, And then the light that lasts consoles our darkening way. When beauty and love are over, And passion has spent its rage, And the spectres of memory hover, And glare on life's lonely stage, 'Tis wine that remains to kindle the veins And strengthen the steps of age. Love takes the taint of years, And beauty disappears, But wine in worth matures The longer it endures, And more divinely cheers, And ripens with the suns and mellows with the spheres.

James Lionel Michael.

`Through Pleasant Paths'

Through pleasant paths, through dainty ways, Love leads my feet; Where beauty shines with living rays, Soft, gentle, sweet; The placid heart at random strays, And sings, and smiles, and laughs and plays, And gathers from the summer days Their light and heat, That in its chambers burn and blaze And beam and beat.

I throw myself among the ferns Under the shade, And watch the summer sun that burns On dell and glade; To thee, my dear, my fancy turns, In thee its Paradise discerns, For thee it sighs, for thee it yearns, My chosen maid; And that still depth of passion learns Which cannot fade.

The wind that whispers in the night, Subtle and free, The gorgeous noonday's blinding light, On hill and tree, All lovely things that meet my sight, All shifting lovelinesses bright, Speak to my heart with calm delight, Seeming to be Cloth'd with enchantment, robed in white, To sing of thee.

The ways of life are hard and cold To one alone; Bitter the strife for place and gold -- We weep and groan: But when love warms the heart grows bold; And when our arms the prize enfold, Dearest! the heart can hardly hold The bliss unknown, Unspoken, never to be told -- My own, my own!

Personality

"Death is to us change, not consummation." Heart of Midlothian.

A change! no, surely, not a change, The change must be before we die; Death may confer a wider range, From pole to pole, from sea to sky, It cannot make me new or strange To mine own Personality!

For what am I? -- this mortal flesh, These shrinking nerves, this feeble frame, For ever racked with ailments fresh And scarce from day to day the same -- A fly within the spider's mesh, A moth that plays around the flame!

THIS is not I -- within such coil The immortal spirit rests awhile: When this shall lie beneath the soil, Which its mere mortal parts defile, THAT shall for ever live and foil Mortality, and pain, and guile.

Whatever Time may make of me Eternity must see me still Clear from the dross of earth, and free From every stain of every ill; Yet still, where-e'er -- what-e'er I be, Time's work Eternity must fill.

When all the worlds have ceased to roll, When the long light has ceased to quiver When we have reached our final goal And stand beside the Living River, This vital spark -- this loving soul, Must last for ever and for ever.

To choose what I must be is mine, Mine in these few and fleeting days, I may be if I will, divine, Standing before God's throne in praise, -- Through all Eternity to shine In yonder Heaven's sapphire blaze.

Father, the soul that counts it gain To love Thee and Thy law on earth, Unchanged but free from mortal stain, Increased in knowledge and in worth, And purified from this world's pain, Shall find through Thee a second birth.

A change! no surely not a change! The change must be before we die; Death may confer a wider range From world to world, from sky to sky, It cannot make me new or strange To mine own Personality!

Daniel Henry Deniehy.

Love in a Cottage

A cottage small be mine, with porch Enwreathed with ivy green, And brightsome flowers with dew-filled bells, 'Mid brown old wattles seen.

And one to wait at shut of eve, With eyes as fountain clear, And braided hair, and simple dress, My homeward step to hear.

On summer eves to sing old songs, And talk o'er early vows, While stars look down like angels' eyes Amid the leafy boughs.

When Spring flowers peep from flossy cells, And bright-winged parrots call, In forest paths be ours to rove Till purple evenings fall.

The curtains closed, by taper clear To read some page divine, On winter nights, the hearth beside, Her soft, warm hand in mine.

And so to glide through busy life, Like some small brook alone, That winds its way 'mid grassy knolls, Its music all its own.

A Song for the Night

O the Night, the Night, the solemn Night, When Earth is bound with her silent zone, And the spangled sky seems a temple wide, Where the star-tribes kneel at the Godhead's throne; O the Night, the Night, the wizard Night, When the garish reign of day is o'er, And the myriad barques of the dream-elves come In a brightsome fleet from Slumber's shore! O the Night for me, When blithe and free, Go the zephyr-hounds on their airy chase; When the moon is high In the dewy sky, And the air is sweet as a bride's embrace!

O the Night, the Night, the charming Night! From the fountain side in the myrtle shade, All softly creep on the slumbrous air The waking notes of the serenade; While bright eyes shine 'mid the lattice-vines, And white arms droop o'er the sculptured sills, And accents fall to the knights below, Like the babblings soft of mountain rills. Love in their eyes, Love in their sighs, Love in the heave of each lily-bright bosom; In words so clear, Lest the listening ear And the waiting heart may lose them.

O the silent Night, when the student dreams Of kneeling crowds round a sage's tomb; And the mother's eyes o'er the cradle rain Tears for her baby's fading bloom; O the peaceful Night, when stilled and o'er Is the charger's tramp on the battle plain, And the bugle's sound and the sabre's flash, While the moon looks sad over heaps of slain; And tears bespeak On the iron cheek Of the sentinel lonely pacing, Thoughts which roll Through his fearless soul, Day's sterner mood replacing.

O the sacred Night, when memory comes With an aspect mild and sweet to me, But her tones are sad as a ballad air In childhood heard on a nurse's knee; And round her throng fair forms long fled, With brows of snow and hair of gold, And eyes with the light of summer skies, And lips that speak of the days of old. Wide is your flight, O spirits of Night, By strath, and stream, and grove, But most in the gloom Of the Poet's room Ye choose, fair ones, to rove.

Richard Rowe.

Superstites Rosae

The grass is green upon her grave, The west wind whispers low; "The corn is changed, come forth, come forth, Ere all the blossoms go!"

In vain. Her laughing eyes are sealed, And cold her sunny brow; Last year she smiled upon the flowers -- They smile above her now!

Soul Ferry

High and dry upon the shingle lies the fisher's boat to-night; From his roof-beam dankly drooping, raying phosphorescent light, Spectral in its pale-blue splendour, hangs his heap of scaly nets, And the fisher, lapt in slumber, surge and seine alike forgets.

Hark! there comes a sudden knocking, and the fisher starts from sleep, As a hollow voice and ghostly bids him once more seek the deep; Wearily across his shoulder flingeth he the ashen oar, And upon the beach descending finds a skiff beside the shore.

'Tis not his, but he must enter -- rocking on the waters dim, Awful in their hidden presence, who are they that wait for him? Who are they that sit so silent, as he pulleth from the land -- Nothing heard save rumbling rowlock, wave soft-breaking on the sand?

Chill adown the tossing channel blows the wailing, wand'ring breeze, Lonely in the murky midnight, mutt'ring mournful memories, -- Summer lands where once it brooded, wrecks that widows' hearts have wrung -- Swift the dreary boat flies onwards, spray, like rain, around it flung.

On a pebbled strand it grateth, ghastly cliffs around it loom, Thin and melancholy voices faintly murmur through the gloom; Voices only, lipless voices, and the fisherman turns pale, As the mother greets her children, sisters landing brothers hail.

Lightened of its unseen burden, cork-like rides the rocking bark, Fast the fisherman flies homewards o'er the billows deep and dark; THAT boat needs no mortal's mooring -- sad at heart he seeks his bed, For his life henceforth is clouded -- he hath piloted the Dead!

Sir Henry Parkes.

The Buried Chief

(November 6th, 1886)

With speechless lips and solemn tread They brought the Lawyer-Statesman home: They laid him with the gather'd dead, Where rich and poor like brothers come.

How bravely did the stripling climb, From step to step the rugged hill: His gaze thro' that benighted time Fix'd on the far-off beacon still.

He faced the storm that o'er him burst, With pride to match the proudest born: He bore unblench'd Detraction's worst, -- Paid blow for blow, and scorn for scorn.

He scaled the summit while the sun Yet shone upon his conquer'd track: Nor falter'd till the goal was won, Nor struggling upward, once look'd back.

But what avails the "pride of place", Or winged chariot rolling past? He heeds not now who wins the race, Alike to him the first or last.

Thomas Alexander Browne (`Rolf Boldrewood').

Perdita

She is beautiful yet, with her wondrous hair And eyes that are stormy with fitful light, The delicate hues of brow and cheek Are unmarred all, rose-clear and bright; That matchless frame yet holds at bay The crouching bloodhounds, Remorse, Decay.

There is no fear in her great dark eyes -- No hope, no love, no care, Stately and proud she looks around With a fierce, defiant stare; Wild words deform her reckless speech, Her laugh has a sadness tears never reach.

Whom should she fear on earth? Can Fate One direr torment lend To her few little years of glitter and gloom With the sad old story to end When the spectres of Loneliness, Want and Pain Shall arise one night with Death in their train?

. . . . .

I see in a vision a woman like her Trip down an orchard slope, With rosy prattlers that shout a name In tones of rapture and hope; While the yeoman, gazing at children and wife, Thanks God for the pride and joy of his life.

. . . . .

Whose conscience is heavy with this dark guilt? Who pays at the final day For a wasted body, a murdered soul, And how shall he answer, I say, For her outlawed years, her early doom, And despair -- despair -- beyond the tomb?

Adam Lindsay Gordon.

A Dedication

They are rhymes rudely strung with intent less Of sound than of words, In lands where bright blossoms are scentless, And songless bright birds; Where, with fire and fierce drought on her tresses, Insatiable summer oppresses Sere woodlands and sad wildernesses, And faint flocks and herds.

Where in dreariest days, when all dews end, And all winds are warm, Wild Winter's large flood-gates are loosen'd, And floods, freed from storm, From broken-up fountain heads, dash on Dry deserts with long pent up passion -- Here rhyme was first framed without fashion -- Song shaped without form.

Whence gather'd? -- The locust's glad chirrup May furnish a stave; The ring of a rowel and stirrup, The wash of a wave; The chaunt of the marsh frog in rushes, That chimes through the pauses and hushes Of nightfall, the torrent that gushes, The tempests that rave;

In the deep'ning of dawn, when it dapples The dusk of the sky, With streaks like the redd'ning of apples, The ripening of rye. To eastward, when cluster by cluster, Dim stars and dull planets, that muster, Wax wan in a world of white lustre That spreads far and high;

In the gathering of night gloom o'erhead, in The still silent change, All fire-flush'd when forest trees redden On slopes of the range. When the gnarl'd, knotted trunks Eucalyptian Seem carved, like weird columns Egyptian, With curious device, quaint inscription, And hieroglyph strange;

In the Spring, when the wattle gold trembles 'Twixt shadow and shine, When each dew-laden air draught resembles A long draught of wine; When the sky-line's blue burnish'd resistance Makes deeper the dreamiest distance, Some song in all hearts hath existence, -- Such songs have been mine.

Thora's Song

We severed in Autumn early, Ere the earth was torn by the plough; The wheat and the oats and the barley Are ripe for the harvest now. We sunder'd one misty morning Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain; Through the flowers those hills adorning -- Thou comest not back again.

My heart is heavy and weary With the weight of a weary soul; The mid-day glare grows dreary, And dreary the midnight scroll. The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle, 'Neath the load of their golden grain; I sigh for a mate more fickle -- Thou comest not back again.

The warm sun riseth and setteth, The night bringeth moistening dew, But the soul that longeth forgetteth The warmth and the moisture too. In the hot sun rising and setting There is naught save feverish pain; There are tears in the night-dews wetting -- Thou comest not back again.

Thy voice in my ear still mingles With the voices of whisp'ring trees, Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles At each kiss of the summer breeze. While dreams of the past are thronging For substance of shades in vain, I am waiting, watching and longing -- Thou comest not back again.

Waiting and watching ever, Longing and lingering yet; Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver, Winds murmur and waters fret. No answer they bring, no greeting, No speech, save that sad refrain, Nor voice, save an echo repeating -- He cometh not back again.

The Sick Stock-rider

Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade. Old man, you've had your work cut out to guide Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when I swayed, All through the hot, slow, sleepy, silent ride. The dawn at "Moorabinda" was a mist rack dull and dense, The sun-rise was a sullen, sluggish lamp; I was dozing in the gateway at Arbuthnot's bound'ry fence, I was dreaming on the Limestone cattle camp. We crossed the creek at Carricksford, and sharply through the haze, And suddenly the sun shot flaming forth; To southward lay "Katawa", with the sand peaks all ablaze, And the flushed fields of Glen Lomond lay to north. Now westward winds the bridle-path that leads to Lindisfarm, And yonder looms the double-headed Bluff; From the far side of the first hill, when the skies are clear and calm, You can see Sylvester's woolshed fair enough. Five miles we used to call it from our homestead to the place Where the big tree spans the roadway like an arch; 'Twas here we ran the dingo down that gave us such a chase Eight years ago -- or was it nine? -- last March. 'Twas merry in the glowing morn among the gleaming grass, To wander as we've wandered many a mile, And blow the cool tobacco cloud, and watch the white wreaths pass, Sitting loosely in the saddle all the while. 'Twas merry 'mid the blackwoods, when we spied the station roofs, To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard, With a running fire of stock whips and a fiery run of hoofs; Oh! the hardest day was never then too hard! Aye! we had a glorious gallop after "Starlight" and his gang, When they bolted from Sylvester's on the flat; How the sun-dried reed-beds crackled, how the flint-strewn ranges rang, To the strokes of "Mountaineer" and "Acrobat". Hard behind them in the timber, harder still across the heath, Close beside them through the tea-tree scrub we dash'd; And the golden-tinted fern leaves, how they rustled underneath; And the honeysuckle osiers, how they crash'd! We led the hunt throughout, Ned, on the chestnut and the grey, And the troopers were three hundred yards behind, While we emptied our six-shooters on the bushrangers at bay, In the creek with stunted box-trees for a blind! There you grappled with the leader, man to man, and horse to horse, And you roll'd together when the chestnut rear'd; He blazed away and missed you in that shallow water-course -- A narrow shave -- his powder singed your beard!

In these hours when life is ebbing, how those days when life was young Come back to us; how clearly I recall Even the yarns Jack Hall invented, and the songs Jem Roper sung; And where are now Jem Roper and Jack Hall? Ay! nearly all our comrades of the old colonial school, Our ancient boon companions, Ned, are gone; Hard livers for the most part, somewhat reckless as a rule, It seems that you and I are left alone. There was Hughes, who got in trouble through that business with the cards, It matters little what became of him; But a steer ripp'd up Macpherson in the Cooraminta yards, And Sullivan was drown'd at Sink-or-swim; And Mostyn -- poor Frank Mostyn -- died at last, a fearful wreck, In the "horrors" at the Upper Wandinong, And Carisbrooke, the rider, at the Horsefall broke his neck; Faith! the wonder was he saved his neck so long!

Ah! those days and nights we squandered at the Logans' in the glen -- The Logans, man and wife, have long been dead. Elsie's tallest girl seems taller than your little Elsie then; And Ethel is a woman grown and wed.

I've had my share of pastime, and I've done my share of toil, And life is short -- the longest life a span; I care not now to tarry for the corn or for the oil, Or for wine that maketh glad the heart of man. For good undone, and gifts misspent, and resolutions vain, 'Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know -- I should live the same life over, if I had to live again; And the chances are I go where most men go.

The deep blue skies wax dusky, and the tall green trees grow dim, The sward beneath me seems to heave and fall; And sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy sunlight swim, And on the very sun's face weave their pall. Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blossoms wave, With never stone or rail to fence my bed; Should the sturdy station children pull the bush-flowers on my grave, I may chance to hear them romping overhead.

I don't suppose I shall though, for I feel like sleeping sound, That sleep, they say, is doubtful. True; but yet At least it makes no difference to the dead man underground What the living men remember or forget. Enigmas that perplex us in the world's unequal strife, The future may ignore or may reveal; Yet some, as weak as water, Ned, to make the best of life, Have been to face the worst as true as steel.

Henry Kendall.

Prefatory Sonnets

I.

I purposed once to take my pen and write, Not songs, like some, tormented and awry With passion, but a cunning harmony Of words and music caught from glen and height, And lucid colours born of woodland light And shining places where the sea-streams lie. But this was when the heat of youth glowed white, And since I've put the faded purpose by. I have no faultless fruits to offer you Who read this book; but certain syllables Herein are borrowed from unfooted dells And secret hollows dear to noontide dew; And these at least, though far between and few, May catch the sense like subtle forest spells.

II.

So take these kindly, even though there be Some notes that unto other lyres belong, Stray echoes from the elder sons of song; And think how from its neighbouring native sea The pensive shell doth borrow melody. I would not do the lordly masters wrong By filching fair words from the shining throng Whose music haunts me as the wind a tree! Lo, when a stranger in soft Syrian glooms Shot through with sunset treads the cedar dells, And hears the breezy ring of elfin bells Far down by where the white-haired cataract booms, He, faint with sweetness caught from forest smells, Bears thence, unwitting, plunder of perfumes.

September in Australia

Grey Winter hath gone, like a wearisome guest, And, behold, for repayment, September comes in with the wind of the West And the Spring in her raiment! The ways of the frost have been filled of the flowers, While the forest discovers Wild wings, with the halo of hyaline hours, And the music of lovers.

September, the maid with the swift, silver feet! She glides, and she graces The valleys of coolness, the slopes of the heat, With her blossomy traces; Sweet month, with a mouth that is made of a rose, She lightens and lingers In spots where the harp of the evening glows, Attuned by her fingers.

The stream from its home in the hollow hill slips In a darling old fashion; And the day goeth down with a song on its lips Whose key-note is passion; Far out in the fierce, bitter front of the sea I stand, and remember Dead things that were brothers and sisters of thee, Resplendent September.

The West, when it blows at the fall of the noon And beats on the beaches, Is filled with a tender and tremulous tune That touches and teaches; The stories of Youth, of the burden of Time, And the death of Devotion, Come back with the wind, and are themes of the rhyme In the waves of the ocean.

We, having a secret to others unknown, In the cool mountain-mosses, May whisper together, September, alone Of our loves and our losses. One word for her beauty, and one for the grace She gave to the hours; And then we may kiss her, and suffer her face To sleep with the flowers.

. . . . .

Oh, season of changes -- of shadow and shine -- September the splendid! My song hath no music to mingle with thine, And its burden is ended; But thou, being born of the winds and the sun, By mountain, by river, Mayst lighten and listen, and loiter and run, With thy voices for ever.

Rose Lorraine

Sweet water-moons, blown into lights Of flying gold on pool and creek, And many sounds and many sights Of younger days are back this week. I cannot say I sought to face Or greatly cared to cross again The subtle spirit of the place Whose life is mixed with Rose Lorraine.

What though her voice rings clearly through A nightly dream I gladly keep, No wish have I to start anew Heart fountains that have ceased to leap. Here, face to face with different days, And later things that plead for love, It would be worse than wrong to raise A phantom far too vain to move.

But, Rose Lorraine -- ah! Rose Lorraine, I'll whisper now, where no one hears -- If you should chance to meet again The man you kissed in soft, dead years, Just say for once "He suffered much," And add to this "His fate was worst Because of me, my voice, my touch" -- There is no passion like the first!

If I that breathe your slow sweet name, As one breathes low notes on a flute, Have vext your peace with word of blame, The phrase is dead -- the lips are mute. Yet when I turn towards the wall, In stormy nights, in times of rain, I often wish you could recall Your tender speeches, Rose Lorraine.

Because, you see, I thought them true, And did not count you self-deceived, And gave myself in all to you, And looked on Love as Life achieved. Then came the bitter, sudden change, The fastened lips, the dumb despair: The first few weeks were very strange, And long, and sad, and hard to bear.

No woman lives with power to burst My passion's bonds, and set me free; For Rose is last where Rose was first, And only Rose is fair to me. The faintest memory of her face, The wilful face that hurt me so, Is followed by a fiery trace That Rose Lorraine must never know.

I keep a faded ribbon string You used to wear about your throat; And of this pale, this perished thing, I think I know the threads by rote. God help such love! To touch your hand, To loiter where your feet might fall, You marvellous girl, my soul would stand The worst of hell -- its fires and all!

To a Mountain

To thee, O father of the stately peaks, Above me in the loftier light -- to thee, Imperial brother of those awful hills Whose feet are set in splendid spheres of flame, Whose heads are where the gods are, and whose sides Of strength are belted round with all the zones Of all the world, I dedicate these songs. And if, within the compass of this book, There lives and glows ONE verse in which there beats The pulse of wind and torrent -- if ONE line Is here that like a running water sounds, And seems an echo from the lands of leaf, Be sure that line is thine. Here, in this home, Away from men and books and all the schools, I take thee for my Teacher. In thy voice Of deathless majesty, I, kneeling, hear God's grand authentic Gospel! Year by year, The great sublime cantata of thy storm Strikes through my spirit -- fills it with a life Of startling beauty! Thou my Bible art With holy leaves of rock, and flower, and tree, And moss, and shining runnel. From each page That helps to make thy awful volume, I Have learned a noble lesson. In the psalm Of thy grave winds, and in the liturgy Of singing waters, lo! my soul has heard The higher worship; and from thee, indeed, The broad foundations of a finer hope Were gathered in; and thou hast lifted up The blind horizon for a larger faith! Moreover, walking in exalted woods Of naked glory, in the green and gold Of forest sunshine, I have paused like one With all the life transfigured: and a flood Of light ineffable has made me feel As felt the grand old prophets caught away By flames of inspiration; but the words Sufficient for the story of my Dream Are far too splendid for poor human lips! But thou, to whom I turn with reverent eyes -- O stately Father, whose majestic face Shines far above the zone of wind and cloud, Where high dominion of the morning is -- Thou hast the Song complete of which my songs Are pallid adumbrations! Certain sounds Of strong authentic sorrow in this book May have the sob of upland torrents -- these, And only these, may touch the great World's heart; For, lo! they are the issues of that grief Which makes a man more human, and his life More like that frank exalted life of thine. But in these pages there are other tones In which thy large, superior voice is not -- Through which no beauty that resembles thine Has ever shone. THESE are the broken words Of blind occasions, when the World has come Between me and my Dream. No song is here Of mighty compass; for my singing robes I've worn in stolen moments. All my days Have been the days of a laborious life, And ever on my struggling soul has burned The fierce heat of this hurried sphere. But thou, To whose fair majesty I dedicate My book of rhymes -- thou hast the perfect rest Which makes the heaven of the highest gods! To thee the noises of this violent time Are far, faint whispers; and, from age to age, Within the world and yet apart from it, Thou standest! Round thy lordly capes the sea Rolls on with a superb indifference For ever; in thy deep, green, gracious glens The silver fountains sing for ever. Far Above dim ghosts of waters in the caves, The royal robe of morning on thy head Abides for ever! Evermore the wind Is thy august companion; and thy peers Are cloud, and thunder, and the face sublime Of blue mid-heaven! On thy awful brow Is Deity; and in that voice of thine There is the great imperial utterance Of God for ever; and thy feet are set Where evermore, through all the days and years, There rolls the grand hymn of the deathless wave.

Araluen

Take this rose, and very gently place it on the tender, deep Mosses where our little darling, Araluen, lies asleep. Put the blossom close to baby -- kneel with me, my love, and pray; We must leave the bird we've buried -- say good-bye to her to-day; In the shadow of our trouble we must go to other lands, And the flowers we have fostered will be left to other hands. Other eyes will watch them growing -- other feet will softly tread Where two hearts are nearly breaking, where so many tears are shed. Bitter is the world we live in: life and love are mixed with pain; We will never see these daisies -- never water them again. . . . . . Here the blue-eyed Spring will linger, here the shining month will stay, Like a friend, by Araluen, when we two are far away; But, beyond the wild, wide waters, we will tread another shore -- We will never watch this blossom, never see it any more.

Girl, whose hand at God's high altar in the dear, dead year I pressed, Lean your stricken head upon me -- this is still your lover's breast! She who sleeps was first and sweetest -- none we have to take her place! Empty is the little cradle -- absent is the little face. Other children may be given; but this rose beyond recall, But this garland of your girlhood, will be dearest of them all. None will ever, Araluen, nestle where you used to be, In my heart of hearts, you darling, when the world was new to me; We were young when you were with us, life and love were happy things To your father and your mother ere the angels gave you wings.

You that sit and sob beside me -- you, upon whose golden head Many rains of many sorrows have from day to day been shed; Who, because your love was noble, faced with me the lot austere Ever pressing with its hardship on the man of letters here -- Let me feel that you are near me, lay your hand within mine own; You are all I have to live for, now that we are left alone. Three there were, but one has vanished. Sins of mine have made you weep; But forgive your baby's father now that baby is asleep. Let us go, for night is falling, leave the darling with her flowers; Other hands will come and tend them -- other friends in other hours.

After Many Years

The song that once I dreamed about, The tender, touching thing, As radiant as the rose without, The love of wind and wing: The perfect verses, to the tune Of woodland music set, As beautiful as afternoon, Remain unwritten yet.

It is too late to write them now -- The ancient fire is cold; No ardent lights illume the brow, As in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again; But, when the happy birds Are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words.

I think I hear the echo still Of long-forgotten tones, When evening winds are on the hill And sunset fires the cones; But only in the hours supreme, With songs of land and sea, The lyrics of the leaf and stream, This echo comes to me.

No longer doth the earth reveal Her gracious green and gold; I sit where youth was once, and feel That I am growing old. The lustre from the face of things Is wearing all away; Like one who halts with tired wings, I rest and muse to-day.

There is a river in the range I love to think about; Perhaps the searching feet of change Have never found it out. Ah! oftentimes I used to look Upon its banks, and long To steal the beauty of that brook And put it in a song.

I wonder if the slopes of moss, In dreams so dear to me -- The falls of flower, and flower-like floss -- Are as they used to be! I wonder if the waterfalls, The singers far and fair, That gleamed between the wet, green walls, Are still the marvels there!

Ah! let me hope that in that place Those old familiar things To which I turn a wistful face Have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still That, past the lordly range, There always shines, in folds of hill, One spot secure from change!

I trust that yet the tender screen That shades a certain nook Remains, with all its gold and green, The glory of the brook. It hides a secret to the birds And waters only known: The letters of two lovely words -- A poem on a stone.

Perhaps the lady of the past Upon these lines may light, The purest verses, and the last, That I may ever write: She need not fear a word of blame: Her tale the flowers keep -- The wind that heard me breathe her name Has been for years asleep.

But in the night, and when the rain The troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again The river in the hills; And when the day is very near, And birds are on the wing, My spirit fancies it can hear The song I cannot sing.

Hy-Brasil

"Daughter," said the ancient father, pausing by the evening sea, "Turn thy face towards the sunset -- turn thy face and kneel with me! Prayer and praise and holy fasting, lips of love and life of light, These and these have made thee perfect -- shining saint with seraph's sight! Look towards that flaming crescent -- look beyond that glowing space -- Tell me, sister of the angels, what is beaming in thy face?" And the daughter, who had fasted, who had spent her days in prayer, Till the glory of the Saviour touched her head and rested there, Turned her eyes towards the sea-line -- saw beyond the fiery crest, Floating over waves of jasper, far Hy-Brasil in the West.

All the calmness and the colour -- all the splendour and repose, Flowing where the sunset flowered, like a silver-hearted rose! There indeed was singing Eden, where the great gold river runs Past the porch and gates of crystal, ringed by strong and shining ones! There indeed was God's own garden, sailing down the sapphire sea -- Lawny dells and slopes of summer, dazzling stream and radiant tree! Out against the hushed horizon -- out beneath the reverent day, Flamed the Wonder on the waters -- flamed, and flashed, and passed away. And the maiden who had seen it felt a hand within her own, And an angel that we know not led her to the lands unknown.

Never since hath eye beheld it -- never since hath mortal, dazed By its strange, unearthly splendour, on the floating Eden gazed! Only once since Eve went weeping through a throng of glittering wings, Hath the holy seen Hy-Brasil where the great gold river sings! Only once by quiet waters, under still, resplendent skies, Did the sister of the seraphs kneel in sight of Paradise! She, the pure, the perfect woman, sanctified by patient prayer, Had the eyes of saints of Heaven, all their glory in her hair: Therefore God the Father whispered to a radiant spirit near -- "Show Our daughter fair Hy-Brasil -- show her this, and lead her here."

But beyond the halls of sunset, but within the wondrous West, On the rose-red seas of evening, sails the Garden of the Blest. Still the gates of glassy beauty, still the walls of glowing light, Shine on waves that no man knows of, out of sound and out of sight. Yet the slopes and lawns of lustre, yet the dells of sparkling streams, Dip to tranquil shores of jasper, where the watching angel beams. But, behold! our eyes are human, and our way is paved with pain, We can never find Hy-Brasil, never see its hills again! Never look on bays of crystal, never bend the reverent knee In the sight of Eden floating -- floating on the sapphire sea!

Outre Mer

I see, as one in dreaming, A broad, bright, quiet sea; Beyond it lies a haven -- The only home for me. Some men grow strong with trouble, But all my strength is past, And tired and full of sorrow, I long to sleep at last. By force of chance and changes Man's life is hard at best; And, seeing rest is voiceless, The dearest thing is rest.

Beyond the sea -- behold it, The home I wish to seek, The refuge of the weary, The solace of the weak! Sweet angel fingers beckon, Sweet angel voices ask My soul to cross the waters; And yet I dread the task. God help the man whose trials Are tares that he must reap! He cannot face the future -- His only hope is sleep.

Across the main a vision Of sunset coasts, and skies, And widths of waters gleaming, Enchant my human eyes. I, who have sinned and suffered, Have sought -- with tears have sought -- To rule my life with goodness, And shape it to my thought. And yet there is no refuge To shield me from distress, Except the realm of slumber And great forgetfulness.

Marcus Clarke.

The Song of Tigilau

The song of Tigilau the brave, Sina's wild lover, Who across the heaving wave From 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 breast Heaves 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 sails Of 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 him Burns at his own. Away! To the canoes, To the yoked war canoes! The sea in murmurous tone Whispers 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 feet Mats 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 mouth Of 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 seats Of 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 dipt In 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 steal If no darkling aureolar rays may reveal That the Future is haply not utterly cheerless: While the Present has joy and adventure as rare As the Past when most fair?

And if weary of mists you will roam undisdaining To a land where the fanciful fountains are raining Swift brilliants of boiling and beautiful spray In the violet splendour of skies that illume Such 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 pine For 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 lead In the dreamy house for ever that this new bosom-weed Has sprouted up and spread its shoots till it troubles me indeed With 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 away From 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 wear Two 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 ear Thrills to that finer atmosphere Where 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 sky Auroral heralds whispering, "She is nigh."

She is not yet; but he whose sight Foreknows the advent of the light, Whose soul to morning radiance turns Ere night her curtain hath withdrawn, And in its quivering folds discerns The mute monitions of the dawn, With urgent sense strained onward to descry Her 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 aflame With sanguine imminence of morn, Wait but the sun-kiss to proclaim The Day of The Dominion born. Prelusive baptism! -- ere the natal hour Named 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 word To bid her tremble into form. Already, like divining-rods, men's souls Bend 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 wise Conspires with nature to disclose The blessing prisoned and unseen, Till round our lessening wastes there glows A perfect zone of broadening green, -- Till all our land, Australia Felix called, Become one Continent-Isle of Emerald;

So flows beneath our good and ill A viewless stream of Common Will, A gathering force, a present might, That from its silent depths of gloom At 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 sages Long time with mystery of strange unrest; The steadfast law that rounds the starry ages Gave 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 perturbation And 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 embraces O'ertake remotest change of clime and skies -- Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose grievous traces Are 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 compelling Our 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 subserving The 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 me This 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 creep Along the years; we marvel and we wonder Why life is life, and then we fall asleep Not understood.

Not understood, we gather false impressions And hug them closer as the years go by; Till virtues often seem to us transgressions; And thus men rise and fall, and live and die Not understood.

Not understood! Poor souls with stunted vision Oft measure giants with their narrow gauge; The poisoned shafts of falsehood and derision Are oft impelled 'gainst those who mould the age, Not understood.

Not understood! The secret springs of action Which lie beneath the surface and the show, Are disregarded; with self-satisfaction We judge our neighbours, and they often go Not understood.

Not understood! How trifles often change us! The thoughtless sentence and the fancied slight Destroy long years of friendship, and estrange us, And on our souls there falls a freezing blight; Not understood.

Not understood! How many breasts are aching For lack of sympathy! Ah! day by day How 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 nearer To 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 end Up 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 affection Are whispered by thee in thy tenderest tone, And in the winter dark clouds of dejection By 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 grope In trembling faith and hope, If haply, brightening, it may cast A 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 cry At 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 pacify This 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 never Take 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, chastise The rebel spirit surging in my veins, Let the Law deal me penalties and pains And 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 away In all-surrounding darkness, void and clear. Drifting, I spread vain hands, and vainly peer And vainly call for pilot, -- weep and pray; Beyond these limits not the faintest ray Shows distant coast whereto the lost may steer.

O what is life, if we must hold it thus As wind-blown sparks hold momentary fire? What are these gifts without the larger boon? O what is art, or wealth, or fame to us Who 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 head Unsullied 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 leaves Yielded by thy stalwart spouse, Helps thee to show thy fairy crown, Decorates his dusky boughs: His strength, thy beauty, both unite And form a picture to delight.

Fair flower, methinks thou dost afford Emblem of a perfect wife, Whose work is hidden from the world, Till, perchance, her husband's life Is 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 malice Shrilled 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 myrtle Laugh 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 hovered The sweet, sad wraith of my vanished bliss.

Heart clings to Heart -- let the strange years sever The fates of two who had met -- to part; Love's strength survives, and the harsh world never Shall 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 swim By the shadowy rim Where the grey gum dips to the western plain, And you rayed delight As you winged your flight To 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 strayed A 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 delight Till our souls take flight To 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 words When 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 deep When 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 breast Come 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 rest Made 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 shade The 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 more We toiled, ere we reached Bindanna's verge And 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 soil As 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 part Leaving her name unsaid?

No -- No! -- Though neither sign nor sound A parting thought expressed -- Not heedless passed the Homeward-Bound Of 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 star Should 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 speak When all the rest were past -- As in the parting-hour we seek The dearest hand the last.

And while for this delaying but To 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 line Upon 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 sand Upon our farther way? Or reedy ranks all knee-deep stand? Or leafy tree-tops sway? The gold of dawn is surely met In 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 tender As 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 completeness From tiny germ, thy diadem?

Thou art the fair earth's fond expression Of tenderness for heaven above -- The virgin blush that yields confession -- Thou bright "ambassador of love"!

Fair are thy leaves when summer glowing Lies in the lap of swooning spring; But where art thou when autumn, blowing, Bids youth and tenderness take wing?

Sweet messenger! thou waftest beauty Wherever human lives are sown, Around the peasant's humble duty Or weary grandeurs of a throne.

Transfused through hearts in future ages, Thy glowing power anew may shine Effulgent in the poets' pages Or music's harmony divine.

But not to thee from future glory Can shine one added charm or day; Sweet is thy life's unwritten story Of 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 perfume Breathed o'er honeyed Clematis lips.

At last we climbed to the ridge on high Ah, crystal vision! Dreamland nigh! Far, far below us, the wide Pacific Slumbered in azure from sky to sky.

And cloud and shadow, across the deep Wavered, or paused in enchanted sleep, And eastward, the purple-misted islets Fretted 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 forlorn That 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-Minster Rises 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 on And 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 sky Behind 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 cascade Shakes with wild laughter all the silent shadowy glade.

Now from the shuttered east a silvery bar Shines 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 fire Dance 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 be That 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-verge I see the ships labouring on; They rise on the lifting surge One moment, and they are gone. I see on the twilight plain The 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 woods When 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 land There were not then, I ween, Than those young lovers' -- yours and mine -- When these dead leaves were green.

How gaily did you pluck these leaves From 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 fled From Time's unstaying fount? We've had our share of happiness, Our share of care have seen; But love alone has never flown Since these dead leaves were green.

Your heart is kind and loving still, Your face to me as fair, As when, that morn, the sunshine played Amid your golden hair. So, dearest, sweethearts still we'll be, As we have ever been, And keep our love as fresh and true As when these leaves were green.

Isolation

Man lives alone; star-like, each soul In 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 pursues In 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 mere The stream that through it, flashing bright, Carries its waters swift and clear.

The fringes of the rushing tide May on the lake's calm bosom sleep -- Its hidden spirit doth abide Apart, 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 strife Our 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 appears The 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 deep There are, each soul alone must bear, Through midnight hours unblest with sleep, Through burning noontides of despair.

And kindly is the ordinance sent By which each spirit dwells apart -- Could Love or Friendship live, if rent The "Bluebeard chambers of the heart"?

Ishmonie

The traveller tells how, in that ancient clime Whose mystic monuments and ruins hoar Still 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 life In worlds beyond, and in this world the hope Of deathless fame. But now my sun doth slope To 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 remains But this: "Some soul that loves and understands Shall save thee from the darkness that enshrouds"; And this: "Thy blood shall course in others' veins"?

Heredity

More than a fleshly immortality Is mine. Though I myself return again To 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 plain In you, my daughters; and I count it gain Myself 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 sees The 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 bees Honey-sweet, are more radiant and rare In colour and fragrance than these Boon 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 please Other 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 only The Southern stars, And the moon o'er brimming Her golden bars. And a song sweet and clear As the bell-bird's plaint, Hums low in my ear Like 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 brow Your perfumed lips Breathing love and life -- The love of the maiden, The trust of the wife. And I'm listening still To the ripple and flow -- How did it go? -- Of the little French song Of that long ago.

Can you recall it Across the years? You used to sing it With laughter and tears. If you sang it now, dear, That kind old refrain, It would bring back the fragrance Of 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 lake And serpent-haunted fen; Land of the torrent and the fire And forest-sundered men: Thou art not now as thou shalt be When the stern invaders come, In the hush before the hurricane, The dread before the drum.

A louder thunder shall be heard Than echoes on thy shore, When o'er the blackened basalt cliffs The foreign cannon roar -- When the stand is made in the sheoaks' shade When heroes fall for thee, And the creeks in gloomy gullies run Dark 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 strife Of those who wrestle against odds For liberty and life:

Then is the great Dominion born, The seven sisters bound, From Sydney's greenly wooded port To lone King George's Sound -- Then shall the islands of the south, The lands of bloom and snow, Forth from their isolation come To meet the common foe.

Then, only then -- when after war Is peace with honour born, When from the bosom of the night Comes 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 pillar The rolling woodland comes, Gay with the gold of she-oaks And the green of the stunted gums, With the silver-grey of honeysuckle, With the wasted bracken red, With a tuft of softest emerald And 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 fastness Of the breeding eagle's nest, And Cape Wollomai opened eastward And the Otway on the west.

Over the mirror of azure The purple shadows crept, League upon league of rollers Landward 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 trumpet Rang out to the earth and skies, Till the reefs and the rocky ramparts Throbbed to the giant fray, And the gullies and jutting headlands Were bathed in a misty spray.

Oh, sweet in the distant ranges, To the ear of inland men, Is the ripple of falling water In sassafras-haunted glen, The stir in the ripening cornfield That 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 music Trouble and grief and pain, That murmurs the requiem sweetest For those who have loved and lost, And thunders a jubilant anthem To brave hearts tempest-tossed.

That takes to its boundless bosom The burden of all our care, That whispers of sorrow vanquished, Of hours that may yet be fair, That tells of a Harbour of Refuge Beyond 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 scatter Odours 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 enchantment Melts 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 dim The 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 gray And 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 grace Since mud-built London by its fen Became the Briton's breeding-place? What of the Village, where our blood Was 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 Home Of English tilth and English cost, Where fell the hamlet won by Rome And rose the city that she lost? O! terrible and grand and strange Beyond all phantasy that gleams When Hope, asleep, sees radiant Change Come to her through the halls of dreams!

A heaving sea of life, that beats Like England's heart of pride to-day, And up from roaring miles of streets Flings 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 though A hundred cities flamed and fell;

While, under many a fair festoon And flowering crescent, set ablaze With all the dyes that English June Can 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 eyes Goes a grey Queen of Sixty Years --

Go lords, and servants of the lords Of earth, with homage on their lips, And kinsmen carrying English swords, And offering England battle-ships; And tribute-payers, on whose hands Their English fetters scarce appear; And gathered round from utmost lands Ambassadors of Love and Fear!

Dim signs of greeting waved afar, Far trumpets blown and flags unfurled, And England's name an Avatar Of light and sound throughout the world -- Hailed Empress among nations, Queen Enthroned in solemn majesty, On splendid proofs of what has been, And presages of what will be!

For this your sons, foreseeing not Or heeding not, the aftermath, Because their strenuous hearts were hot Went first on many a cruel path, And, trusting first and last to blows, Fed death with such as would gainsay Their instant passing, or oppose With talk of Right strength's right of way!

For this their names are on the stone Of mountain spires, and carven trees That stand in flickering wastes unknown Wait with their dying messages; When fire blasts dance with desert drifts The English bones show white below, And, not so white, when summer lifts The counterpane of Yukon's snow.

Condemned by blood to reach for grapes That hang in sight, however high, Beyond the smoke of Asian capes, The nameless, dauntless, dead ones lie; And where Sierran morning shines On summits rolling out like waves, By many a brow of royal pines The noisiest find quiet graves.

By lust of flesh and lust of gold, And depth of loins and hairy breadth Of breast, and hands to take and hold, And boastful scorn of pain and death, And something more of manliness Than tamer men, and growing shame Of shameful things, and something less Of 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!

Red sins were yours: the avid greed Of pirate fathers, smocked as Grace, Sent Judas missioners to read Christ's Word to many a feebler race -- False priests of Truth who made their tryst At Mammon's shrine, and reft or slew -- Some hands you taught to pray to Christ Have prayed His curse to rest on you!

Your way has been to pluck the blade Too readily, and train the guns. We here, apart and unafraid Of envious foes, are but your sons: We stretched a heedless hand to smutch Our spotless flag with Murder's blight -- For one less sacrilegious touch God's vengeance blasted Uzza white!

You vaunted most of forts and fleets, And courage proved in battle-feasts, The courage of the beast that eats His torn and quivering fellow-beasts; Your pride of deadliest armament -- What is it but the self-same dint Of joy with which the Caveman bent To shape a bloodier axe of flint?

But praise to you, and more than praise And thankfulness, for some things done; And blessedness, and length of days As long as earth shall last, or sun! You first among the peoples spoke Sharp words and angry questionings Which burst the bonds and shed the yoke That made your men the slaves of Kings!

You set and showed the whole world's school The lesson it will surely read, That each one ruled has right to rule -- The alphabet of Freedom's creed Which slowly wins it proselytes And makes uneasier many a throne; You taught them all to prate of Rights In language growing like your own!

And now your holiest and best And wisest dream of such a tie As, holding hearts from East to West, Shall strengthen while the years go by: And of a time when every man For every fellow-man will do His kindliest, working by the plan God set him. May the dream come true!

And greater dreams! O Englishmen, Be sure the safest time of all For even the mightiest State is when Not even the least desires its fall! Make England stand supreme for aye, Because supreme for peace and good, Warned well by wrecks of yesterday That strongest feet may slip in blood!

Arthur Patchett Martin.

Bushland

Not sweeter to the storm-tossed mariner Is glimpse of home, where wife and children wait To welcome him with kisses at the gate, Than to the town-worn man the breezy stir Of mountain winds on rugged pathless heights: His long-pent soul drinks in the deep delights That Nature hath in store. The sun-kissed bay Gleams thro' the grand old gnarled gum-tree boughs Like burnished brass; the strong-winged bird of prey Sweeps by, upon his lonely vengeful way -- While over all, like breath of holy vows, The sweet airs blow, and the high-vaulted sky Looks down in pity this fair Summer day On all poor earth-born creatures doomed to die.

Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen.

Under the Wattle

"Why should not wattle do For mistletoe?" Asked one -- they were but two -- Where wattles grow.

He was her lover, too, Who urged her so -- "Why should not wattle do For mistletoe?"

A rose-cheek rosier grew; Rose-lips breathed low; "Since it is here, and YOU, I hardly know Why wattle should not do."

Victor James Daley.

Players

And after all -- and after all, Our passionate prayers, and sighs, and tears, Is life a reckless carnival? And are they lost, our golden years?

Ah, no; ah, no; for, long ago, Ere time could sear, or care could fret, There was a youth called Romeo, There was a maid named Juliet.

The players of the past are gone; The races rise; the races pass; And softly over all is drawn The quiet Curtain of the Grass.

But when the world went wild with Spring, What days we had! Do you forget? When I of all the world was King, And you were my Queen Juliet?

The things that are; the things that seem -- Who shall distinguish shape from show? The great processional, splendid dream Of life is all I wish to know.

The gods their faces turn away From nations and their little wars; But we our golden drama play Before the footlights of the stars.

There lives -- though Time should cease to flow, And stars their courses should forget -- There lives a grey-haired Romeo, Who loves a golden Juliet.

Anna

The pale discrowned stacks of maize, Like spectres in the sun, Stand shivering nigh Avonaise, Where all is dead and gone.

The sere leaves make a music vain, With melancholy chords; Like cries from some old battle-plain, Like clash of phantom swords.

But when the maize was lush and green With musical green waves, She went, its plumed ranks between, Unto the hill of graves.

There you may see sweet flowers set O'er damsels and o'er dames -- Rose, Ellen, Mary, Margaret -- The sweet old quiet names.

The gravestones show in long array, Though white or green with moss, How linked in Life and Death are they -- The Shamrock and the Cross.

The gravestones face the Golden East, And in the morn they take The blessing of the Great High Priest, Before the living wake.

Who was she? Never ask her name, Her beauty and her grace Have passed, with her poor little shame, Into the Silent Place.

In Avonaise, in Avonaise, Where all is dead and done, The folk who rest there all their days Care not for moon or sun.

They care not, when the living pass, Whether they sigh or smile; They hear above their graves the grass That sighs -- "A little while!"

A white stone marks her small green bed With "Anna" and "Adieu". Madonna Mary, rest her head On your dear lap of blue!

The Night Ride

The red sun on the lonely lands Gazed, under clouds of rose, As one who under knitted hands Takes one last look and goes.

Then Pain, with her white sister Fear, Crept nearer to my bed: "The sands are running; dost thou hear Thy sobbing heart?" she said.

There came a rider to the gate, And stern and clear spake he: "For meat or drink thou must not wait, But rise and ride with me."

I waited not for meat or drink, Or kiss, or farewell kind -- But oh! my heart was sore to think Of friends I left behind.

We rode o'er hills that seemed to sweep Skyward like swelling waves; The living stirred not in their sleep, The dead slept in their graves.

And ever as we rode I heard A moan of anguish sore -- No voice of man or beast or bird, But all of these and more.

"Is it the moaning of the Earth? Dark Rider, answer me!" "It is the cry of life at birth" He answered quietly:

"But thou canst turn a face of cheer To good days still in store; Thou needst not care for Pain or Fear -- They cannot harm thee more."

Yet I rode on with sullen heart, And said with breaking breath, "If thou art he I think thou art, Then slay me now, O Death!"

The veil was from my eyesight drawn -- "Thou knowest now," said he: "I am the Angel of the Dawn! Ride back, and wait for me."

So I rode back at morning light, And there, beside my bed, Fear had become a lily white And Pain a rose of red.

Alice Werner.

Bannerman of the Dandenong

I rode through the Bush in the burning noon, Over the hills to my bride, -- The track was rough and the way was long, And Bannerman of the Dandenong, He rode along by my side.

A day's march off my Beautiful dwelt, By the Murray streams in the West; -- Lightly lilting a gay love-song Rode Bannerman of the Dandenong, With a blood-red rose on his breast.

"Red, red rose of the Western streams" Was the song he sang that day -- Truest comrade in hour of need, -- Bay Mathinna his peerless steed -- I had my own good grey.

There fell a spark on the upland grass -- The dry Bush leapt into flame; -- And I felt my heart go cold as death, And Bannerman smiled and caught his breath, -- But I heard him name Her name.

Down the hill-side the fire-floods rushed, On the roaring eastern wind; -- Neck and neck was the reckless race, -- Ever the bay mare kept her pace, But the grey horse dropped behind.

He turned in the saddle -- "Let's change, I say!" And his bridle rein he drew. He sprang to the ground, -- "Look sharp!" he said With a backward toss of his curly head -- "I ride lighter than you!"

Down and up -- it was quickly done -- No words to waste that day! -- Swift as a swallow she sped along, The good bay mare from Dandenong, -- And Bannerman rode the grey.

The hot air scorched like a furnace blast From the very mouth of Hell: -- The blue gums caught and blazed on high Like flaming pillars into the sky; . . . The grey horse staggered and fell.

"Ride, ride, lad, -- ride for her sake!" he cried; -- Into the gulf of flame Were swept, in less than a breathing space The laughing eyes, and the comely face, And the lips that named HER name.

She bore me bravely, the good bay mare; -- Stunned, and dizzy and blind, I heard the sound of a mingling roar -- 'Twas the Lachlan River that rushed before, And the flames that rolled behind.

Safe -- safe, at Nammoora gate, I fell, and lay like a stone. O love! thine arms were about me then, Thy warm tears called me to life again, -- But -- O God! that I came alone! --

We dwell in peace, my beautiful one And I, by the streams in the West, -- But oft through the mist of my dreams along Rides Bannerman of the Dandenong, With the blood-red rose on his breast.

Ethel Castilla.

An Australian Girl

"She's pretty to walk with, And witty to talk with, And pleasant, too, to think on." Sir John Suckling.

She has a beauty of her own, A beauty of a paler tone Than English belles; Yet southern sun and southern air Have kissed her cheeks, until they wear The dainty tints that oft appear On rosy shells.

Her frank, clear eyes bespeak a mind Old-world traditions fail to bind. She is not shy Or bold, but simply self-possessed; Her independence adds a zest Unto her speech, her piquant jest, Her quaint reply.

O'er classic volumes she will pore With joy; and true scholastic lore Will often gain. In sports she bears away the bell, Nor, under music's siren spell, To dance divinely, flirt as well, Does she disdain.

A Song of Sydney

(1894)

High headlands all jealously hide thee, O fairest of sea-girdled towns! Thine Ocean-spouse smileth beside thee, While each headland threatens and frowns. Like Venice, upheld on sea-pinion, And fated to reign o'er the free, Thou wearest, in sign of dominion, The zone of the sea.

No winter thy fertile slope hardens, O new Florence, set in the South! All lands give their flowers to thy gardens, That glow to thy bright harbour's mouth; The waratah and England's red roses With stately magnolias entwine, Gay sunflowers fill sea-scented closes, All sweet with woodbine.

Thy harbour's fair flower-crowned islands See flags of all countries unfurled, Thou smilest from green, sunlit highlands To open thine arms to the world! Dark East's and fair West's emulations Resound from each hill-shadowed quay, And over the songs of all nations, The voice of the sea.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams.

Something

It is something in this darker dream demented to have wrestled with its pleasure and its pain: it is something to have sinned, and have repented: it is something to have failed, and tried again!

It is something to have loved the brightest Beauty with no hope of aught but silence for your vow: it is something to have tried to do your duty: it is something to be trying, trying now!

And, in the silent solemn hours, when your soul floats down the far faint flood of time -- to think of Earth's lovers who are ours, of her saviours saving, suffering, sublime:

And that you with THESE may be her lover, with THESE may save and suffer for her sake -- IT IS JOY TO HAVE LIVED, SO TO DISCOVER YOU'VE A LIFE YOU CAN GIVE AND SHE CAN TAKE!

Gordon's Grave

All the heat and the glow and the hush of the summer afternoon; the scent of the sweet-briar bush over bowing grass-blades and broom;

the birds that flit and pass; singing the song he knows, the grass-hopper in the grass; the voice of the she-oak boughs.

Ah, and the shattered column crowned with the poet's wreath. Who, who keeps silent and solemn his passing place beneath?

~This was a poet that loved God's breath; his life was a passionate quest; he looked down deep in the wells of death, and now he is taking his rest.~

To A. L. Gordon

In night-long days, in aeons where all Time's nights are one; where life and death sing paeans as of Greeks and Galileans, never begun or done;

where fate, the slow swooping condor, comes glooming all the sky -- as you have pondered I ponder, as you have wandered I wander, as you have died, shall I die?

Love and Death

Death? is it death you give? So be it! O Death, thou hast been long my friend, and now thy pale cool cheek shall have my kiss, while the faint breath expires on thy still lips, O lovely Death!

Come then, loose hands, fair Life, without a wail! We've had good hours together, and you were sweet what time love whispered with the nightingale, tho' ever your music by the lark's would fail.

Come then, loose hands! Our lover time is done. Now is the marriage with the eternal sun. The hours are few that rest, are few and fleet. Good-bye! The game is lost: the game is won.

Thomas William Heney.

Absence

Ah, happy air that, rough or soft, May kiss that face and stay; And happy beams that from above May choose to her their way; And happy flowers that now and then Touch lips more sweet than they!

But it were not so blest to be Or light or air or rose; Those dainty fingers tear and toss The bloom that in them glows; And come or go, both wind and ray She heeds not, if she knows.

But if I come thy choice should be Either to love or not -- For if I might I would not kiss And then be all forgot; And it were best thy love to lose If love self-scorn begot.

A Riverina Road

Now while so many turn with love and longing To wan lands lying in the grey North Sea, To thee we turn, hearts, mem'ries, all belonging, Dear land of ours, to thee.

West, ever west, with the strong sunshine marching Beyond the mountains, far from this soft coast, Until we almost see the great plains arching, In endless mirage lost.

A land of camps where seldom is sojourning, Where men like the dim fathers of our race, Halt for a time, and next day, unreturning, Fare ever on apace.

Last night how many a leaping blaze affrighted The wailing birds of passage in their file; And dawn sees ashes dead and embers whited Where men had dwelt awhile.

The sun may burn, the mirage shift and vanish And fade and glare by turns along the sky; The haze of heat may all the distance banish To the uncaring eye.

By speech, or tongue of bird or brute, unbroken Silence may brood upon the lifeless plain, Nor any sign, far off or near, betoken Man in this vast domain.

Though tender grace the landscape lacks, too spacious, Impassive, silent, lonely, to be fair, Their kindness swiftly comes more soft and gracious, Who live or tarry there.

All that he has, in camp or homestead, proffers To stranger guest at once a stranger host, Proudest to see accepted what he offers, Given without a boast.

Pass, if you can, the drover's cattle stringing Along the miles of the wide travelled road, Without a challenge through the hot dust ringing, Kind though abrupt the mode.

A cloud of dust where polish'd wheels are flashing Passes along, and in it rolls the mail. Comes from the box as on the coach goes dashing The lonely driver's hail.

Or in the track a station youngster mounted Sits in his saddle smoking for a "spell", Rides a while onward; then, his news recounted, Parts with a brief farewell.

To-day these plains may seem a face defiant, Turn'd to a mortal foe, yet scorning fear; As when, with heaven at war, an Earth-born giant Saw the Olympian near.

Come yet again! No child's fair face is sweeter With young delight than this cool blooming land, Silent no more, for songs than wings are fleeter, No blaze, but sunshine bland.

Thus in her likeness that strange nature moulding Makes man as moody, sad and savage too; Yet in his heart, like her, a passion holding, Unselfish, kind and true.

Therefore, while many turn with love and longing To wan lands lying on the grey North Sea, To-day possessed by other mem'ries thronging We turn, wild West, to thee!

23rd December, 1891.

Patrick Edward Quinn.

A Girl's Grave

"Aged 17, OF A BROKEN HEART, January 1st, 1841."

What story is here of broken love, What idyllic sad romance, What arrow fretted the silken dove That met with such grim mischance?

I picture you, sleeper of long ago, When you trifled and danced and smiled, All golden laughter and beauty's glow In a girl life sweet and wild.

Hair with the red gold's luring tinge, Fine as the finest silk, Violet eyes with a golden fringe And cheeks of roses and milk.

Something of this you must have been, Something gentle and sweet, To have broken your heart at seventeen And died in such sad defeat.

Hardly one of your kinsfolk live, It was all so long ago, The tale of the cruel love to give That laid you here so low.

Loving, trusting, and foully paid -- The story is easily guessed, A blotted sun and skies that fade And this grass-grown grave the rest.

Whatever the cynic may sourly say, With a dash of truth, I ween, Of the girls of the period, in your day They had hearts at seventeen.

Dead of a fashion out of date, Such folly has passed away Like the hoop and patch and modish gait That went out with an older day.

The stone is battered and all awry, The words can be scarcely read, The rank reeds clustering thick and high Over your buried head.

I pluck one straight as a Paynim's lance To keep your memory green, For the lordly sake of old Romance And your own, sad seventeen.

John Sandes.

`With Death's Prophetic Ear'

Lay my rifle here beside me, set my Bible on my breast, For a moment let the warning bugles cease; As the century is closing I am going to my rest, Lord, lettest Thou Thy servant go in peace. But loud through all the bugles rings a cadence in mine ear, And on the winds my hopes of peace are strowed. Those winds that waft the voices that already I can hear Of the rooi-baatjes singing on the road.

Yes, the red-coats are returning, I can hear the steady tramp, After twenty years of waiting, lulled to sleep, Since rank and file at Potchefstroom we hemmed them in their camp, And cut them up at Bronkerspruit like sheep. They shelled us at Ingogo, but we galloped into range, And we shot the British gunners where they showed. I guessed they would return to us, I knew the chance must change -- Hark! the rooi-baatjes singing on the road!

But now from snow-swept Canada, from India's torrid plains, From lone Australian outposts, hither led, Obeying their commando, as they heard the bugle's strains, The men in brown have joined the men in red. They come to find the colours at Majuba left and lost, They come to pay us back the debt they owed; And I hear new voices lifted, and I see strange colours tossed, 'Mid the rooi-baatjes singing on the road.

The old, old faiths must falter, and the old, old creeds must fail -- I hear it in that distant murmur low -- The old, old order changes, and 'tis vain for us to rail, The great world does not want us -- we must go. And veldt, and spruit, and kopje to the stranger will belong, No more to trek before him we shall load; Too well, too well, I know it, for I hear it in the song Of the rooi-baatjes singing on the road.

Inez K. Hyland.

To a Wave

Where were you yesterday? In Gulistan, With roses and the frenzied nightingales? Rather would I believe you shining ran With peaceful floods, where the soft voice prevails Of building doves in lordly trees set high, Trees which enclose a home where love abides -- His love and hers, a passioned ecstasy; Your tone has caught its echo and derides My joyless lot, as face down pressed I lie Upon the shifting sand, and hear the reeds Voicing a thin, dissonant threnody Unto the cliff and wind-tormented weeds. As with the faint half-lights of jade toward The shore you come and show a violet hue, I wonder if the face of my adored Was ever held importraitured by you. Ah, no! if you had seen his face, still prest Within your hold the picture dear would be, Like that bright portrait which so moved the breast Of fairest Gurd with soft unrest that she, Born in ice halls, she who but raised her eyes And scornful questioned, "What is love, indeed? None ever viewed it 'neath these northern skies," -- Seeing the face soon learned love's gentle creed; But you hold nothing to be counted dear -- Only a gift of weed and broken shells; Yet I will gather one, so I can hear The soft remembrance which still in it dwells: For in the shell, though broken, ever lies The murmur of the sea whence it was torn -- So in a woman's heart there never dies The memory of love, though love be lorn.

Bread and Wine

A cup of opal Through which there glows The cream of the pearl, The heart of the rose; And the blue of the sea Where Australia lies, And the amber flush Of her sunset skies, And the emerald tints Of the dragon fly Shall stain my cup With their brilliant dye. And into this cup I would pour the wine Of youth and health And the gifts divine Of music and song, And the sweet content Which must ever belong To a life well spent. And what bread would I break With my wine, think you? The bread of a love That is pure and true.

George Essex Evans.

An Australian Symphony

Not as the songs of other lands Her song shall be Where dim Her purple shore-line stands Above the sea! As erst she stood, she stands alone; Her inspiration is her own. From sunlit plains to mangrove strands Not as the songs of other lands Her song shall be.

O Southern Singers! Rich and sweet, Like chimes of bells, The cadence swings with rhythmic beat The music swells; But undertones, weird, mournful, strong, Sweep like swift currents thro' the song. In deepest chords, with passion fraught, In softest notes of sweetest thought, This sadness dwells.

Is this her song, so weirdly strange, So mixed with pain, That whereso'er her poets range Is heard the strain? Broods there no spell upon the air But desolation and despair? No voice, save Sorrow's, to intrude Upon her mountain solitude Or sun-kissed plain?

The silence and the sunshine creep With soft caress O'er billowy plain and mountain steep And wilderness -- A velvet touch, a subtle breath, As sweet as love, as calm as death, On earth, on air, so soft, so fine, Till all the soul a spell divine O'ershadoweth.

The gray gums by the lonely creek, The star-crowned height, The wind-swept plain, the dim blue peak, The cold white light, The solitude spread near and far Around the camp-fire's tiny star, The horse-bell's melody remote, The curlew's melancholy note Across the night.

These have their message; yet from these Our songs have thrown O'er all our Austral hills and leas One sombre tone. Whence doth the mournful keynote start? From the pure depths of Nature's heart? Or from the heart of him who sings And deems his hand upon the strings Is Nature's own?

Could tints be deeper, skies less dim, More soft and fair, Dappled with milk-white clouds that swim In faintest air? The soft moss sleeps upon the stone, Green scrub-vine traceries enthrone The dead gray trunks, and boulders red, Roofed by the pine and carpeted With maidenhair.

But far and near, o'er each, o'er all, Above, below, Hangs the great silence like a pall Softer than snow. Not sorrow is the spell it brings, But thoughts of calmer, purer things, Like the sweet touch of hands we love, A woman's tenderness above A fevered brow.

These purple hills, these yellow leas, These forests lone, These mangrove shores, these shimmering seas, This summer zone -- Shall they inspire no nobler strain Than songs of bitterness and pain? Strike her wild harp with firmer hand, And send her music thro' the land, With loftier tone!

. . . . .

Her song is silence; unto her Its mystery clings. Silence is the interpreter Of deeper things. O for sonorous voice and strong To change that silence into song, To give that melody release Which sleeps in the deep heart of peace With folded wings!

A Nocturne

Like weary sea-birds spent with flight And faltering, The slow hours beat across the night On leaden wing. The wild bird knows where rest shall be Soe'er he roam. Heart of my heart! apart from thee I have no home.

Afar from thee, yet not alone, Heart of my heart! Like some soft haunting whisper blown From Heaven thou art. I hear the magic music roll Its waves divine; The subtle fragrance of thy soul Has passed to mine.

Nor dawn nor Heaven my heart can know Save that which lies In lights and shades that come and go In thy soft eyes. Here in the night I dream the day, By love upborne, When thy sweet eyes shall shine and say "It is the morn!"

A Pastoral

Nature feels the touch of noon; Not a rustle stirs the grass; Not a shadow flecks the sky, Save the brown hawk hovering nigh; Not a ripple dims the glass Of the wide lagoon.

Darkly, like an armed host Seen afar against the blue, Rise the hills, and yellow-grey Sleeps the plain in cove and bay, Like a shining sea that dreams Round a silent coast.

From the heart of these blue hills, Like the joy that flows from peace, Creeps the river far below Fringed with willow, sinuous, slow. Surely here there seems surcease From the care that kills.

Surely here might radiant Love Fill with happiness his cup, Where the purple lucerne-bloom Floods the air with sweet perfume, Nature's incense floating up To the Gods above.

'Neath the gnarled-boughed apple trees Motionless the cattle stand; Chequered cornfield, homestead white, Sleeping in the streaming light, For deep trance is o'er the land, And the wings of peace.

Here, O Power that moves the heart, Thou art in the quiet air; Here, unvexed of code or creed, Man may breathe his bitter need; Nor with impious lips declare What Thou wert and art.

All the strong souls of the race Thro' the aeons that have run, They have cried aloud to Thee -- "Thou art that which stirs in me!" As the flame leaps towards the sun They have sought Thy face.

But the faiths have flowered and flown, And the truth is but in part; Many a creed and many a grade For Thy purpose Thou hast made. None can know Thee what Thou art, Fathomless! Unknown!

The Women of the West

They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill, The houses in the busy streets where life is never still, The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best: For love they faced the wilderness -- the Women of the West.

The roar, and rush, and fever of the city died away, And the old-time joys and faces -- they were gone for many a day; In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock chains, O'er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains.

In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run, In the tent beside the bankment of a railway just begun, In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man's unrest, On the frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West.

The red sun robs their beauty, and, in weariness and pain, The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again; And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say -- The nearest woman's face may be a hundred miles away.

The wide bush holds the secrets of their longing and desires, When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar fires, And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast -- Perchance He hears and understands the Women of the West.

For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts -- They only hear the beating of their gallant, loving hearts. But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above -- The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.

Well have we held our father's creed. No call has passed us by. We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die. And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o'er all the rest, The hearts that made the Nation were the Women of the West.

Mary Colborne-Veel.

`What Look hath She?'

What look hath she, What majestie, That must so high approve her? What graces move That I so love, That I so greatly love her?

No majestie But Truth hath She; Thoughts sweet and gracious move her; That straight approve My heart to love, And all my life to love her!

Saturday Night

Saturday night in the crowded town; Pleasure and pain going up and down, Murmuring low on the ear there beat Echoes unceasing of voice and feet. Withered age, with its load of care, Come in this tumult of life to share, Childhood glad in its radiance brief, Happiest-hearted or bowed with grief, Meet alike, as the stars look down Week by week on the crowded town.

~And in a kingdom of mystery, Rapt from this weariful world to see Magic sights in the yellow glare, Breathing delight in the gas-lit air, Careless of sorrow, of grief or pain, Two by two, again and again, Strephon and Chloe together move, Walking in Arcady, land of love.~

What are the meanings that burden all These murmuring voices that rise and fall? Tragedies whispered of, secrets told, Over the baskets of bought and sold; Joyous speech of the lately wed; Broken lamentings that name the dead: Endless runes of the gossip's rede, And gathered home with the weekly need, Kindly greetings as neighbours meet There in the stir of the busy street.

Then is the glare of the gaslight ray Gifted with potency strange to-day, Records of time-written history Flash into sight as each face goes by. There, as the hundreds slow moving go, Each with his burden of joy or woe, Souls, in the meeting of stranger's eyes, Startled this kinship to recognise, -- Meet and part, as the stars look down, Week by week on the crowded town.

~And still, in the midst of the busy hum, Rapt in their dream of delight they come. Heedless of sorrow, of grief or care, Wandering on in enchanted air, Far from the haunting shadow of pain: Two by two, again and again, Strephon and Chloe together move, Walking in Arcady, land of love.~

`Resurgam'

(Autumn Song)

Chill breezes moaning are Where leaves hang yellow: O'er the grey hills afar Flies the last swallow; To come again, my love, to come again Blithe with the summer. But Ah! the long months ere we welcome then That bright new comer.

Cold lie the flowers and dead Where leaves are falling. Meekly they bowed and sped At Autumn's calling. To come again, my love, to come again Blithe with the swallow. Ah! might I dreaming lie at rest till then, Or rise and follow!

The summer blooms are gone, And bright birds darting; Cold lies the earth forlorn; And we are parting. To meet again, my love, to meet again In deathless greeting, But ah! what wintry bitterness of pain Ere that far meeting!

Distant Authors

"Aqui esta encerrada el alma licenciado Pedro Garcias."

Dear books! and each the living soul, Our hearts aver, of men unseen, Whose power to strengthen, charm, control, Surmounts all earth's green miles between.

For us at least the artists show Apart from fret of work-day jars: We know them but as friends may know, Or they are known beyond the stars.

Their mirth, their grief, their soul's desire, When twilight murmuring of streams, Or skies far touched by sunset fire, Exalt them to pure worlds of dreams;

Their love of good; their rage at wrong; Their hours when struggling thought makes way; Their hours when fancy drifts to song Lightly and glad as bird-trills may;

All these are truths. And if as true More graceless scrutiny that reads, "These fruits amid strange husking grew;" "These lilies blossomed amongst weeds;"

Here no despoiling doubts shall blow, No fret of feud, of work-day jars. We know them but as friends may know, Or they are known beyond the stars.

John Bernard O'Hara.

Happy Creek

The little creek goes winding Thro' gums of white and blue, A silver arm Around the farm It flings, a lover true; And softly, where the rushes lean, It sings (O sweet and low) A lover's song, And winds along, How happy -- lovers know!

The little creek goes singing By maidenhair and moss, Along its banks In rosy ranks The wild flowers wave and toss; And ever where the ferns dip down It sings (O sweet and low) A lover's song, And winds along, How happy -- lovers know!

The little creek takes colour, From summer skies above; Now blue, now gold, Its waters fold The clouds in closest love; But loudly when the thunders roll It sings (nor sweet, nor low) No lover's song, But sweeps along, How angry -- lovers know!

The little creek for ever Goes winding, winding down, Away, away, By night, by day, Where dark the ranges frown; But ever as it glides it sings, It sings (O sweet and low) A lover's song, And winds along, How happy -- lovers know!

A Country Village

Among the folding hills It lies, a quiet nook, Where dreaming nature fills Sweet pages of her book, While through the meadow flowers She sings in summer hours, Or weds the woodland rills Low-laughing to the brook.

The graveyard whitely gleams Across the soundless vale, So sad, so sweet, yet seems A watcher cold and pale That waits through many springs The tribute old Time brings, And knows, though life be loud, The reaper may not fail.

Here come not feet of change From year to fading year; Ringed by the rolling range No world-wide notes men hear. The wheels of time may stand Here in a lonely land, Age after age may pass Untouched of change or cheer;

As still the farmer keeps The same dull round of things; He reaps and sows and reaps, And clings, as ivy clings, To old-time trust, nor cares What science does or dares, What lever moves the world, What progress spreads its wings.

Yet here, of woman born, Are lives that know not rest, With fierce desires that scorn The quiet life as best; That see in wider ways Life's richer splendours blaze, And feel ambition's fire Burn in their ardent breast.

Yea, some that fain would know Life's purpose strange and vast, How wide is human woe, What wailing of the past Still strikes the present dumb, What phantoms go and come Of wrongs that cry aloud, "At last, O God! at last!"

Here, too, are dreams that wing Rich regions of Romance; Love waking when the Spring Begins its first wild dance, Love redder than the rose, Love paler than the snows, Love frail as corn that tilts With morning winds a lance.

For never land so lone That love could find not wings In every wind that's blown By lips of jewelled springs, For love is life's sweet pain, And when sweet life is slain It finds a radiant rest Beyond the change of things.

Beyond the shocks that jar, The chance of changing fate, Where fraud and violence are, And heedless lust and hate; Yet still where faith is clear, And honour held most dear, And hope that seeks the dawn Looks up with heart elate.

Flinders

He left his island home For leagues of sleepless foam, For stress of alien seas, Where wild winds ever blow; For England's sake he sought Fresh fields of fame, and fought A stormy world for these A hundred years ago.

And where the Austral shore Heard southward far the roar Of rising tides that came From lands of ice and snow, Beneath a gracious sky To fadeless memory He left a deathless name A hundred years ago.

Yea, left a name sublime From that wild dawn of Time, Whose light h