p i rr^ ^OfCAIIfO% y^.AHVaHn-#' >??uivj:! ^WEUNIVER&^/, ' o ^smmm"^ ,\V\t-UNlvi:K>i//^ .^KLu: z^iy '^r7iinw\/.\fP,^ '^/'^m LlBRARY79/r, .<rasil. Sow :s from the Mountains .... 293 The Voice in the Wild Oak. Songs from the Mountains . 295 Narrara Creek. Songs from the Blountains . . . . 298 Persia. So7igs from the Mountains ..... 301 The Austral Mouths. Collccieel Poems .... 304 Margaret W. Kitson, Victoria — Homewards. Manuscript . . . , . . .310 CONTENTS. xiii I'AOE Jane De ^YI^■TON (]\Irs. George) Knox, Norfolk Island and Victoria — In Jest. MiDniscript 3^^ Unblessed. Manuscript 312 Unquiet. Manuscript 3^3 (The Rev.) John Dunmore Lang, New South Wales (1799-1S78)— The Coral Insect. Aurora Austral is : or, Specimens of Sacred Poetr II for tite Colonists of Australia , . . 3T4 The Heads of Port Jackson. Aui-oi-a Austral is . . . 315 Sonnet. — O, I could gaze. Aurora Austral is . . . 315 Sonnet.— Fearful I stood on the moss-covered rock. Aurora Austral is 316 Australian Hj'mn. Aurora Australis 316 (Miss) Caroline Leakey, Tasmania- Finis. Lura Australis ; or. Attempts to Sinn in a Strange Land 319 The Homewaid Bound. Lyra A ustraHs .... 320 The First of ^[ay. Lyra Australis 321 The Crisis. Lyra Australis 321 Sleep and Death. Lyra Australis 324 Queen Ina. Lyra A ustralis • 325 Frances Sescadarowna Lewin, South Australia — The Story of Abel Tasman. Songs of the South . . .328 Only. Songs of the South 330 E. B. Loughran, Victoria — He-Meetings. Australian Paper 333 The Abandoned Shaft. Australian Paper . . . . 334 Dead Leaves : A Song. Australian Paper .... 337 George Gordon M'Crae, Victoria- Richard Hengist Home. Tlie Australasian Lines Written for the Cook Centenary. Manusci-ipt Forby Sutherland, Manuscript .... lima De l\Iurska. Manufcripjt .... From "Maniba the Bright-Eyed." Mamha The Auberge. Manuscript ... 339 341 345 349 352 358 (Mrs.) Harriet Anne Martin, Queensland — Sur Une Morte. Manuscript 360 Transformation. Manuscript 361 Romola. Manuscript 362 Dame and Danseuse. Manuscript 363 CONTENTS. PAGE Arthur Patchett Martin, Victoria (1851)— On an Early Sonnet. Oak Bough and Wattle Blossom . 365 Old Comrades. Fernshawe , . 367 Keflections of a Eevolutionary Poet. Fernshawe . . 369 An Agnostic's Answer, Fernshawe 371 The Withered Jester. Fernshawe ..... 373 Love and War. Fcrnshaxoe ....... 376 Such is Life. Siveet Girl Graduate 377 A Foreboding. Fernshaioe ....... 378 Death. Fernshawe ........ 379 The Storm. Fernshawe ....... 380 The Cynic of the Woods. Fernshawe ..... 381 James L. Michael, New South Wales— I Chose not 111 — a Quiet Nook. John Cumberland . . 383 There are Times One cannot Sleep. John Cumberland . 384 Through Pleasant Paths, through Dainty Ways. John Cumberland ......... 386 ThelittlelittleBirdpeepsontof her Nest. John Cumberland 387 The Moon is in the Sky, Dear. John Cumberland . . 387 J. Sheridan Moore, New South Wales— The Beauty that Blooms in Australia. Australian Paper . 388 (Miss) Agnes Neale (Caroliue Agues Leaue), South Australia— Good-night. Adelaide Paper 389 I did not Know that Spring had Come. Adelaide Paper . 390 God Knows. Adelaide Paper ...... 391 In tlie IMidnight. Adelaide Paper ..... 394 They Never Come Back. Adelaide Paj^er 396 John Boyle O'Reilly, West Australia- Western Australia. Songs of the Southern Seas . . . 410 (Sir) Henry Parkes, G.C.M.G., New South Wales (1815)— My Birthday. Stolen Moments 398 Sonnet. — Who would not be a Poet. Stolen Moments , 400 Sonnet. — Escaped from Shipwreck. Stolen Moments . . 400 Seventy. The Beauteous Terrorist ..... 401 The Flag. The Beauteous Terrorist ..... 402 Bounding o'er the Summer Sea. The Beauteous Terrorist . 403 liismarck. The Beauteous Terrorist ..... 404 The Strong Man. 2'he Beauteous Terrorist .... 405 To Inez. The Beauteous Terrorist 405 John Plummer, New South Wales- Only a Flower. Australian Paper • . « . . 406 CONTENTS. XV PAGE ■\V. N. PkATT, South Australia- Rain. Australian Paper ..«•••. 407 Richardson Rae, New Zealand — Failed. New Zealand Paper 409 CATIIEraNE Richardson, New Zealand- Beautiful Ferns. Gabvielle, aivd Other Poems . . . 413 RoBEiiT Richardson, New South "Wales- Annette. Manuscript 414 A Hay-Cart in the City. Life and Work .... 417 J. Steele Robertson, Victoria — Musk Gully, Dromana. Melbourne University Review , 419 J. Howlett Ross, Victoria — Bourke Street. From a Balcony 420 Spare the rigeons ......... 423 Richard Rowe (Poter PossunO, New South \Vale>^— What will the Next News Be? ...... 426 Jack Rugbv — Old Archie's Last Camp ....... 428 J. Sadler, South Australia — The Proclamation Tree . 431 Robert Sealy, New South Wa es— A Cabman's Philosophy. Barton's Poets and Prose W7'iters of New South Wales 434 The Publican's Daughter. Barton'' s Poets and Prose Writer of New South Wales ....... 435 To W. M. Barton's Poets and Pr<>se Writers of New South Wales 436 Sedley — Silence. Australian Paper .,,,,,. 437 Patrick Shanahan, Victoria- Acacia Creek. Australian Paper , , , , .43 William Sharp— The Last Aboriginal. Earth's Voice ..... 442 xvi CONTENTS. PAGE The Singing Shepherd (Eleanor Elizabeth Montgomery), New Zealand — To One in England. Songs of The Sivfiing Shc2}hefd . . 444 Good-Night, Good-Rest. Songs of The Singing Shepherd . 445 Adieu. Songs of The Singing Shepherd .... 447 Charles Allan Sherard, Victoria— Angelique. The Australasiiin 448 Her Knight. The AustraUisian 453 Finis Coronat Opus. The Avstrala.iian .... 456 Her Mother's Glass. TIte Australasian .... 458 Percy F. Sinnett, Sonth Australia and Victoria — The Song of the Wild Storm-Waves. Wattle Blossoms by '^FcrSe" 461 Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen, Victoria (1856)— Waterloo. Frithjof and Ingehjorg ..... 465 The Man with a Histoiy. A Poetry of Exiles, Second Series 468 An Old Eomance. In Cormvall and Across the Sea . . 471 Broken Gods 471 Drake and Ealegli. Sydney Echo 473 Gobiu Ag:ice. Edward the Black Prince .... 475 To The Fallen Gum-Tree on Mount Baw-Baw. Australian Lyrics 478 The Squire's Brother. Australian Lyrics .... 480 A. C. Smith, Queensland— The Waif. Australian Paper 489 Walter Smith (Old Saltbush), New South Wales- Despair. The Death of Oswald 491 R. Spencer-Browne, Queensland — A Sea-GuU in Shore. Manuscript 493 James Brunton Stephens, Queensland— Universally Respected. The Australasian . A Brisbane Reverie. Convict Once To a Black Gin. Convict Once Quart Pot Creek. Convict Once . 'J'he Power of Science. Convict Once . Once More. Convict Once .... Australian Anthem. Convict Once The Dominion of Australia. Convict Once . Tlie Boy Crusader. Convict Once The Angel of the Doves. Convict Once 494 503 507 510 513 517 519 520 522 526 CONTENTS. xvii PAGE Gerard H. Supple, Victoria— The Dream of Damijier. Melbourne Review , . . 529 Tasma, Tasmania— A Dirge. The Australasian 607 Margaret Thomas, Victoria — In Momoriani : Alice Ricliman. Mamtscript . .'. 541 Aiiology for an In Moinoriam Poem. Manuscript . . 542 Absent Friends. ]\[anuscript 543 Sonnet : Stay thou on Foreign Sliores. Manuscript . . 544 Sonnet : Idleness. Manuscript 544 Sonnet : Grief. Manuscript ...... 545 Pictor Ignotus. Manuscript 545 James Thomas, New South Wales (1861)— To a Silver-Eye. Manuscript 550 May o' the South. Manuscript 551 On Revisiting the King's School, Parramatta. Manuscript 553 (Mrs.) E. T. Thorrowgood, Victoria — What have the Years Brought 554 John Owen Tucker, Victoria — lu Memoriam, Gustavus Vaughan Brooke. The Mnte, a Poem of Victoria, and Ot.iicr Poems .... 5^5 To Sir Willianr Foster Stawell. The Mate . . . .557 Charles Umbers, New Zealaiul— The Fireman. JVeiv Zealand Paper 559 The Marriage Bells of Avaleigh. iVfw Zealand Paper . 560 Gordon's Death. New Zealand Pap)er .... 562 (Miss) Mary Colborne Veel, Ncav Zealand- Saturday Night. The Weekly Press, Christ Church, New Zealand 563 Garnet Walch, Tasmania and Victoria — A Little Tin Plate. A Little Tin Plate Good News. A Little Tin Plate . A Spray of Amaranth. A Little Tin Plate Drifting. A Little Tin Plate Brava, Tasmania ! A Little Tin Plate Lines Spoken at the Memorial Benefit of Sent by Patchcft Martin Sans Souci. A Little Tin Plate , A Drug in the Market. A Little Tin Plate xviii CONTENTS. PAGE Sakah Welch, South Australia— The Digger's Grave. Australian Paper .... 1:85 William Charles Wentworth, Norfolk Island and New South Wales. — Australasia. Barton's Poets and Prose Writei's of New South Wales 586 Charles Whitehead, Victoria— The Spanish Marriage. Charles Whitehead, a Forgotten Genius. (Mackenzie Bell) 588 W. R. Wills, New Zealand— The Spirit of Love. New Zealand Paper .... 590 For Ever a Crown of Thorns. New Zealand Paper . , 591 Apollo and M:irs3as. New Zealand Paper .... 594 Frederick Sydney Wilson, New South Wales- Waiting for the Mail. Austral ian Paper .... 595 Two Australian Pictures. Australian Paper . . . 597 Thomas Woolner, RA., New South Wales — From the Introduction to My Beautiful Lady . . . 600 The Poems in the Appendix are given Alphahetically in the geueral Table of Contents. ADDENDA. William J. Steward, M.H.R., New Zealand — The Dying of the Day. Carmina Varia .... 609 Robert Lowe (Viscount Sherbrooke)— Songs of the Squatters (No. 2). Poems of a Life . . 610 TO THE READER. ** Another Australian anthology ! " the critical may say. " We have had two already, and from the same editor. What occasion was there for a new one ? " In the first place, " Australian Ballads and Rhymes " and "A Century of Australian Song" were practically one book, because the latter was simjjly an expansion of the former; and in the second place, they were selected upon an entirely different principle to this volume. They were confined to poems inspired by life in Australia and New Zealand, and owing to this limita- tion were forced to exclude many of the finest poems colonists have written. This exclusion was pretty generally deplored, and accordingly the present volume was projected to give specimens of the best poems pro- duced in the Antipodes, irrespective of subject. This volume then is a selection of poems prodvAed in Atistralasia, though not necessarily inspired by the new conditions of Australasian life.* To make this collection as complete as possible, the editor sought the aid of the Colonial Press, begging of them to be allowed to invite contributions through their columns. All the leading papers gave generous and * There are one or two exceptions to the poems having been pro- duced in Australasia, notably Home's "Orion," a poem of such importance that the rule had to be waived in its favour. XX TO THE READER. gracious help, but one minor metropolitan journal com- plained that Mr. Sladen had undertaken to edit a book, and then asked the papers to do his work for him while seeking an indirect advertisement for his own poems. And the publishers wei-e warned, in perfect good faith, that if they simply collected all that was sent, and published it in a bundle, they would make themselves the laughing-stock of Australia, it being suggested instead that a local man should be selected to make a selection from the four locally best known poets (i^ace Massina 1), to be published locally. This would of course have been perfectly useless. The chances are that a locally published book would not have reached the British public at all, and the object of such an anthology is not so much to lay before the public one's favourite pieces in books with which they are familiar, as it is to gather hitherto unnoticed flowers. As a result of appealing to the Press for help, the editor has made the acquaintance of two hundred volumes and pamphlets of Antipodean poetry (vide Materials for a Bibliography of Australian Poetry in "A -Century of Australian Song," just issued by Walter Scott), besides poems unpublished, or only published fugitively. The existence of many of these books was unknown even to Mr. E. A. Petherick, who has made Australian Bibliography the study of his life. So it is obvious that the selection would have been most incomplete without this appeal to the Press. The editor's desire to select the best pieces without regard to their being produced by well-known authors, was indorsed practically by the English reviewers of " Australian Ballads and Rhymes," who, writing without predilections, drew a large proportion of their illustra- tions fi"om the less known writers. TO THE READER. xxi This, of course, proved not a particle in detraction of Gordon, Kendall, and other leading poets, but merely that there are in Australia far more writers capable of producing good work than had been assumed. And this is what one would naturally suppose. For Australia has one of those delightful climates conducive to rest in the open air. The middle of the day is so hot that it is really more healthful to lounge about than to take stronger exercise. Sea and sky are one unbroken sapphire, shown up in magnificent contrast by the dark olive green of the native forests and the glittering opal of the sun-smitten hills. The atmosphere is dry champagne. The con- ditions of existence ai^e easy, the means of subsistence plentiful. Laughter and relaxation are constant, and the curse of the careless South, miasma, has never blasted this pleasant land Only the strong sun that makes everything so beautiful must be treated with due respect, or he will avenge his disregarded power with one of his deadly strokes. But while revelling in the goodness of the land, the thoughtful man cannot escape the reflection that he is out of the world — the world whose history and monu- ments all the centuries have been building up. For the world has grown up without Australia and almost un- affected by America. So that the American, and still more the Australian, has to make his world for himself. He who dwells in our great island continent, like the rich man in the parable, is severed by a great gulf — in our instance, literally, of sea thousands of miles wide — from all the glories painted by tradition. He is like Sindbad the Sailor, in the goi'ge of the gems. And as the world is lit up by the past, he who is in a land that has no past, feels that he is, as it were, groping for the xxii TO THE READER. light that shall be some day. Robinson Crusoe, cast upon Juan Fernandez, may in his valiant, philosophical, Anglo-Saxon fashion revel in novelties and thankfully adapt himself to the genial circumstances ; but, for all that, he will occasionally feel a craving for men and cities. Again, if resting in the Eden climate and primaeval solitudes of Australia begets reflection, galloping through the glittering air with the sensation of illimitable space must make the pulses beat higher in a man worthy of the name : and one sees the fruit of both in Australian Poetry. No one has pourtrayed the excitement of Australian life more inimitably than Gordon. While the reflections of the native Australian who has never seen, and will never be vouchsafed to see, the lands beyond the deep sea, that all nations call the world — and of the Englishman, who has turned his back for ever upon the cradle and heirlooms of his race, have found voices in the exquisitely musical and picturesque Kendall, and poets not one or two, who, like Stephens, bred " at home," have identified themselves with Australia. It is not proposed to contest here whether priority should be given to the magnificent " dash " of Gordon, or to the unforgettable grace of Kendall, or to the real greatness of Domett. The editor has written his estimate of the merits of the various singers so recently in " A Century of Australian Poets " that anything he could say here, would be mere recapitulation. To introduce an entirely fi-esh element into this book he asked his friend, Patchett Martin, a representative Australian litterateur, whose literary training has been entirely Australian, to write a sketch of literary life in Australia, and to prepare the more important biographical head- TO THE READER. xxiii iBgs,* to take the place of the personal data given in the introductions to the previous books. But it must be understood that he is in nowise responsible for the opinions hazarded in his friend's essay or headings, while the responsibility of making the selection of poems is entirely his. It may perhaps be objected that the selections are too copious. It would be so if the volumes from which the selections are taken were readily acces- sible in England. But very few being procurable " at home," and the poems being wholly unknown to the general public, it seemed desirable that authors should be quoted at sufficient length for a judgment to be formed of them. In brief, it was not a question of settling which were a poet's masterpieces (as it would be, e.ij., if one were selecting from Shelley), but of inti-oducing him — not culling the choicest ilowers from a garden, but of gather- ing such fine specimens as one could of a new wild-flower one had come across in the forest. And though, of course, there were a few well enough known for this not to apply to them, they had to be quoted m extenso to observe proportion. But, though the editor does not purpose to write a fresh essay upon the Australian poets, he must neces- sarily make some additions to his former remarks and explanations. In the first place, he must say a few words apropos of Gordon himself, who is only repre- sented by three poems, because these are the only three poems the editor could obtain not belonging to Messrs. Massina, who have secured the copyright of most of Gordon's poems, and refused permission to select from them. The reader will also find one poem once gene- rally attributed to Gordon, "A Voice from the Bush," * Of Australians, the New Zealand biographies are supplied by the editor. xxiv TO THE READER. which, not being bj Gordon at all, does not belong to tlie copyright. The real author is well known, but refuses to have his name attached to the poem, though he cor- rected the proof of it for " Australian Ballads and Rhymes." Of course the editor's name being there printed with it was merely a wanton blunder perpetrated by a marplot of a printer, who, after the revised proof had been sent perfectly correct, at his own discretion copied the name from the piece above, in despair at the poem's coming back, finally corrected, with no name attached. The poet's name has been spelt Lindsay, as formerly, instead of Lindsey (the spelling adopted by his father in the register at Cheltenham College), because Gordon's old friends seemed to wish it very much, and the editor having pointed out that there was a discrepancy of spell- ing, thought it of no great further import. The editor has been anxious to give specimens from the poems of three writers who have enjoyed a consider- able reputation in England, and were long resident in the Colonies, Derwent Coleridge, Rowe (Peter Possum), and Charles Whitehead, but could find no suitable poem by the first named. J. Hewlett Ross, himself a contri- butor, and one of Australia's most distinguished printers, found for him the poem quoted of Peter Possum's ; and the " Spanish Tragedy " of poor Whitehead, who died in Melbourne, he learned to be of Australian production fi'om Mr. H. T. Mackenzie Bell's fascinating " Charles Whitehead, a Forgotten Genius," an admirable study and rehabilitation of the author of Richard Savage, the man chosen by the publishers in preference to Dickens to write the book now immortal as the " Pickwick Papers." With Whitehead ought to bo mentioned John Y/. Graves, for fifty years a colonist in Tasmania, not much TO THE READER. xxv known m literary circles, bnt author of a song that has gone the round of the world, " D'ye ken John Peel 1 " In deference to the criticism of Mr. Petherick in the Aca/Jemy, the poem printed under the name of Barring- ton the Convict, in " A Century of Australian Song," has been omitted from this volume. Through the kindness of Katherine Tynan, the poetess, the editor has (unfortunately too late for the selection, which went to press long before this preface) been enabled to read Farrell's " How he Died, and other Poems." He is glad to have an opportunity of saying something in reply to the gibe with which one critic contemptuously dismissed this volume. " Byron-and- Water — Henry-Kendall - and-Water — Lindsay-Gordon-and- Water — and some of it very dirty Water ! " The taunt he thinks quite un- deserved, though he sees how Farrell laid himself open to it. For he imitates these three poets to the verge of parodying them, and several of his poems show evidence of having been dashed off squib-fashion for the columns of a funny newspaper, while some of the subjects are, to say the least, unsavoury. But the critic, as even critics sometimes will, omitted to notice Farrell's real promise and sterling merits. For the volume shows undeniable spirit, and (though occa- sionally disfigured by cheap sentiment) deep poetical feeling, together with considerable swing and unusually clever rhyming. There are some passages which touch one like that most pathetic of tragedies, " The Story of a Short Life," and the man who can imitate Kendall with such power must be able to w^rite yet more powerfully when striking out for himself. The editor has also, unfortunately only in time to slip a poem into the Appendix, received William J. Steward's (Justin Aubrey's) "Carmina Yaria." Steward XX vi TO THE READER. is a poet who has some echoes of the deep voice of humanity, he is full of sympathy and a sweet singer — worthy to sing of the land sung by Alfred Domett and Thomas Bracken, Readers have to deplore the loss of two capital poems, full of spirit and beauty, sent by Vincent Pyke, but mislaid while the editor was changing houses, and the absence from the selection of John Black- man, a poet whose name is known all over New Zealand, and who contributed some fine poems which arrived after the book had gone to press. The mention of New Zealand writers recalls the stir that New Zealand poetry has made among English readers. That such an earthly Paradise, an Eden with- out a serpent, a land combining the Alpine glories of Switzerland and the forest luxuriance of Brazil, a land where the settlers have acquired an heroic element by a fight for existence against a native race superior even to the red heroes of Mayne Reid — in the arts of war, in courage, and in physique — in a land that is another Britain, severed from its Continent by a fiercer channel a hundred times as wide, one might reasonably have expected strong poetic representation ; but when one reflects that New Zealand is in extent and population a single colony of Australasia, she has a right to be proud of being the poetic mother of such a body of writers as Alfred Domett, the author of one of the great poems of a century in which Shelley and Keats, Byron and Scott, "Wordsworth and Tennyson have all flourished ; and the younger singers, Thomas Bracken, typical colonist as well as manful poet ; Justin Aubrey ; John Liddell Kelly, who seems to have inherited the mantle of Domett in his brilliant handling of rhythm and metre, his eye for the picturesque in depicting the Maoris and Maoriland, and his truly poetic gift of observation ; E. TO THE READER. xxvii S. Hay, with his Shelleian gift of delicate and pathetic lyrics; "Austral," whose two poems in "Australian Ballads and Rhymes " have been quoted and i-equoted in England ; Mary Colborne Veel, with her witty, pithy, and musical verse; "The Singing Shepherd," at present a writer of very uneven merit, but authoress of three veritable gems, "To One in England," "Good night, good rest," and "Adieu;" Alexander Bathgate, a singularly finished writer; and W. R. Wills, whose three volumes are replete with noble thoughts and wealth of expression. To the editor. New Zealand has always seemed created for a land of song. And in New Zealand, were it not for the proud patriotism that all, who have ever lived in her, feel for that future capital of empire, Melbourne, it has been his dream to settle — luxuriating in the soft climate, the delicious scenery, the forests with tropical luxuriance but without the venomous and miasmatic terrors of the tropics — ever since he read the exquisite word-pictures of New Zealand which Domett wrote in his great poem from the text — 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 ! " The editor has, it will be noticed, as in previous selec- tions, omitted the " Mr." in all cases, to escape the in- vidium of deciding what poets were entitled to immunity from " this opprobrious badge of unimportance," which no Australian would ever think of prefixing to the names of Gordon or Kendall. To pass on, contributors must not take it as an in- civility that their letters have not been answered ; even if the editor's honorarium had allowed (at sixpence per xxviii TO THE READER. letter), he had not the leisure to answer several hundred letters, most of them lengthy; and it was mentioned in the announcement of the book that no payment could be made for contributions, or contributions returned. Every poem sent that was legible has been read, and no poem of sufficient merit to have a chance of being selected was left out, without two or three careful re- perusals : and selections have been drawn from as many authors as possible. There are still a few missing like Mary Hannay Foott, Rolf Bolderwood (Tom Brown), and Robert Ross Haverfield, whose poems would have been among the very best in the volume. Of the last we have a fragment which we believe he wrote in con- junction with " Harry " Creswick, but could lay hands on nothing else. " The Jackass laughs in the gnm-tree — Why? Because he sees in the eastern slcy The sunbeams struggling into life, To waken men to care and strife : And he knows, full well as they rise again, A thousand crimes will be done by men. " And he laughs again at the set of sun, To think of the risks the fools have run, For he says to himself, 'They have dearly bought The things that are given to me for nought.' And loudly he laughs — so he may — 'My word ;' For the Jackass indeed is a sapient bird." Mary Hannay Foott has written a charming volume of verse, and a charming volume might also be made of Rolf Bolderwood's. Unfoi^tunately their poems were unprocurable in England. The editor has stated above his reasons for not attempt- ing a fresh estimate of the writings of the Australasian poets. But for this he would like to have offered his TO THE READER. xxix "homage to R. H. Home's great *' Orion " and " Pro- metheus," which from their subjects could not be treated in " Australian Ballads and Rhymes," and he may here state that he would certainly have quoted from " Convict Once," which, for its power, its pathos, its picturesque- ness, its biilliant and rhythmical handling of an ambitious metre, and its beauty of language and illustration stands at the head of all the longer poems written in Australia. But Brunton Stephens, in writing to answer the editor by what poems he would like to be represented in "Aus- tralian Ballads and Rhymes," expressly stipulated that no poem should be quoted except in its entirety. It is much to be regretted, for " Convict Once," above all his other poems, shows the poet's greatness as a literary artist. His critical faculty is consummate. The publishers and the editor have to tender their best thanks to contributors, and to the editors of the great journals of Austi'alia and New Zealand, who with one accord did their best to forwai'd the volume by publishing the information for intending contributors. Also to Mr. Raymond (manager of George Robertson & Co., at Melbourne), to Mr. Enipson (manager of Griffith, Farran, & Co., Sydney), Mr. David R. Hay, Mr. Eaton of South Yarra, Mr. Herbert Tinker, Mr. Glee- son White, the Hon. Mrs. W. E. Cavendish, Mrs. E. A. Lauder, Mx\ H. T. Mackenzie Bell, the poetess Kathe- rine Tynan, and the following contributors who have given their help as well as their contributions : George Gordon M'Crae, Philip J. Holdsworth, Patchett Martin, Francis W. L. Adams, J. Hewlett Ross, Robert Richa)-d- son, and Alexander Bathgate. The editor is above all indebted — for they allowed him to borrow books, carte blanche, from two of the finest Aus- tralasian libraries in the world — to Messrs. O'Halloran XXX TO THE READER. and Boos^, librarian and sub-librarian of the Royal Colonial Institute, and Mr. E. A. Petherick of the Colonial Booksellers' Agency, who knows more of Aus- tralian writers than any one in England, In conclusion, he would say that he is conscious, before the book is printed, of the promiscuous abuse that will be poured upon it by the lower class of Australian papers, which are nothing if they are not " aboriginal ; " but he hopes that those Colonists who take a real interest in their literature will take it for what it is — a genuine attempt on the part of one who has made Australasian poetry his study, and is familiar with the works of more than two hundred antipodean poets, to lay before the British public specimens of the best verse that has been written in Australia irrespective of subject, and without respect of persons. D. B. W. S. CONCERNING AUSTRALIAN POETS. (By Arthur Patchett Martin.) Douglas Sladen, of whom personally it would be un- becoming in me to write, has courteously invited me to take part in this volume with " a preliminary essay on the Australian poets themselves," apart from their mere verse writing. The English literary public, he thinks, would like to know something of this strange little band of colonists who, instead of stooping to pick up nuggets, or bending to shear " the golden fleece," chose to scribble verse, some of which it would seem is on the point of finding a wider appreciation in the Mother-country. I could not see my way to refuse so generous a solicitation to unburden my mind on a personal and familiar theme ; but I am not unaware of tlie delicacy and even difficulty of my task. Colonial poets, like other people of sensi- bility, regard the photographer, even if skilful, as a social pest. What then will be their feelings if they perceive a humble member of their own craft clumsily using an apparatus, the lens of which, as well as the camera, is "obscure." Let me further explain at the outset that I am in no wise responsible for the selection made by the editor in this, or in preceding "Anthologies," further than by giving a ready assent to the inclusion of certain published poems of my own, and by specially bringing under his notice Garnet Walch's "Memorial Lines on Marcus Clarke." the Hon. "William Forster's " Sonnets on the Crimean War," and the real name of the author of the graceful Sonnets ad Limipfam. I do not think I can better explain what I believe has xxxii CONCERNING AUSTRALIAN POETS. always been the prevailing opinion in the colonies with regard to colonial poets, than by a phrase I learned from a worthy Roman Catholic priest to whom I had occasion to complain of a protege he had induced us to accept as a domestic servant. She had many excellent qualities, as I admitted, but also a fixed opinion that the soup tureen was intended for coals. When she at length proceeded to boil potatoes in the fish-kettle, I thought it as well to interview the good cleric as to her mental state. I relieved my own mind by dwelling on the awkward- ness of these domestic misconceptions, adding "she writes poetr}^, too." Then his eye lit up — " Oh ! " said he, " poetry is it — away with her at once. We have a saying in Ireland when Ave wish to convey that a person is harmless, but not quite 'all there' in the upper story — a poor poet of a fellow ! " I am sure that this is the light in which the Harpurs, Kendalls, and Gordons, while living, invariably appeared to their more bustling, more matter-of-fact, and therefore more prosperous fellow-colonists. ISTot that I think any of them had anything to com- plain of on the score of personal unkindness, or public contempt. They were not only tolerated, but in some cases even sheltered and treated kindly, particularly by the public men of ISfew South Wales; but always, I imagine, from the feeling that they were not quite able to look after themselves, not quite all there; in short, as poor harmless fellows whose disease was neither dangerous nor contagious. My own reminiscences are almost strictly confined to Victoria; of the poets of New South Wales I know nothing personally, save of Kendall, who made his home for a while in Melbourne. Even of Kendall and Gordon my recollections are dim and shadowy, for the one was dead, and the other had migrated back to his native woods before I began to read, or at least write, colonial verse. Some of my earliest reminiscences were revived by the death of R. II. Ilorne, a few years back. I jotted them down at the time, and they duly CONCERNING AUSTRALIAN POETS, xxxiii appeared in the Academy of March 29, 1884, under the heading " 'Orion' Home in Australia." Perhaps I can- not do better than quote the opening sentences, as they throw a side-light on the career of one of our best Aus- tralian poets, Henry Kendall. " What old Melbourne resident does not remember the second-hand bookseller's shop on the brow of Bourke Street Hill, near to the Houses of Parliament, where some fifteen to twenty years ago, and down to a later period, the colonial Quaritch — one Henry Tolnian Dwight — held literary sway? Thither, on hot summer after- noons, Avould flock many men of local note — lawyers, doctors, divines, journalists — a motley crew, but united in the bonds of bookdom. It was no light privilege to be admitted into the sacred circle, for 'Dwight's' possessed, in the eyes of those of the younger generation who cared not for the politics or commerce of a prosperous pro- vince, much of the charm of a London literary coterie. Among those who frequented the low-roofed, book-stuffed recesses of this shop was a little odd-looking old gentleman with ' cork-screw ' curls, who came on periodical visits to the metropolis from the dark forests of the Blue Mountains, wliere he reigned in high oflicial grandeur as Warden. Every one at ' Dwight's,' from the great functionary himself to the brilliant leader of the bar,* whose real aim in life was to collect rare editions of Montaigne, would greet with warmth the visitor. For this strange-looking little old man was Richard Henry (Hengist) Home, or as we invariably called him, ' Orion ' Home. " I say ' we ' perhaps presumptuously, for my youthful obscurity placed me quite on the outer rim of this ex- clusive literary ' set,' who, however, tolerated my frequent presence, perhaps because like other great men they preferred a boyish listener to none. . . . The death of this same R. H. Home at Margate has brought back vividly the mingled feelings of pride and pleasure with * Sir Archibald INIichie, the greatest lecturer of Australia, genuine wit, and a man of rare literary ability and culture ; though the *' Montaignes " must be taken in a general sense, C xxxiv CONCERNING AUSTRALIAN POETS. ■which I took the old man's hand some two or three years before he left for England, I have had the honour since to meet poets whom I must critically rank as ' fuller minstrels ' than ' Orion ' Home, but no personal intro- duction, even to a Tennyson or a Browning — deeply as I revere their genius — could recall the emotion with which I then regarded one who has now passed almost silently away." " We hear much," I continued, '• in the colonies now- a-days of 'Australian literature,' and faint echoes (this was previous to our Editor's advent as an Australian anthologist) of this self-assertion are to be caught in England. But no account of this new literary develop- ment is complete without a recognition of the labours of ' Orion ' Home, who dwelt and wrote in Victoria from 1852 to 1869, During those years Home, who seemed to us to have brought in person to the new land the literary glories and traditions of the Mother- country (for was he not the personal friend of Charles Dickens, and the Brownings, and had not Poe proclaimed his farthing Epic to be on a par with Milton's ■?), was the acknowledged arbiter of authorship throughout Australia. At his sole hat the Sydney poet, Henry Kendall's, ' Death in the Bush,' and the ' Glen of Arrawatta,' were awarded the coveted prize as ' the best poems produced in the colonies.' " Alfred Domett, I may remark, should bear much the same relation to 'New Zealand literature — if it had a distinct existence — that I here claimed for Home in Australia. But although, as Mr. Froude predicts, the "Britain of South" is doubtless destined to have a brilliant literary as well as political future, the time has not yet come. Melbourne and Sydney between them divide the literature of Australasia. Eeverting to those old Melbourne days, I can recall the curiosity some of us felt to see and know Kendall, " the Sydney poet," Avhen he decided to come over and make his home among us. Mr. Alexander Sutherland, who has of late years been laudably busy in collecting the CONCERNING AUSTRALIAN POETS. xxxv memorials of the generation of Australian litterateurs who have already run their brief course, gives some painful details of poor Kendall's life in Melbourne. I suppose in the interests of the public it was necessary to tell this tale of want and weakness, and Mr. Sutherland means well and writes in a sympathetic spirit ; but I certainly liave no wish to dwell upon such things. Henry Kendall, apart from his genius for writing lyrical verse, was what the Scotch call a " feckless " person. In Sir Henry Parkes, in whom the vigorous party politician only hides, it cannot kill, the genuine poet, he had a friend as well as a patron ; but it availed little. Kendall was always, as Mr. Sutherland says, in difficulties. The truth is he had no very marketable commodity, especially for a new com- munity eager to gain a commercial footing in the world's marts ; and he had great weaknesses of character. Journalism is held, at least in Australia, to be the business partner of Literature ; but Kendall had not a single qualilication of the journalist — neither training, capacity, nor knowledge. For all that he wrote exquisite lyrics. But those Avho, bewailing the fate of this colonial lOdgar Allan Poe, are apt at the same time to denounce the whole community for spurning his genius, are in my judgment manifestly unfair and foolish. Kendall was never without kind and valuable friends ; and he died as Inspector of Forests, an office specially created for him by Sir Henry Parkes, then as now Prime Minister of !New South Wales. I remember Henry Kendall very well, as he appeared at " Dwight's " when I first beheld him. He Avas then, I think, in some inferior government appointment which had been provided for him ; if I mistake not, in the Kegistrar-General's office. He was a small, dark, fragile, poetical-looking man of thirty-five or forty in appearance, and so far as I remember he had no conversational ability at all. Garnet "Walch once told me that when he was on the staff of the Sydney Punch, Kendall was his colleague ; and they used to meet at certain times and read their effusions to one another preparatory to submitting them xxxvi CONCERNING AUSTRALIAN POETS. to the public in print. The great Mr. Dalley was a sort of outside amateur whom they greatly admired as a con- tributor, but could not quite regard as a hard-working, needy brother-professional, compelled to convert his jokes into coinage of the realm. Kendall used at these sijm- 2J0sia to read his verses, which, when they had merit, were decidedly not comic ; for he had no sense of humour whatever. So affected would he become that he would burst into tears at reading his own lines, a degree of sensi- bility which his more robust comrades with the vis comica thought a decided weakness. Henry Kendall's fame had preceded him to IMelbourne, and he was accordingly welcomed Avarmly by the literary coterie of the Yorick Club and in other quarters. He made the personal acquaintance of such men as Marcus Clarke, A. L. Gordon, and G. G. M'Crae — a genuine poet and true artist. If one turns over the old numbers of the Colonial Monthly Magazine, one finds Kendall a frequent poetical contributor ; he also figures in the poet's corner of the chief Melbourne newspapers of that day. His life in Melbourne was singularly unhappy ; he could not withstand its temptations, nor endure its daily wear and tear. He had brought his young wife with him, and it was in Melbourne that he lost his child Araluen. "When he left his native New South Wales, the poor poet looked on Melbourne, " Queen city of the golden South," as his future home, where he would achieve fame, and what was more, peace of mind, and bread for his wife and babe. It is now nearly twenty years ago since, full of those hopes, he first saw its broad streets, and walked along them, with his slender packet of dainty verse that was to win the hearts of men and women. Mr. Sutherland, writing in 1882 — ^just after Kendall's untimely death — says of this " packet," known as "Leaves from an Australian Forest": "Fifteen hun- dred copies were printed — the price being five shillings each. They were published thirteen years ago, and there are still several hundred copies for sale in the city at sixpence each." COXCERNIXG AUSTRALIAN POETS. xxxvH " Alas ! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade.' As ^Milton was referring to poetical rather than pastoral pursuits, his exclamation seems to have a profound signifi- cance in reference to the career of poor Henry Kendall in Australia. Tlie frail little child Araluen was the first to succumb, dying in a wretched cottage in a Melbourne suburb. It only remained for the poor despairing poet and his youthful wife to bury the baby, leave Melbourne, and go back to their native place, broken and defeated. His lines to the partner of his sorrows are very touching on this sad death and melancholy migration. " 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."' So the sweet pathetic strain flows on, and it is not possible to read it — realising, as I do, that it is no mere fancy sketch, but a transcript of his actual life and fruit- less struggle in iMelbourne — and not be deeply moved. Still I cannot withdraw what I have said, that the com- munity as a Avhole cannot be censured because one of Aveak and sensitive nature, gifted with an unsaleable gift, perished b)'' the way-side. The time is not far off when Kendall's poems will be in request, and those " sixpenny copies " be at a fancj'' price, and his name as a sweet singer in the mouths of men. INIeanwliile, after life's fitful fever, he sleeps in the Waverley Cemetery, near Sydney, within souiul of the " wide Pacific," which was in life his delight, and beside which he desired to be buried. Of Gordon I have elsewhere written, having to the best of my belief introduced that remarkable Australian xxxviii CONCERNING AUSTRALIAN POETS. poet to the notice of the English literary public some four years ago. I liave only to express my regret that the demand "svhicli sprung up has been met simply by a reprint of the old editions, full of typographical errors, with poems by other hands, and a set of verses taken from an English magazine without acknowledgment. To this farrago is appended a futile prefatory note by a Mr, Birnie. Gordon is a melancholy instance of a poet whose verses, though recognised by the "judicious few" as excellent in his lifetime, yet did not then sell sufficiently to be of any help in the fierce struggle for existence. After his melancholy death, their local fame quickly spread, and finally reached England, with the result that the profits are absorbed by those who secured the copyright on their own terms. The verses by Gordon, taken without ac- knowledgment from Temj>Ie Bar, where I originally pub- lished them, are by Mr. Eentley's consent and my own to be found in this volume. The Editor has very properly included in this collection some verses by the well-known Australian novelist, Marcus Clarke, who, all things considered, is the best example of the purely literary character that has ever lived south of the line. Clarke was a brilliant prose writer, some of his lighter sketches being unsurpassed in their way, for a sort of epigrammatic force that is French rather than English. Poetry was with him only a casual relaxation, but so good was his critical faculty, that it was well nigh impossible for him to Avrite badly, whether in verse or prose. In any general sketch of Australian literature it would be necessary to describe his connection with various local periodicals, of which he was the literary mainspring. Clarke was essentially an artist, I remember when he turned his attention to what used to be almost the only paying branch of literary composition, except journalism, in INIelbourne — the writing of the burlesque opening of the Christmas pantomime ; he did not succeed in pleasing the pit and gallery as well as others who had made the writing of this kind of extravaganza a business CONCERNING AUSTRALIAN POETS, xxxix for years — but Marcus Clarke's work was of a distinctly higher literary order than theirs. The songs he wrote for his "fairy prince" to sing, were graceful little lyrics, and the " local hits " he introduced at the expense of colonial politicians had wit and point ; rather too much perhaps, for one Melbourne M.P. made a vulgar personal assault on him in Parliament, demanding his instant dismissal from the public service. Clarke was then Sub- Librarian of the Melbourne Public Library, a position he continued to hold till the time of his death. Garnet AValch has perhaps greater claims as a colonial poet than his friend Marcus Clarke, and the " memorial verses " written on the occasion of the latter's death have the rare merit of genuine feeling. It would, however, be invidious of me to attempt to criticise one with whom for years I was intimately associated. The selections given speak for themselves. But I would like to pay a tribute to my old comrade's kind, generous disposition. When he was engaged by an influential INIelbourne pub- lishing firm (George Robertson & Co.) to bring out an expensive book on the colony, entitled " Victoria in 1880," he was the first to ask the rival rhymesters of the place to contribute to it, and he gave every one more prominence than himself. He has in life, as in his writings, a perennial fund of good humour and honest hearty fun ; his talents are great and various ; he is well educated (for which he must thank our dear old grandmother, Germany), and in fine he is like Horatio — " A man that ftirtune's buffets and rewards Hath ta'en with equal thanks." "When the inevitable end comes the good people of Melbourne will be loud in Garnet Walch's praises, and the book collectors will, as in the case of Kendall, be busy buying up his scattered writings. Perhaps it would be as well if they began now. There is only one other Australian poet of more than mere local name who demands a worth I allude of course to James Brunton Stephens of Queensland, in many respects xl CONCERNING AUSTRALIAN POETS. the most gifted of all the writers of verse in Australia. As a Victorian I know nothing personally of my Queens- land confrere, for we lived as far asunder as St. Petersburg is from London. But I once had the pleasure as editor of the Melbourne Review to receive from him a very valuable poem entitled " Mute Discourse " — which I promptly published, and the MS. of which I have kept to this day as a literary relic of Australia. We boastful Melbournians often used to Avonder what a man like Brunton Stephens could find in a " provincial" existence like that of the ISTorthern colony. Why didn't he come South, we said, and live in a civilised country, and in the literary metropolis of the great Island-Continent. He may have remembered the fate of Kendall, or perhaps he was happy enough where he was in Queensland. In spirit he was often with us, for never a week passed without some poem of his, or some critical recognition of his poetic gifts appearing in the columns of the great Melbourne weeklies, which are newspaper and magazine in one. Owing to the zeal of the Editor, selections from all these writers, and from many beside, are now placed before the English reader for the first time. It is not my province to speak of the value of such an anthology, rather would I urge, in mining parlance, that each one should " wash the dirt in his own dish," and see how many " ounces to the ton " he can secure. But as an aging, if not old Australian Avriter, some reflec- tions cross my mind when I notice how warmly these collections of colonial verse are now being received in England. It was not always so in our own land. Turning over an old Colonial Monthly — a magazine started to promote local literature — I find the work of the most widely re- cognised of Australian poets thus summarily dismissed : — " Altogether it is one of the oddest literary curiosities issued from the colonial printing-press, and deserves en- couragement at the hands of those whose tastes incline to •horsey' sport." CONCERNING AUSTRALIAN POETS. xli Could anything be more contemptuovis 1 Yet this was the magazine founded by "the literary clique," and in which Marcus Clarke, Kendall, and other confreres of the victim of this cruel snub, were the chief scribes. Call you that backing of your friends % The Culonial MvntJdij was the magazine, too, in which appeared frequent critical notices of local writers from the judicious pen of the " literary -banker " of Melbourne, Mr. H. G. Turner, who, it is needless to say, did not write the criticism quoted. The fact is, Australia had then learned to rely on her own judgment in literary or other matters. When Henry Kendall felt himself un- appreciated by the colonial critics, and therefore unread by the colonial public, he sent his bundle of MS. to the editor of the AthencBum, Avho, to the poet's exceeding joy, singled out three pieces for special praise and publication. We now seem to have rushed to the other extreme, and I can only blush at such a criticism (?) as this in the Melbourne Review of a comparatively recent date : — "No English poet has appeared since iS6o who is Kendall's superior. Rossetti and Swinburne and Arnold and Morris are indulgently treated, if in deference to the enthusiasm of tlieir admirers we allow them an equal measure of poetic feeling with Henry Kendall." As if this were not enough, the writer, who is quite sane and a Scotch schoolmaster to boot, of high local academic standing, adds that "neither JMilton or Words- worth has anything superior in the way of sonnet- writing." I scanned the next sentence to see in what particular the inferiority of Shakespeare to Henry Kendall was insisted on. All this, of course, is worse than futile, it is silly, and really does the fair fame of Kendall and the future of Australian literature no service. Similarly to judge from certain indications the new tone of Englishmen is friendly rather than critical ; for we colonials have produced nothing M'orthy of great laudation. This excessive unselfish praise from English- men and silly self-praise of Australians Avill, however, cease soon enough, and things will find their true level. xlii CONCERNING AUSTRALIAN POETS. The point to be estaUislied is that a man or woman living under the new conditions of colonial life, freely and healthily, in the bright beneficent sunlight of Australia, might, if so gifted, produce a fine poem, or a great picture, or a stirring drama, and the fact of its origin being "Colonial," should tell neither in its favour nor to its hurt. The Editor in his personal request which has led to this rambling essay, was good enough to say " please give your own experiences — what led you, trained and educated entirely in Australia, to write verses ? " So far I have cunningly avoided falling into the trap. Nor do I mean to offer any Apologia for my metrical or other fullies. But as I have branched off to this vital question of criticism — English and local — on Australian literary work, I would like to be for a minute " frankly autobiographical." As Marcus Clarke used to say of him- self, " I went through the mill," that is, I obtruded my rascally verses and got duly whipped. It is astonishing, looking back on those early days, how fond our journal- istic masters were of the cat-o'-nine-tails. Here is an instance of how it was administered : — " We have received a copy of a voh;me of poems by a Mr. Gordon. We can only say that it reflects great credit upon the printer, the binder, and the paper-maker." After " a poor poet of a fellow " had been setting his soul's emotions to music for a year or two to produce a thin volume of verse, it was, to say the least of it, dis- couraging to be thus dealt with. Let me hasten to admit that I received from some quarters more than my share of generous praise ; for I began to publish at the time when the feeling of mere "colonial dependency" was dying in Victoria, and that of a distinct nationality was astir. But looking back over a number of years, I can still recall the glow of pleasure and pride with which I, a mere colonial literary tyro, received a certain letter from a writer whose fame is now world-wide, E. L. Stevenson. I had published a little Christmas story, padding out its scantiness by some' random rhymes." In acknow- edging a copy of this precious production, the best CONCERNING AUSTRALIAN POETS. xliii essayist and story-teller of our day "wrote, " Your story seems to me very agreeable and pretty ; and I may mention ■with regard to the piece of verses called ' Such is Life,' that I am not the only one on this side of the Football aforesaid to think it a good and bright piece of work, and recognise a link of sympathy ■with the poets ■who play in ' hostelries at euchre.' " I had been savagely smitten by some local critic for that very "piece of verses," and this letter -was to me as balm in Gilead. I had appealed to Eome, and no^w ■who should dare to " boycott " my muse. My feeling can only be compared to that of a (then) young Victorian friend ■whose literary bent took the form of reading essays at a Debating Society patronised by some older men ■whose delight it ■was to extinguish his poor farthing rush- light ■whenever he lit it. So he copied out a translation of a discourse by Goethe and read it to them. " Rubbish," — said they — "puerile,"aswith one voice. "When they had made an end of speaking he quietly arose and said, fixing his eye on one terrible old greybeard ■who Avrote literary criticisms in the local press : — " Gentlemen, I have listened to your opinions to-night Avith much pleasure. You ■will also be pleased when you learn that the essay you have been criticising is not mine, but the poet Goethe's." So the letter of "R. L. S." was a joy to me. Now, however, the pendulum is swinging to the other side. Once it was thought no good could come out of the colonies, now nothing but good. The tone of English criticism on everything colonial seems just now exclu- sively flattering, and we are in danger of being spoiled, strutting about in honours too easily won. Our colonial members of parliament, excellent fellows some of them in their way, come " home " and are forth- with translated into " statesmen," and wear from that out a Baconian brow. Now, owing to Douglas Sladen's introduction, the poets are to have a turn. But lest this genial kindliness be mistaken for stern criticism, I would fain give another illustration of English opinion, on matters colonial, even though it sadly wounds my amour propre. xliv CONCERNING AUSTRALIAN POETS. Among tlie odd efforts of my idle fancy in the Aus- tralian Bush, near Fernshawe, was the composition of a set of verses on a Laughing Jackass, the curious bird which so fascinated Mr. Froude. I fantastically styled these verses "The Cynic of the Woods," and in the middle of my discourse addressed him bluntly as " Jack- ass." The matter is plain enough to a colonial reader, but a volume containing it fell into the hands of an English friend who I had judged to be of a sombre turn of mind, a statistician and political economist, one who like Cardinal IManning had given his early prime to the study of Ricardo. He expressed himself as delighted with my ballad of the Jackass ; and wrote to say that it was admirable. Nothing, he said, had so much amused him as this idea of the Jackass laughing at the poet ; but he thought I had strained a point in putting the animal up in the boughs, as he had never heard even of a wild ass sufficiently agile to climb a gum-tree. The moral, perhaps, is that Australian literature will only be in a fair way of development when there is side by side with it an Australian school of criticism. For, after all, one shouldbe judged by one's own people. This is the " Home-rule " side of the question ; there is also the "Imperial" view, which is based on our greatest common heritage — language. Douglas Sladen told us in verse that we Australians are only a new variety of the original English stock. This is perfectly true. Literature, too, has ceased to be tribal, and the only barrier that prevents a supreme poet like Tennyson from speaking to the whole world at once, is that of language. It is also the link that binds America and Australia, whether they will or no, to the Mother-country. jSTor in our petty endeavour to establish an "Australian literature," should we forget that we share in the greatest heritage of England. We, too, if our voices are clear enough, can speak from our remote weird Bush, and our new flourishing cities, to three Continents — only there are so many talking at the same time, that we do not always get a good hearing. AUSTEALIAN POETS. FEANCIS W. L. ADAMS. [A well-known Australian journalist, author of Poems (Elliott Stock), Leicester, an A utobiography (George Redway), Australian Essays (Griffith, Farran & Co.), and Poetical Works (Muir and Morcons, Brisbane), son of the dif^tinguished authoress, Mrs. Leith-Adams (now Mrs. R. S. De Courcy Laffan of Stratford- on-Avon). When Mr. Adams wrote from Queensland he was engaged upon a volume of AustraUan Tales, a novel {The JJruces), and a work on Modern English Poets.] LOVE'S LIGHT AND TUNE. T WILL not light the candle yet and draw the blinds, But lean my flushed face and the brow that aches Out into the cool air, where these tired eyes look, (Below is heard the murmuring murmuring brook, And in the early twilight trees and brakes, all of the small birds are set Crooning, and piping tunes to suit their minds,) — Look in the sweet soft mingling of the sky and the sea, Where is no tune to change unceasingly, It is so long since any tune hath come to me. Nay, close the wuidow up, and draw the blinds that cry, And light the candle, and with smiling face A 2 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Tell thyself of this tune God gives, this tune That shineth in thy soul palely, as yonder moon Shineth there by the hills with unfelt pace, Till the darkness deepens and, more And more, her glory fills the courts of the sky, And all the sea and the earth, and is enough To gladden every heart vyith joy thereof ; God, I thank thee for this tune that tells of Love! AGNOSTA. Ah God, my peerless love, to have known a woman like you Would (so I have often dreamed) have set my soul on fire, Sent the bright blood bubbling, bubbling and rushing through Veins that were swollen with life, with life and with love's desire ! Ah ! but I never met you ! never, save in my dreams, And there the clasp of your arms, the kiss of your sorceress lips, Mocked me — maddened me — struck me awake in the ghastly gleams Of the earth, moon, sun, and stars, whirled deep in a wild eclipse. Patience, patience, poor fool ! Fold thy fluttering icings, Fold them for ever still beside a reposeful breast, And let thine ear but hear the siveetest song that life sings : " After the day the night, after labour rest." FRANCIS W. L. ADAMS. WORLD WOUNDED. She shall never know I loved her so, Or she would mourn for me. I'd have her say, When I am gone away : " We were happy, I and he ! So I for ever Shall be to her A sweet bright memory. And she shall know I loved her so — And she too shall love me ! DANCE SONG. How could I, sweet, have sung another song ? To you there was but one for me to sing, Eut one, and, ah ! you know it all so long, That now I fear it seems an idle thing. With tireless feet, Avith tireless feet, Dance on, dance on ! I love you, sweet. How shall I whisper, dear, another word ? Do I not hold you, breathing breast to breast 1 My heart has nought to say yours has not heard, Of all Love's speeches silence is the best. I will not fear, I will not fear, Dance, dance on 1 I love you, dear. A USTRA LI AN POE TS. ALPHA CRUCIS. [This writer desires the incognito maintaineJ.] IN THE UPLANDS. Morning. The corn-lands wake with rustling quiver, Whilst o'er the lowlands far away, With opal flush, the steel-blue river Flings flashing back the blaze of day. The mountain-tops are clothed with light, Upbursting in a sunny glow — Whilst, scattering, fade the mists of night From glen and valley far below. And with the briglitening of the dawn The soul to its Creator thrills. And worships, with the virgin morn, Amid the splendours of the hills — • For here, through nature's wakening calm, Breathes jubilantly prayer and praise. Like echoes of the angel psalm Which ushered in its primal days. When God and Nature ruled alone. And Seraphs' wings made glad the skies, Descending from around His throne. To brighten earth's new paradise ! Ere through Time's sunny universe The frown of fiend-like fate was seen, And all unknowing sin's strange curse. His wide creation lived serene ; I ALPHA CRUCIS. 5 Through days which brought hut fuller bliss, Through nights which brought but deeper calm, And dawn which woke but with the kiss Of light and Seraphs' morning psalm. Yea, heaven and earth, and man and time. Seemed one with God in those blest hours, And moving on to more sublime And loftier range of larger powers ! And through those long, calm, golden years Man's soul gained power with its ages, And heard the music of the spheres. And learned to read the mystic pages, Which ample nature spreads afar, Throughout Creation's widest bound, From highest, past the zenith star. To lowest nadir stars profound. And 'midst this day-dawn, bathed with dew And virgin freshliness, lo ! it seems True ! — that these whispers may be true, And something more than poet's dreams ! For in the sympathy we feel "With God, in nature — is the key To half-guessed secrets, which conceal His purpose, and man's destiny. This life is not our earliest birth. Nor highest — since Creation's dawn — And yet begins again on earth. In ignorant infancy new-born. AUSTRALIAN POETS. With scarce a memory of the old Existences, if lived ere this — Save dreams of some past age of gold, And faith in some dim future bliss ! Some sunset of supremest splendour — Some starlight mystery of night — And lo ! awakes some subtle, tender, Ineffable dream of old delight ! Sudden as lightning — and more fleeting, Scarce seen, scarce felt, ere fled afar — Yet surely token of a greeting Unto our spirit from some star, Wherein our life was earlier kindled — Till in fate's circle, downward hurled, To lessen life awhile — it dwindled To mortal — in this lower world. A larger life with larger joys, Perchance means also larger pains ! For nature ever thus alloys. With greater loss, her greater gains. Whatever goodness, strength, or power Lives in the present — lo ! behold, It was not born within the hour. But comes inherited of old. Even the genius sent on earth Once in the ages, now and then. From God, but proves how high a birth Is granted unto chosen men ! ALPHA CRUCIS. And man's true measure is the height The highest rise to — for in each Is born the germ of mental might, To bring all knowledge in his reach. The noblest words can never tell Our spirit what the heavenly strains Of music, in their loftiest swell, Unto the raptured soul explains. For language but expresses thought ; Whilst unto harmony is given, To echo sacred echoes caught And syllable the psalms of Heaven. And greatest poem ! grandest voice Of music ! never yet were blent Perfect in one — to bid rejoice, Exalted souls, with deep content Of highest, most exalted art. Which wedded man's immortal verse With the immortal thrilling heart Of song, which fills the universe, With beauty in all varied guise, And sings the seasons of the years, And all the hymnings of the skies. And all the music of the spheres ! Yet ne'er is lost one noble word. Nor ever dies one noble thought ; For ever in heaven they are heard, Although they pass from earth as naught. AUSTRALIAN POETS. And so perchance the heavenly sound Of harmony, that thrills all earth, Is but a noble thought re-found, Re-baptized with its higher birth, To echo down through Mammon's din, And silvery pierce Earth's deafened ears ; To Avake the higher soul within. With all the music of the spheres. Some glow of life, of more than earth. Thrills through us with a sudden gleam, Like lightning memory of past birth, Baptized in some far heavenly stream. An instant only — whilst the soul Grows larger than its mortal frame, And sees divinely, with the whole Of God's vast universe, its claim To loftier life, in larger spheres. Throughout a mightier range of time, Whose gladdening days fill golden years, Tlirough ages growing more sublime ; Where every effort tends to good, Where every pathway reverent trod, 'Midst men and angels brotherhood, Leads upward to the throne of God ! And all the ills of lower life, Like flies in amber, leave no taint On memory — and past pain and strife, Like discords — sounding far and faint. ALPHA CRUCIS. By distance softened, mellowing glow, Half musical, less harsh than sad, And in eternity's soft glow Of light the soul lives calmly glad. Noon. The secret of the Poet's soul, The essence of its gift, is this. Strong sympathy — with nature's whole Creation — and with all that is ! AVho says great Pan is dead 1 when all The myriad chants which nature sings, From whispering leaves to wild birds' call Some echo of his worship brings 1 The gods of old have never died ! They lived since ever time began, By many a new name deified, Through changing creeds, by changing man. Amidst the vine-leaves overhead, I hear great Dionysus sing — As erst he sang, ere art was fled. And life was in its young world spring. And love laughs whispering in the breeze, Lo ! Aphrodite yet is fair ! And sudden 'midst the swaying trees I see her golden, gleaming hair ! lo AUSTRALIAN POETS. The glowing crocus', round her feet, Of warm, soft whiteness, seem to rise. As though they emulous strove to meet, And golden clasp their pearly prize ! She passes in her goddess grace, Like living light, across the flowers ! And like a gleam of heaven, her face Smiles love between the garden bowers ! Unutterable sweetness fills The summer's soft voluptuous breath, And all my inmost being thrills With life which seems too great for death. Sweet orange-blossoms steep the air. In languorous softness — and their flowers Like scarlets shine out whitely fair Amidst tlieir glossy dark-leaved bowers. Is Nature dumb, or are we deaf 1 Do her gods answer when we call 1 Speaks she to us in whispering leaf, Or murmurs of the waterfall 1 In subtlety of semitone, Or set in sweet, sad minor key, She whispers to her own The secrets of her harmony ! Have all the iron-footed years Of science crushed that higher sense Which heard the music of the spheres, And doubted neither where now whence ALPHA CRUCIS. ii The soul descended — of our birth ? But, seeing endless beauty given To every common thing of earth, Believed it but the gate to Heaven. The theme of love is never old. The mystery of its deathless might Still gives each life its age of gold. Lit up awhile with heavenly light. With every generation love Is virgin born, and springs anew For ever, fed from founts above, And freshened with celestial dew. " Common as light is love," and God Makes all men equal in its bliss. For all their world seems angel trod To them, fast raptured with its kiss. The light of love was in her eyes, Her beauty thrilled my inmost soul With rapture deeper than the skies. Watching the midnight planets roll. One passionless star, pulsed bright above, One purple dimness wrapt the earth, When first we told over mutual love. And rapturous traced it from its birth. All nature sympathetic seemed, The wild winds whispered gentler by ; With softer, whiter radiance gleamed The stars, which lit the darkening sky. 12 AUSTRALIAN POETS. The spirit of all heavenly things Which light the life of nature's whole Creation, thrilled life's deepest springs, And blended passionate soul to soul. Love's music fills love's soul with deep Ecstatic harmonies, which seem To blend all heaven's with earth's, and steep The soul in some Elysian dream. But never comes it twice on earth To him who has it once, for never Can real love have second birth — It comes and lives, or dies for ever. Great love is lowly as 'tis great, And in its mightiness is meek. And so it smoothes its loved one's fate, No lesser pleasure seeks to seek. Great loves love greatly, and their love Oft makes their loved ones also great, And through life's toils and trials prove How lives thus strengthened fear no fata There is no jealousy in love. When real — whate'er the sensual saith, Its nobleness it can but prove By mutual, deep undoubting faith. For great love knows no jealous fear, No bitterness its greatness mars, But looks beyond Time's little year. To live unchanged beyond the stars ! ALPHA CRUCIS. 13 A jealous love is but a strong, Vain, selfish passion, born of dust — Of eartli's desires which feareth wrong, And is too frail to trust in trust. A great love disappointment turns To sorrow, till it finds relief In lessening others' woes, and learns. In soothing theirs, it soothes its grief. love ! if love lives on for ever, Beyond this solid, sensual earth. And death itself cannot dissever Souls twin-born from their primal birth. Then, in that brighter life and better. All nobleness — but half concealed, Imprisoned in earth's fleshly fetter — Will sudden shine forth all revealed. Self-abnegation — half unheeded, — Self-hid, self-conquest, all unseen, By those whose life through it succeeded, Yet happy, if it made serene The fate of those it loved and tended, And made their happiness its own, Contented, till its task was ended. To know its sacrifice unknown. Yea, love means sacrifice ; yet they Who give the most receive the most, For service given for love is pay In its own self, and counts no cost. 14 A USTRA LI A N POE TS. But generous-hearted, noble love, — - Unselfish, earnest, liberal given, — On earth half-known — perchance above Will find its greatness known in Heaven. Night. The day is o'er — and evensong And rustic dance sound sweet afar — As moonlight floods the Kurrajong With light which pales each lessening star, Whose radiance, on this mountain -height, The lower lands can never know, For through serener air they light All heaven and earth, with brighter glow. Aldebaran, with ruddy ray, Burns deep beyond Orion's belt — And deeper yet the clustering blaze Of Pleiades — whose influence, felt Through all the dim bright milky way, Controls its sj'-stems, far and near, To roll through Time's tremendous day, Towards Eternity's full year. Lo ! far adown the eastern skies, Above the low horizon's rim, Processioned constellations rise, As though they rose to worship Him ALPHA CRUCIS. 15 Within the hollow of whose hand, Through all the countless years of elJ, The ocean and the ancient land And all Creation's worlds are held ! "With soft effulgence — spreading far Above the dewy mist which hides The vast plain's edge — the luminous star Of Aphrodite silvery glides. In silent splendour up the arch Whose keystone is the sacred throne Of Him who rules the thunder march, Through space of every starry zone. The melloAv moonlight washes all The sleeping world with saintly light — And silently the soft dews fall In fragrant freshness through the night. Throughout the clear deep hyaline, Some worldless beauty seems to fill All space, with influence half divine — Which subtly, with electric thrill, Wakes up vague memories of some past Dim splendour, of some earlier birth, Amid majestic Avorlds — more vast, Serener far, than this of Earth ! However sneer the worldly wise, " Man liveth not by bread alone ! " His soul claims kindred with the skies, And all of Earth's best «ifts alone 1 6 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Can never feed the yearning crave Instinctive for some higher life He blindly sees beyond the grave, Above the dust of earthly strife ! The workshops of the world grow blind With smoke, afar from flower and sod, They see but triumphs of the mind Of man, and cease to think of God. They triumph in their little day, They feverish clutch their golden gains, And yet with time they pass away. Whilst time and nature still remains ! Our life is thronged with hopes and fears, Faint gleams of joy, fierce glooms of pain, Make up the measure of our years. But should, perchance, our hopes be vain, May not our fears be vain likewise ? And all the dread hereafter be A sleep in which our tired eyes "Sleep well" through all Eternity ! Old age, of strength and hope bereft, And breathing but with laboured breath, Hath but this saddening solace left : Forgetfulness in sleep — and death ! However bright life's surface woof, Its web is woven in the loom Of fate, to fade for death's behoof, And clothes but skeletons of doom. ALPHA CRUCIS. 17 "VVe see the mystery of sin, We know the mystery of pain, We feel too weak the crown to win, And fear we bear the cross in vain. Sadness and cynicism breathe Their blight upon this age of ours, And pitying smile at those who wreathe The altar of their faith with flowers. " These be thy gods, Israel, these ! " Cries scornful Pity ; " wax they wroth Unless their vanity ye please With candle and with altar-cloth ! Fools that ye are ! and blind as weak ! The God of truth is mightier far Than this poor tinselled thing ye seek — His temple-light is sun and star ! " We call to Him with prayerful cries ! We listening wait — with bated breath ! No answer cometh from the skies, And earth but dumbly shows us death ! The age of miracles is past, — Swift answer unto prayer would be A sudden miracle — as vast As those of Him of Galilee ! AH men, all things, bow down to fate ; The demi-gods Avho ruled the spheres Were conquered by it, soon or late Trod down by iron-footed years. B i8 AUSTRALIAN POETS. In life's full moon its shadows lie, Beneath our feet — where'er we gaze We see far-spread a summer sky, And life lit up with happy rays. In youth we walk towards the sun, And all our shadow backward sweeps — But when life's race is nearly run, Our lengthening shadow forward creeps And dims the slanting sunset light As, stumbling on, we darkly tread. Till all the silent gloom of night Eternal closes overhead ! — The great repose which hallows death. When first it seals life's tired eyes And closes fast the lips, whose breath Hath ebbed from sighing into sighs ! Man — even fiends — appalled would shrink From contemplating endless pain ! And darest thou, mortal ! think Just God could gloat o'er endless pain 1 Eternal torment is a lie. As wild and wicked as the dream Of some mad monster, who should try How worst of worst he could blaspheme. God is as mightier than man As mightiest is to meanest, so His mercy must be tenderer than The tenderest mercy mortals know. ALPHA CRUCIS. 19 If otherwise, then man were greater In goodness than the Lord of all ! The creature, than his great Creator ! And God less noble than His thrall ! Nature knows neither worst nor best — No " stepson " weed, no " favourite " flower, Both equal nourished at her breast. And equal fed, with sun and shower ! So Nature's equal gifts were given To man — no " favouritism " there — • And so, perchance, in highest Heaven Both great and small may equal sliare ! Our life goes on through liglit and shade, Through storm and calm, through gloom and shine, Our soul unknowing why 'twas made, Yet hopeful dreaming — some divine And stronger purpose than this earth, With all its experience, learns "Was blent within us at our birth — That some dim spark of Godhead burns For ever, like a vestal fire. Within our inmost being's cell, Which rises from our funeral pyre To loftier worlds — " where all is well "■ — And with its tried experience guides Our larger life — in loftier spheres, Amidst celestial sweeping tides. Which bear the burthen of the years, 20 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Of time and fate, with widening course, 'Midst stars serener — Serapli-trod, Until they reach their parent source, And give His gifts back, unto God ! Like furnace-fired, ice-tempered ore. Bent, hot, not broke, with blows of ill, But stronger-tempered more and more, By pain and toil, to work His will ! Eternal life ! Eternal change Of happy work with happy rest ! Where "work is worship" through all range Of ages, growing each more blest ! MES. W. J. ANDERSOK {Emma Frances BaTcer.) Born 1842— Died 1868. [Youngest daughter of the late Rev. C. K. Baker of Hillside, Mor- phett Vale, South Australia, brought to the colony a year after her birth. Many of the poems appeared in Australian periodi- cals under the name of "Frances." In 1S64 she married Mr. Anderson of the Mauritian Civil Service, and left the colony with sad forebodings (which were fulfilled) that she would never again behold the home of her childhood. Her departure was marked by a touching poem entitled "An Australian Girl's Farewell." She died at Souillac, in the island of Mauritius, on 1 2th April 1868, at the early age of twenty-five. Her works have been collected into a volume entitled Colonial Poems, privately published by Marlborough & Co., London.] THE SONG OF A LIFE. I DREAMT of a song, a sad, sad song ; It stole through my sleep With tones so deep That the echoes loved it and kept it long. E. F. ANDERSON. 2i Repeating again The soft low strain, Till I woke and remembered its gentle paiu ; And all day long It haunts my brain, — This Song. The moon is above the hill, mother ; A ray of its gentle light Has silently come, like a blessing, To comfort the earth this night. But my heart seems like a valley "N^^iere the moonbeams never play. All sad with the gay world round it. All dark in the midst of day. Yes, the earth may be full of gladness. But what is its joy to me 1 — The brighter the sun shines out, mother, The darker the shades will be ; And I'm walking now in the shadows By the very brightness cast. I've been looking far in the future, To see whether joy will last, And I find it is ever fading As the weary years go by. I fear I sliall live to feel, mother. Life but a long-drawn sigh. When the arms that clasp me now, mother. And the hearts I call my own Leave me, poor me ! in the world, mother, In the wide, wide world alone ; When my heart, like a field in summer. Is burnt with the world's hot breath. And the flowers that bloomed in the spring-time Have drooped 'neath its touch of death. AUSTRALIAN POETS. O ! they must all come to me, mother, The sorrows that others know ; Let me die before they come, mother, I'm wearying now to go. NO ROOM FOR TEE DEAD. Yes, the earth is bright, And hearts are light ; And none would know That years ago A grave was made. And a loved one laid Away from the sorrowing sight. For flowers have grown Where tears were sown, And memories die As the years go by. Till the living have said, " No room for the dead In this beautiful world of our own ; No room for the stars in a mid-day sky, No room for the grass with the garden flowers ; No room for the tears in a joyful eye, No room for the dead in this world of ours." E. F. ANDERSON. 23 E VENING. A FRAGMENT. It is the evening hour, and silently The day has folded all his robes of light, And laid them gently on tlie sea's blue breast, "While, one by one, pale little trembling stars Come forth to watch the last faint crimson streak Fade from the west. How beautiful it is ! How calm and holy this still eventide ! And some there are, who through the long hot day Have watched and yearned for such a peaceful hour, Sick with the care or weary with the pain Of life. Day's sunlight seemed but mockery, Each tired head shrank from it, and the eyes, Aching with unshed tears, waited for night, Soft pitying night, in her soft viewless arms To weep unseen. And it is come ; the heat And burden of one toilsome day is past ; A cool wind fans the feverish cheek, and lifts The damp hair softly from the throbbing brow. Oh, rest and peace, how sweetly have ye come With the dim shadows of the quiet eve ! And I could stay for ever in the calm Of this still dreamy hour, for ever watch The darkness gathering o'er the yellow field?!, And welcome all the crowding stars that come So quickly, filling every space of blue, Until the sky seems like some glorious mind, All full of starry thoughts. 24 AUSTRALIAN POETS. No ruder sound Than the low hushing of the Avaving trees, Rocking all weary little birds to rest ; K"o rougher breeze than this, which scarcely plucks, With its soft fingers, autumn's withering leaves, Disturb my rest. But I am dreaming now, I'm dreaming, dreaming till my heart is full, — So full of peace and joy in this calm hour. All perfect in its holy loveliness, That I have almost sighed to think, in Heaven There is no ni^ht. THOUGHTS ON ENDING THE YEAR 1S67. How stealthily the old year dies ! We may not catch his parting sighs, Or even on the withered grass Hear a retreating footstep pass, And yet we know This old old year has reached his time to go. We know for us the summer's breath Has touched each hill and vale with death, And where the winter flowers have been. And where the grass grew soft and green, 'Tis brown and dry, And nature, with the old year, seems to die. ANONYMOUS. 2$ ANONYMOUS. A VOICE FROM THE BUSH. [This poem has hitherto been printed among the works of Adam Lindsay Gordon, but its real authorship is well known among students of Australian literature ; and though the author wishes his name not to appear again, the poem is given as finally revised by him for Australian Ballads and Rhymes. In that volume, a printer, after the proofs had been sent back finally corrected, finding this poem given anonymously, took upon himself to append the name of the author of the pre- ceding piece, which happened to be that of the editor, who, of course, immediately wrote off to the papers the disclaimer repeated here.] High noon, and not a cloud, in the sky to break this blinding si:n ; Well, I've half the day before me still, and most of my journey done. There's little enough of shade to be got, but I'll take what I can get, F(jr I'm not as hearty as once I was, although I'm a young man yet. Young ? "Well, yes, I suppose so, as far as the seasons go ; Though there's many a man far older than I down there in the town below, — Older, but men to whom, in the pride of their manhood strong, The hardest work is never too hard, nor the longest day too long. But I've cut ray cake, so I can't complain, and I've only myself to blame, Ay ! that was always their tale at home, and here it's just the same ; 26 A USTRA LI AN POE TS. Of the seed I've sown in pleasure, the harvest I'm reaping in pain. Could I put my life a few years back, would I live that life again ? Would 1 1 Of course I would ! What glorious days they were ! It sometimes seems but the dream of a dream that life could have been so fair, So sweet, but a short time back, while now, if one can call. This life, I almost doubt at times if it's worth the living at all. One of these poets — which is it 1 — somewhere or another sings, That the crown of a sorrow's sorrow is remembering happier things. What the crown of a sorrow's sorrow may be I know not, but this I know, — It lightens the years that are now sometimes to think of the years ago. Where are they now, I wonder, with whom those years were passed 1 The pace was a little too good, I fear, for many of them to last ; And there's always plenty to take their place when the leaders begin to decline ; Still I wish them well, wherever they are, for the sake of auld lang syne ! Jack Villiers — galloping Jack — what a beggar he was to ride ! — Was shot in a gambling row last year on the Californian side : ANONYMOUS. 27 And Byng, the best of the lot, who was broke in the Derby of fifty-eight, Is keeping sheep with Harry Lepell somewhere on the Eiver Plate. Do they ever think of me atall, and the fun we used to share? It gives me a pleasant hour or so — and I've none too many to spare. This dull blood runs as it used to run, and the spent flame flickers up, As I think on the cheers that rang in my ears when I won the Garrison Cup ! And how the regiment roared to a man, while the voice of the fielders shook. As I swung in my stride, six lengths to the good, hard held, over Brixworth Brook : Instead of the parrot's screech, I seem to hear the twang of the horn, As once again from BarkleyHolt I set the pick of theQuorn. Well, those were harmless pleasures enough ; for I hold him worse than an ass Who shakes his head at a " neck on the post " or a quick thing over the grass. Go for yourself, and go to win, and you can't very well go wrong — Gad ! if I'd only stuck to that I'd be singing a different song ! As to the one I'm singing, it's pretty well known to all. We knew too much, but not quite enough, and so we went to the wall ; While those who cared not, if their work was done, how dirty their hands might be. Went up on our shoulders and kicked us down, when they got to the top of the tree. 28 AUSTRALIAN POETS. But though it's one's mind at times, there's little good in a curse. One comfort is, though it's not very well, it might be a great deal worse. A roof to my head, and a bite to my mouth, and no one likely to know I'm " Bill the Bushman," the dandy who went to the dogs long years ago. Out there on the station among the lads I get along pretty well ; It's only when I come down into town that I feel this life such a hell. Booted and bearded and burned to a brick, I loaf along the street ; And I watch the ladies tripping by, and bless their dainty feet. I watch them here and there with a bitter feeling of pain, Ah ! what wouldn't I give to feel a lady's hand again ! They used to be glad to see me once ; they might have been so to-day ; But we never know the worth of a thing until we have thrown it away. I watch them but from afar ; and I pull my old cap over my eyes. Partly to hide the tears, that rude and rough as I am, will rise. And partly because I cannot bear that such as they should see The man that I am, when I know, though they don't, the man that I ou"ht to be. AUSTRAL. 29 Puff! with the last whiff of my pipe I blow these fancies away, For I must be jogging along if I want to get down into town to-day. As I know I shall reach my journey's end though I travel not over fast, So the end of my longer journey will come in its own frood time at last. AUSTRAL. [A nom-de-plume of Mrs. J. G. Wilson, of Wellington, New Zealand, nee Miss Adams, of St. Enoch's, Victoria — a con- stant contributor to the Australasian.] COMPENSATION. Fret not that in thy dwelling-place The street is silent, the field is bare, Nor canst thou forth to brighter space. Nor sail where summer seas are fair, For night by night thy dusky lattice-bars Are visited by the journeying host of stars. Scorn not our nature's narrow bound. An atom blown about in vain ; One thought contains yon shining round, And circles o'er the circling plain. Each vanishing life that o'er the dust is bent Is nourished by the boundless firmament. Mourn not our fading, transient day. For over us a dream will shine, A vision of eternity, That makes one little hour divine ; Through this dim window we look out of doors, On purple hills and seas, and endless happy shores. 30 AUSTRALIAN POETS. THE FORTY MILE BUSH. Far in the forest's aromatic shade We rode, one afternoon of golden ease ; The long road ran through sunshine and through shade, Lulled by the somnolent stories of the trees. Sometimes a bell-bird fluted far away, Sometimes the murmur of the leafy deep, Rising and falling all the autumnal day, Rolled on the hills and sank again to sleep. Mile after mile the same. The sky grew red, And through the trees we saw a snowy gleam Of phantom peak, and spectral mountain-head, And gulfs that nurse the glacier and the stream. Before us lay the pinewood's sombre miles. Thick laid with moss, like furs upon the floor ; Behind, the woodland's green monotonous aisles, Closed in the west by sunset's amber door. This is the Snow King's threshold and dominion 1 The frozen ranges white, without a stain. Like icy wings outspread, and' flying pinion. Ready to soar above the cloudy plain. Deep in the glen the hollow waters, racing. Sent forth their turbulent voices to the night, The stars above began their solemn pacing. And homely shone the distant village light. Mysterious forest ! In this humming city I seem to hear thy music-breathing tree ; Thy branches wave and beckon me, in pity. To seek again thy hospitality ! AUSTRAL. A SPRING AFTERNOON, N. Z. Wb rode in the shadowy place of pines, The wind went whispering here and there Like whispers in a house of prayer. The sunshine stole in narrow lines, And sweet was the resinous atmosphere. The shrill cicada, far and near, Piped on his high exultant third. Summer ! Summer ! he seems to say — Summer ! — he knows no other word. But trills on it the livelong day ; The little hawker of the green, Who calls his wares through all the solemn forest scene. A shadowy land of deep repose ! Here where the loud nor'-wester blows, How sweet, to soothe a trivial care, The pine-tree's ever-murmured prayer ! To shake the scented powder down From stooping boughs that bar the way, And see the vistas, golden brown, Stretch to the skj'-line far away ! But on and upward still we ride, Whither the furze, an outlaw bold. Scatters along the bare hillside Handfuls of free uncounted gold. And breaths of nutty, wild perfume Salute us from the flowering broom. I love this narrow sandy road. That idly gads o'er hill and vale, Twisting where once a rivulet flowed, With as many turns as a gossip's tale. 32 AUSTRALIAN POETS. I love this shaky, creaking bridge, And the willow leaning from the ridge, Shaped like some green fountain playing, And the twinkling windows of the farm. Just where the woodland throws an arm, To hear what the merry stream is saying. Stop the horses for a moment, high upon the breezy stair, Looking over plain and upland, and the depths of summer air, Watch the cloud and shadow sailing o'er the forest's sombre breast. Misty capes and snow-cliffs glimmer on the ranges to the west. Hear that distant thunder rolling, surely 'tis the making tide, Swinging all the blue Pacific on the harbour's iron side. Now the day grows grey and chill, but see on yonder wooded fold. Between the clouds, a ray of sunshine slips, and writes a word in gold ! 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 woodland, Floated the bell of the parson-bird. AUSTRAL. 33 Pale hoar-frost glittered in shady slips, Where ferns -were dipping their finger-tips, From mossy branches a faint perfume Breathed over 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 sk3\ 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 with 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, We sought no further for Fairyland. 34 AUSTRALIAN POETS. " AUSTRALIE." [A nom-de-phone of ^trs. Hubert Heron, a daughter of Sir Wm. Manning, a judge in the Supreme Court of New South Wales, and Chancellor of the University of Sydney. Australie is one of her Christian names. Authoress of a volume of poems, TIlc Balance of Pain (George Bell & Sous, London, 1877)]. THE QUIET DUST. The quiet dust lay on the tranquil breast Of mother Earth, all peacefully at rest ; The gentle breezes kissed it, and the dew A veil of moisture o'er its slumbers threw ; The rain and wind swept o'er its sleeping face, Yet scarcely stirred it from its resting-place ; For grassy fibres e'en had bound it fast, And round each grain embracing roots had cast. The soil, unconscious, nourishing green blades, Fulfilled its silent work through long decades — And so the quiet dust was blest — in quietness it lay at rest. The Maker took the dust within His hand, In human shape He formed the grains of sand, In His own image wrought the humble clay. With breath Divine He warmed it for life's day. The dust awoke ! it lived, it spoke, it moved, It learnt ambition — struggled, strove, and — loved. Created pure, by sin becoming marred. Discordant passions in its members warred ; Earth clung to earth, while impulses Divine, Yearning to soar, held down, would restless pine ; And so the quickened dust, distrest, in fevered living know no rest. ''AUSTRALIEy 33 Tlie Father looked with pity on the strife, He noted all the care and pain of life, And sending Death with tender healing power?. Cut short the span of the long trial-hours. He bade the soul, untrammelled, soar on high, And quit its prison-frame witli weary sigh ; He drew the breath from out the tired clay, And on its mother's breast again it lay ; And life returned to Life with ransom paid, And earth to earth in peacefulness was laid — And so the quiet dust was blest — in quietness once more at rest. THE WEATHERBOARD FALL. A MIGHTY crescent of grim cavern'd rock. Red-grey, or gold-brown, with black broken rifts Upon the bare face of the circled walls That bold uprise from out a sloping wealth Of foliage rich, that in moist shadowed depths Revel in shelter, spread out happy leaves To be for ever kissed by dewy drops Light-wafted from the murmuring waterfalL Ah ! who can show the beauty of the scene ? Above, the wooded mountain summit green. Now gently falling into softer banks. Emerald with fern, gleichenia, grass-tree bright. Yet boldened, strengthened, by rough aged crags, In bare wild outline, amber-tinged, or streaked With hoar grey lichen, yet oft holding too, — Like toucli of child-love in a cold stern breast, — Cherished in clefts, some tender verdant nests Of velvet moss, lone flowers, and grasses soft. Beyond — seen 'twixt two guardian cliffs that cast ; A USTRA LI A N POE TS. Black giant shadows on the tree-clad slopes — An inland sea of mountains, stretching far In undulating billows, deeply blue, AVith here and there a gleaming crest of rock, Surging in stillness, fading into space. Seeming more liquid in the distance vague, Transparent melting, till the last faint ridge Blends with clear ether in the azure sky In tender mauve unrealness ; the dim line Of mountain profile seeming but a streak Of waving cloud on the horizon's verge. A few steps further — comes in fuller view The stream that o'er the mountain summit winds, Forcing its way with many a cascade step, And hurrying to the rampart's brow, from which, Adown a thousand awful feet it falls, Changing from gleaming water to white foam, Then all dissolving into separate sprays, Like clustered columns white of moving light, Or April shower of diamond-gleaming rain, AVhereon the sun plays with his rainbow hues, Till hid in shadow oft it disappears Into the grateful coolness of the depths ; Resigning centred beauty for a while, Yet showing forth its presence by the tints So rich enhanced by the bedewing love That with soft tears refreshes budding leaves And calls forth life. With artist instinct true, Longing to fix the beauty in his soul, To tell to others what himself has loved, In art to utter the impression grand. Now Templar sits and striveth to portray The glorious scene. Alas ! no paint can match The varying hues, no pencil may express ''AUSTRALIE:' 37 The foaming fall, a grand ampliitlioatro Of range on range, in distance fairy-like, Marked ever and anon by sun and shade. And white light glint of rock bits ! Down He lays the brush in weary baffled pain, And then essays to write. Xay, poorer yet The power of words to speak out Nature's soul. Or tell her wondrous colours. E'en one rock Has twenty divers tints for which one name !Must all suffice ; no written sign can show The glancing light of water, blend the shades And trace the outlines fine of distant view. And were there power to mark the endless traits, Still who could paint the ever-varying moods'? Ere one effect is seized another comes To transform every aspect ; memory fails To hold the past, and human cunning seems Too slow to follow the swift-moving scenes. Vain, vain attempt ! Better in calm to watch The " beauty as it flies, nor bend it down " To mock by words. So ceases he to strive. But sits entranced, soul-soothed to harmony With Nature's glorious work, by peaceful sounds, Crescendo, decrescendo, of the fall, Down-pouring with a solemn sonorous bass To rippling trills of the upland stream, Silent, unalterable, stands the scene, A monument of everlasting power. By strength imbuing strength, a protest grand Against the mutability of life. A protest? Ay, but in its form alone. For, changeable as man is, Nature's face. The s\ibstance, outline, firmly stand the same, Yet seem not so ; for every passing light 38 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Varies its aspect, hides some salient points, Or brings in prominence a new detail. Sometimes the bay of mountain-rippled blue Lies clear in smiling sunshine, shadeless fair, Till in the vault the light clouds fly ; Then swift the pure unbroken smile is gone, And flitting frowns pass o'er Earth's countenance, Or some great storm-cloud rises, shrouding part Of Heaven's light, and straightway half the world Of dreamy blue is black with angry gloom, While some near peak glows laughing still in light. Yea, even bravest outlines seem to change, As upward mounts the sun and 'lumes or shades The various ridges, pencilling in one slope To clear curved line, or rounding off some cliff That hours before stood bold against the sky. So doth the Maker, while He sets the stamp Of steadfast strength, yet vary all His work With changeful joys of light and purple gloom. Or cloud-reflected folds of soothing grey, By vast resource of tinted picturing And endless nature-language, e'en as much As by His mightier powers, transcending aye The utmost skill of art, and batiiing all The efforts vain of imitative man, Who fain must still aspire, but — hopeless aim ! Can ne'er express in his poor human words The dorious works of man. ''AUSTRALIE." 39 THE BUDDA WONG'S CROWN. A BUDDAWONQ seed-iiut fell to earth In a cool and mossy glade, And in spring it shot up its barbed green swords, Secure 'neath the myrtle's shade. 'Mid a carpet of softest maiden-hair Its glossy young palm-leaves grew So strong, that they pitied the tender fronds Which bent as each zephyr blew ; Till it waxed at last a goodly plant, And its cordial fruit did bear ; With a prickly kiss it wooed the brake That waved near its rocky lair. Then its stems grew mossy and bulbous with age Till one day in its moist, warm nest A bird's-nest fern germ there fell, and struck Deep roots in its pithy breast. And the parasite fed upon its heart, Encurling its broad rich leaves. Till the vivid wealth of shining green Eclipsed the dark zamia sheaves. And a creeping fern that from earth had gazed With love on the bird's-nest's face, Crept up and hung out its waving fronds All pendent with drooping grace. And altogether they dwelt, together twined, And in twofold beauty grew ; But the buddawong loved not the close embrace. Which its own life-blood outdrew. 40 AUSTRALIAN POETS. So it languished and pined, and was nigh to death. In the gully's silence deep, And the bell-bird tinkled its passing knell, While the pitying myrtles weep. But ere the last breath there came a sound, Rarely heard in the sheltered glen. The gentle treble and deep-toned bass Of the voices of women and men. Close, closer, into the buddawong's home The steps of the stranger drew ; They have reached it now, and they pause with delight As the bright fern glory they view. As it hears their tunes of admiring glee E'en the dying zamia thrills With joy that its stem should the beauty bear That with pleasure each mortal fills. " We will bear it home." What mean those words 1 horror ! a crashing sound, Its last, last palms are cut away, And there aches a bleeding Avound. Yet the parasite stands untouched and bold With its loving creeper-friend. While now at the buddawong's root sharp strokes Its trunk from the earth doth rend. And the poor poor palm has died indeed ; But little the strangers care ; " There arc zamias in plenty more," they say, " But the crown is a beauty rare." ''AUSTRALIE." 41 A martyr unto a vampire fern, For the sake of its parasite now. The buddawong's trunk they carry aAvay In a cherished home-garden to grow. There the chiklren watch it with eager eyes, While the mother aye tends it with care, And of human life and of human joy A daily part it will bear. What stories that child of the glen could tell ! Ere many long years have gone, The green youth-fronds will o'ergrow the old, And the new of the aged be born ; While the poor old stem is almost forgot In the life that from out it springs, Though its perishing fibre yields the food That such wealth of verdure brings. But grieve not for this. 'Tis God's own way That the future the present destroy, That the gone-by should nourish fresh leaves of hope, And the dead past should blossom in joy. And the tree that half-fruitless has died in its prime, To nourish a fairer blade, Has fulfilled its end in the beauty it adds To the world by the Joy-God made. 42 AUSTRALIAN POETS. "AITSTRALTS." [A nom-de-plume of Patrick Moloney, a well-known Melbourne doctor. His " Sonnets^ Ad Innuptam " were published at intervals in the Australasian, under the signature of "Aus- tralis," and republished all together under his own name in An Easter Omelette, an annual edited by Patchett Martin.] SONNETS— AD INNUPTAM. I MAKE not my division of the hours By dials, clocks, or waking birds' acclaim, Nor measure seasons by the reigning flowers, The spring's green glories, or the autumn's flame ; To me thy absence winter is, and night. Thy presence spring, and the meridian day. From thee I draw my darkness and my light, Now swart eclipse, now more than heavenly ray. Thy coming warmeth all my soul like fire. And through my heart-strings melodies do run, As poets fabled the Memnouian lyre Hymned acclamation to the rising sun. IMy heart hums music in thy influence set, So winds put harps iEolian on the fret. The rude rebuff's of bay-besieging winds But make the anchored ships towards them turn, So thy unkindness unto me but finds My love towards thee with keener ardour burn ; As myrrh incised bleeds odoriferous gum, I am become a poet through my wrong. For through the sad-mouthed heart-wounds in me come These earthly echoes of celestial song. My thoughts as birds make flutter in my heart, Poor muffled choristers ! whose sad refrain '"AUSTRALIS." 43 Gives sorrow sleep, and bids tliat woe depart Whose heavy burthen weighs upon my strain. Imprisoned larks pipe sweeter than when free, And I, enslaved, have learnt to sing for thee. Thy throne is ringed by amorous cavaliers, And all the air is heavy with the sound Of tiptoe compliment, whilst anxious fears Strike dumb the lesser satellites around. One clasps thy hand, another squires thy chair. Some bask in light shed from the eyes of tliee, Some taste the perfumes shaken from thy hair. Some Avatch afar their Avorshipped deity. All have their orbits, and due distance keep, As round the sun concentric planets move ; Smiles light yon lord, whilst I, at distance, weep In the sad twilight of uncertain love. 'Thwart thee, my sun, how many a mincer slips, "Whose constant transits make for me eclipse. Know that the age of Pyrrha is long passed. And though thy form is eternised in stone, The sculptor's doings cannot Time outlast, Nor beauty live save but in blood and bone ; Though new Pygmalions should again arise Idolatrous of images like thee. Time the iconoclast e'en stone destroys. As steadfast rocks are splintered by the sea. Though shouldst indeed a hamadryad be, Inhabiting some knotted oak alone. And so revive the worship of the Tree "Which, by succession, outlives barren stone. Though thus transformed still worshippers would woo, As Daphne-laurels poets yet pursue. 44 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Why dost thou like a Eoman vestal make The whole long year unmarriageable May, And, like the phoenix, no companion take To share the wasteful burthen of decay 1 See this rich climate, where the airs that blow Are heavenly suspirings, and the skies Steep day from head to heel in summer glow, And moons make mellow mornings as they rise ; As brides white-veiled that come to marry earth, Now each mist-morning sweet July attires, Now moon-night mists are not of earthly birth, But silver smoke blown down from heavenly fires. Skies kiss the earth, clouds join the land and sea, All Nature marries, only thou art free. what an eve was that which ushered in The night that crowned the wish I cherished long ! Heaven's curtains oped to see the night begin, And infant winds broke lightly into song ; Methought the hours in softly swelling sound Wailed funeral dirges for the dying light ; 1 seemed to stand upon a neutral ground, Between the confines of the day and night ; For o'er the east Night stretched her sable rod, And ranked her stars in glittering array. While in the west the golden twilight trod With crimson sandals on the verge of day. Bright bars of cloud formed in the glowing even A Jacob-ladder joining earth and heaven. sweet Queen-city of the golden South, Piercing the evening with thy starlit spires. Thou wert a witness when I kissed the mouth Of her whose eyes outblazed the skiey fires. L. AVIS. 45 I saw the parallels of thy long streets "With lamps like angels shining all a-row, "\^^lile 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. L. AVIS. [A nom-de-phime of C. Watkius, living in the province of Otago, New Zealand.] O TE-KAPUKA. (the broadleaves.) In a quiet spot just near the sea these old Kapukas stand, The Rangiteras of the bush, the princes of the land ; The Pakeha axe Avas still unknown — would they had never met ! — The " Slaughter of the Innocents " was not accomplished yet. These fathers of the native bi:sh threw up their giant arms In living chains of many vines, firm bondage in their charms. No mortal fingers ever made such lovely bonds as they — Green and pale gold, and trembling white, in a thousand links they lay. While birds of song and colour came to them day and night, A trinity of nature kept them always fair and bright ; 46 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Nature was queen and governess in the land of greenstone then, And spoke a truer language in fewer words of men. The Pakeha has changed all that — he has justified the name — A type of mere destructiveness, with neither sense nor shame ; The triple grace of mighty strength, of beauty and sweet song Has crowned the old Kapukas, though now they suffer wrong. Crippled and shorn and many dead, their vines all rust away. In dead and dying thousands upon the ground they lay ; One feels a great and keen regret — one who has ever known The ancient glories of the bush when its life was all its own. AETHUR J. BAKER. [After suffering every kind of catastroplie, by flood and field, in the Old World and the New, in i860 organised the Adelaide Fire Brigade. Well known in the hunting-field in South Australia ; has published a slim volume of reminiscences and poems.] IF WE SHOULD MEET. If we should meet — God grant we may ! — If we should meet again, As flowerets kissed by summer ray Are sweeter after rain, Absence shall make our joy more sweet, If we should meet — when we shall meet. ALEXANDER ]V. BATHGATE. 47 The Avind blows chill, and time flies fast, As in the days of yore ; ! would the weary hours were past, That we could meet once more ! time ! haste on with swift-winged feet, Till we shall meet, till we shall meet. But should bygone weeks have made Your heart or mine more cold, If from our memory e'er could fade The years of bliss untold, Should Love's young pulse e'er cease to beat, God grant that we may never meet ! Rather be it our last embrace, Better for e'er to part. Than meet together face to face ; And not meet heart to heart. Xay, rather die than think, my sweet, That thus we two could ever meet. ALEXANDER W. BATHGATE. [A solicitor at Dunediii, New Zealand. Has not yet published a volume, but has contributed many poems of mark to New Zealand journals.] MAUNGATUA. (The name of a range of mountains overlooking the Taieri plain, near Dunedin, Otago, New Zealand. It means " the range (inaunya) of the spirit " {atua). The sound of the g in Maori is soft.) The spirits' mountain, such the name The early Maori gave : "Where's his forgotten grave ? We know not ; but thou'rt still the same Gloomy and dread Maungatua. 48 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Thou art tlie spirits' mountain still, Though aye thou dost not frown, But on the plain look'st down, Which now the white-browed ploughmen till, With changeful face, Maungatua. Thou hast for us lost half thy gloom, For we can see thee smile, And pleasant look awhile, When summer's sun makes flowerets bloom, And lights thy brow, Maungatua. And when the winter's southern wind, With many a keen-toothed blast. Has snow upon thee cast, Thy hoary head proud o'er thy kind Thou boldest high, Maungatua. Thine aspect ever seems to chauge, As when, on breezy day, The cloud-shades o'er thee play And fly along thy lofty range ; Yet thou'rt the same, Maungatua. The spirit that in Nature lives, And speaks to him who hears. Arrayed in strength appears, And to thy massive mountain gives Thy spirit-name, Maungatua. ALEXANDER W. BATHGATE. ^9 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 your beauties fair 'E^eath the dark umbrageous shade But still the loftiest S2:)ray to gain Your weak stem its efforts made, Now, every obstacle o'ercome. You smile out from your leafy home. That home secure, 'mid sombre leaves Yielded by your stalwart spouse, Helps you to show your fairy crown ; Decorates his dusky boughs : His strength, your beauty, both unite And form a picture to delight. Fair flower, methinks you do 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. 50 AUSTRALIAN POETS. ON HEARING A YELLOWHAMMER SING NEAR DUN EDI N. List ! to that pretty little bird, Singing on yonder bush of thorn ; Its plaintive notes I have not heard, Save in the land where I was born. Full oft in boyhood's sunny days I've listened to its short sweet song, When wandering o'er the whinny braes Or briery knowes, the whole day long. How gleefully we used to mock The yellow yorlin's simple lay ; "With eager hands pull back the dock That hid its nest of hair and hay ! Gone is the friend with whom I played, In those my boyhood's happy hours ; Not long from him Death's hand was stayed : He gained not his full manhood's powers. When but a stripling, to the plough He set his hand right manfully ; Though short his time for work, I trow. There's few who more have done than he. With zeal, for sake of Master loved, He strove to aid his fellow-men : The task too heavy for him proved — How soon we'd part I thought not then. Here in this sunny Southern land, In this bird's song there's something sad ; Or, is't that, led by memory's hand, I mourn him lost when vet a lad? ALEXANDER W. BATHGATE. 51 Yes, yellow yorlin, this is all Thy simple song has done for me ; Not these sad thoughts rose at thy call, But thoughts of boyhood, full of glee. There's no more sadness in thy note Than in the song my lost friend sings, Where sounds of heavenly music float Around the throne of King of kings. Sing on, then, little yellow bird, Though thou, like us, art stranger here, To those by whom thy song is heard Thou'It oft recall their boyhood dear. SONGS OF THE SEASON. I. A Song of Spring. Bird in tliy mossy nest Cosily hid. Bird in thy mossy nest Young leaves amid ; Nigh is thy tuneful mate, Singing with glee ; Hopeful thy tuneful mate, Hope gladdens thee : Hope that from speckled oggs Fledglings will grow ; Brood o'er the speckled eggs- Soon time Avill show. 52 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Fearless of coming storm, List how thy mate Sings without fear of storm, With joy elate. Why, then, do men alone Fear coming ill ; Only are men alone Dread-haunted still 1 Evil may never come ! Whence cometh fear ? The present is gladsome, Be of sood cheer. II. A Song of Summer. Bird in the leafy shade, Quiet at rest, Screened by the leafy shade, Patient and blest ; Calm sleeps the summer noon Kound thy retreat ; Hot glares the summer noon, Shadow is sweet. Content in thy shady bower Wait the cool breeze ; Then from thy shady bower Flit throucfh the trees. ALEXANDER W. BATHGATE. 53 In the cool eventide Joyfully sing ; The winds at eventide Fun with thy wing. Man is not quite content E'en when most blest. "Why is he not content, Never at rest, Taking with calm or joy All that is sent, Without the base alloy Of discontent 1 III. A Song of Autumk. Bird 'mid the golden sheaves Taking thy share, Picking from ripened sheaves Thy evening fare, Sure with no thought of thee Sown was the seed, Keaped without thought of thee Or of thy need. Yet from another's toil Thou takest the gain. Fed by another's toil, — Ilis was the pain. 54 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Eut with thy mellow song Cheered is his heart ; Sing then thy happy song, Such is thy part. Who should from weary toil Seek to be free 1 Fruit from thy weary toil Thou may'st not see. Nought but thy best aye do, Some one will reap ; Strive then thy best to do, Why should'st thou weep? IV. A SoxG OF Winter. Bird on the leafless bough. Summer has fled ; Bird on the leafless bough, Flowers are dead. Dead too thy trilling song, Dead in thy grief ; Not e'en a saddened song Mourns for the leaf. E'en now on leafless bough Swells the small bud ; Soon all the leafy bough Blossoms shall stud. ''BETH." 55 Then 'miJ the summer leaves, Winter forgot, Singing 'mid summer leaves. Thy happy lot ! Why then, poor stricken soul! Why dost thou grieve ? Thou knowest, smitten soul ! Time will relieve. Ah ! will not mem'ry keep Sharp grief alive ? Never will mem'ry sleep, Howe'er I strive. " BETH." [A 7wm-dc plume of Mrs. Caswell, of Nelson, New Zealand, who died in Hobart, Tasmania, twenty j-ears ago.] BEAUTIFUL STARS. Beautiful stars, through the hours that keep Your watch in the welkin blue and deep. When earth lies hushed 'neath the sceptre of sleep, When the young and fresh-hearted smile in dreams, When the pillow with Fancy's pictures teems, And only the wretched lie watching your beams. Handmaids of even, so cold and still. Ye seem Heaven's chambers with silence to fill, And clothe with sad beauty temple and hill. Are ye teardrops the angels wept o'er the sin That was done, fair arbours of Eden within, AMien Death and Sorrow their trophies did win 1 56 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Beautiful stars, my spirit would fain Know the regions beyond your far domain ! Is it there the ransomed triumphant reign ? Tell us, tell us your paths have they crossed, The fair and the gentle, the loved and the lost, That our bosoms here cherished and guarded the most ! Did they touch your bright rims with their sky-beating feet? l^id ye list to the Seraphs come forth to greet With the music of Paradise holy and sweet? Vainly we ask thee, ah ! vainly we pray ; To the ear of frail mortals no word will ye say, But in coldness and stillness look earthward for aye. H. H. ELACKHAM. [Of Trevilla, One Tree Hill, South Australia.] FORSAKEN HOMES AND GRAVES. These mountain wilds that rest so still. These woods and wastes so vast and deep, These ravines round each rocky hill. Where long-lost cattle roam at will Beneath the eagle's ken and sweep ! Far from the settler's haunts are found Eude vestiges of life and death, Forsaken home and burial-mound Of those whose names still cling around. To circlinc; wilderness and lieath. IL H. BLACKHAM. 57 These olden Avails, ■whose ruins low Are met in many a lonely ride, Deserted hearths whose fires did glow With horaeliglit in the long ago By Ti-tree flat or gully-side — Round them the sheen of summer day Falls drearisome and desolate ; Thin shadow-lines of branches stray O'er waifs of childhood's broken play, Untrodden path and fallen gate. The notes of wild birds, that elsewhere Bring tones of gladness, seem to change To coronachs of sadness there, — The curlew's cry upon the air Sounds like a shriek along the range. The very dreariness seems rife AVitli low and stealthy undertones, Footfall and voice of former life, Wraith-presences of sire and wife And children cling to wood and stones. Some woman's hand did plant and train That runner by the shattered door, Which clambered through the splintered pane And pallid turneth out again, As if from spectre on the floor. Once Life o'er Death hath made its moan ; There hath been sorrow even here ; In one small grave with weeds o'ergrown A child sleeps in the wild alone, With only silence crooning near. 58 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Here the night-zephyr, passing, wings At midnight to that she-oak nigh, Plays, harplike, on its drooping string?!, And to its dreary cadence sings The wildwood's soothing lullaby. ETCHINGS ON THE AIR. [This poem reached the Editor in a very mutilated condition, but contained expressions so fine, that he has ventured to complete it : the parts in italics are his.] There are valleys deep and still. Far among the mountains lonely. Where hird-song and tinkling rill Wake oppressive silence onlj"-, Save ivhen gusts among the trees Toss the boughs in wild commotion, Till their foliage in the breeze Waves like billows on the ocean. Forest feai's the wanderer greet Where the branches chafe together; Oft a sound like rustling feet Treads across the fern and heather ; Often, through the darkness tost, Wafts, like wails and bitter sobbing. In the bushman late or lost Set the wildered pulses throbbing. I have visions pictured fair Through the purple twilight glowing, Day-dream etchings on the air Of the unlived future showing; //. H. BLACKHAM. 59 On these slopes where wattle-bloom Incense sheds from censers golden, Other blossoms shall perfume Nature's temples grey and olden. Kound the pleasant fiuwers of home, Here the wilding bee shall hover, Bringing back where'er we roam Ho7ne-land tJioughts the wide world over — Not of city street or square, Not of Hall for lord and lady, But — 7)11/ etchings on the air — Cottage-nook and garden shady. Tones of Sabbath bells I hear, Faint and far, prophetic-ringing ; Hijmns of life are on my ear, Kest and labour, sob and singing : Ties of birth shall bind and twine Hearts to hills, like love and lover. Till each mountain's sombre line Sunny hits of hor>ie shall cover. Plough of Nature ! — hand of God ! Fallow deep the hills eternal ! Bless for these the mountain sod With full fruit and pasture vernal ! Somewhere in the hy-and-hy Sounds of distant life are humming ; Tliey are neariny, though not nigh. And the day of homes is coming. 6o AUSTRALIAN POETS. MKS. J. A. BODE. [Born Ettie Ayliffe of South Australia. ] LUBRA. Ours was the land, all ours, mine and my people's : the tribes, To roam at will, to dwell, to hunt and to fish in, AVe were the lords of the soil, the inheritance ancient Owned by our fathers, and theirs, who handed it down to their children, Ours, plenteous game : the life of the free in the forest ; Happy were we in the wild, and our wurleys builded at pleasure. Joy, we could call it at will, guest of the careless and simple ; Joy of feasts at our fires when the tribes in corroborees mingled, Joy of the rest in the woods, when the wild birds screeched through our dreaming ; Simple our pleasures, but sweet, and care had no word in our language. The white man, he makes many things : too many ; has care, and is weary. Then the sun rose, and he set, and we journeyed to east- ward, to westward. Clothed in the furs of our spoils, and taking no thought of the future ; Want, we have known it since then ; toil, we have hated to learn it. Why should man labour and sweat, and groan out his life to no profit? Why make innum'rable things, when his wants are so few and so simple 1 MRS. J. A. BODE. 6x Ours was to live and enjoy ; the ininieas'rablc raptures of nature ? Happy Avere we, more tlian lie who builds, makes great things, and burdens. I, then, the first of the tribes : I with opossum fur round me, I, before any, beheld ; looked on a day far out seaward ; Looked, and in wonder was lost ; for there I saw on the big water What I then thought a white bird, bigger than all things but hills are ; Bigger than wurleys, than trees ; bigger than all things but mountains. I was afraid very much, for I thought the bad spirit was coming : I was the first who beheld, stood on the hill of the whir- whir : Nearer and nearer it loomed, sweeping along through the water. Hardly my courage I kept to "Cooey" aloud to my comrades : There we were gathered in fear, and knew some dread evil awaited : Little we thought they were men, who drove the great white canoe shoreward. Nearer and near it came : I covered my face, and in terror Cowered to earth, and around me cowered my terror- struck people. Would he had sunk in the sea, and the waters gone foaming above him. Before he had stepped on the land from my race he Avrestcd ! Houses and farms and the fields of his tillage our hunting- trrounds fill ; 62 AUSTRALIAN POETS. The game has slipped from the way, is scant and diminished ; We have no country to roam, to dwell therein in abundance ; Stricken are we as the game that the hunter has trapped in its hiding. We dare not to kindle our fires, to camp on the bounds of . his pastures, See, we are fading away ! we wither and pass into shadow ! Fading away from the earth, hardly a remnant remaining. Many our strong men for fight when the pluiid'rers swooped down upon us. Even the scrublands uncleared we scarcely are suffered to rest in, We, the possessors from first of this country, made all of us black men. He is the eagle whose eye ranges afar, and through Heaven Wings his strong flight ; the prey sees, and is swift to devour it ; He is the dingo that prowls and lurks all night through the forest. Howls to the moon in his career, for he scents and he ravins for carcasses. They talk of their God and His law ; we, we know naught of things Christian, Yet we know this was all ours, and would be so still but for white men. If we had owned that great force sufficient to conquer them fighting, Then we, too, might understand this prate of the justice of Heaven. White man makes sermons and books; his words are subtle and scheming. MRS. J. A. BODE. C3 The thing that deliglits him to do, the only right thing seems it ever. His sons are as sands of the sea, numberless, countless ; his gun smoke Blinds my dusk warriors ; their spears cannot defend from his trespass. He tells us account shall be made to the Great Spirit of the hereafter : Says that one Father alike watches o'er black and white children. What shall he answer when called to account ? Shall his cunning defend him "\^^len, like his Cain, he is bade to give an account of his brother ? We, the despoiled, we decay : we die from the ruin of all things ; Dusky our skins, but we feel ; our bosoms are sentient, can suffer. What shall he answer when asked of the wrong he has wrought on the helpless ? No sense of justice restrains, no balance made equal arrests him ; That which his eye hath desired, lo ! he makes waste to possess it ; Thus he erases us out for his pleasure, his gain, his convenience : And preaching in many big words, he says that his God bade him do it. Is this the justice of Heaven, the law and the right with the strongest 1 His eyes — they look two ways ; his hands arc grasping at spoil and are greedy. Let him devour as the dog ; eat up the lamb with the eagle ; Profit, and wrest, and enjoy ; but prate not of God and religion ! 64 A USTRA LI A N POE TS. THOMAS BRACKEN. [Of Dunedin, New Zealand. A typical colonist of the old colonial school. Born in Ireland, 1843, went out to Victoria in 1855- When a mere boy, apprenticed himself to a druggist — threw that up in two years for the Back Creek Rush — has been by turns digger, storekeeper, stockrider, shearer, bushman, Member of Parliament, and newspaper proprietor — one of the owners of the Evening Herald, Dunedin, New Zealand. Began litera- ture as a contributor to the now defunct Australian Journal; is the author of several volumes of poems — Behind the Tombs, and other Poems (Melbourne, Clarson & Massina, 187 1), Flowers of the Freelands (Melbourne, George E,oberts(jn, 1877)1 Lays of the 3Iaori and Moa (Sami'son Low & Co., 1884). Is also a well-known elocutionist and lecturer. — Epitomised from New Zealand Men of Mar i:.] OLD BENDIGO. Let Foley go with Redman ; mind be careful of the steer ; Bring Bob and Rambler from the creek, they'll find good picking here. Just fling this she-oak on the fire ; there, catch that end, now throw — This minds me of our maiden trip to dear old Bendigo. Old Bendigo ! the very name is treasured in my breast — Just pass the billy this \tay, Jack. Not boiled yet ! Well, I'm blest If that there wood will ever burn ; this ironbark is slow — You knew the gully of that name on dear old Bendigo. Oh ! when we camped upon the track — that damper must be done — Around the blazing log at night, what tough old yarns were spun THOMAS BRACKEN. 6s By Sydney Ned, and Derwent Bill; and !Munumbidgefl Joe! Where are they now ? Ah ! mate, they'll drive no more to Bend i go. I can't help laughing when I think — old mate, just pass a chew — Of that 'ere time when Murphy's team got bogged at Carlsruhe. Big Barney Fagan shouted — whilst the Avheels were bed- ding low — " Faix, boys, there's some deep sinking on the road to Bindigo ! " Mount jSIacedon is gazing down as proudly as of old, And Alexander's lofty brow looks over fields of gold ; They never shift — but where are all the friends we used to know On Castlemaine and Forest Creek and dear old Bendigo • No other land has mustered such a kingly race of men As that brave golden legion on the march to fortune then ; The digger's shirt was freedom's badge ; beneath it honour's glow Lit up a generous, manly flame on dear old Bendigo. Old mate of mine, together we have roughed it through the bush For twenty years, and Time begins to lay his frosting brush Upon our heads ; but in our hearts the flowers of friend- ship grow As fresh as when we planted them on dear old Bendigo. E 66 AUSTRALIAN POETS. I sigh whene'er I think upon — Jack, pass along the grub — The music of the puddling-mill, the cradle, and the tub; The hurdy-gurdies, German bands, and minstrels too — why, blow It ! you've upset the tea — on dear old Bendigo. The track of life is sometimes smooth, at other times 'tis rough ; But we must take it as it comes — this beef is rayther tough : — I feel a spider on my cheek — I've caught the varmint! — no! "Why, bless me ! if it ain't a tear for dear old Bendigo ! FROM THE WATERFALL. Falling, falling, Streaming, teeming, I am the child of the sun and the snow ; Falling, falling, Ocean is calling. Rolling along to its bosom I go A white virgin up on the hill-tops was dreaming, A golden-haired king saw the couch where she lay ; Ilcr heart melted soon when his bright eye was beaming; She gave me to him, but I've wandered away. Gliding, hiding, Springing, singing, I am the child of the sun and the snow ; Falling, falling, Ocean is calling, Rolling along to its bosom I go. THOMAS BRACKEN. 67 I am the offspring of brightness and purity, Of chastity cold, and of passionate love, "Whirling along to the depths of futurity, And bearing God's messages down from above Glancing, dancing, Sweeping, leaping, I am the child of the sun and the suow ; Falling, falling. Ocean is calling, Rolling along to its bosom I go. IN THE TEMPLE. Sabbath bells are tolling, tolling : " Come and worship, come and pray ; " Ocean's mighty voice is rolling Solemn chants from far away ; Rills and brooks and birds are singing Nature's psalms and hymns and glees, And the morning breeze is swinging Censers on the orchard trees. Little churches, little steeples. Little souls and little hearts, Little nations, little peoples, Actors playing little parts ; After all we're very little. Very little after all. In the Temple of Creation, Brothers, we are very small. In the Temple of Creation, Soaring to the speckless dome, Seek our souls their destination. Dreaming of a future home ; 68 AUSTRALIAN POETS. 'Mongst the bright, the pure, the stainless, In the reahns of bliss and mirth, Ah ! our spirits are not chainless. They are fettered still to earth. Little tricks and little treasons. Little hates and little spites, Little months and little seasons, Little days and little nights ; After all we're very little, Very little after all. In the Temple of Creation, Brothers, we are very small. Soul and mind, and sense and feeling. Watch, upon the mountain's brow, Nature, in her prime, revealing All her vernal treasures now. From his throne, old Sol, the gilder. Greets us with a warm caress, Worshipping the Temple's Builder, We can feel our nothingness. Little sorrows, little troubles. Little griefs and little joys, Little castles, little bubbles. Little towers and little toys ; After all we're very little, Very little after all. In the Temple of Creation, Brothers, Ave are very small. THOMAS BRACKEN. 69 GOOD-NIGHT TO BABY. Where is Babe to-night ? — I miss her. Where is little Bright Eyes 1 bless her ! Bend above her cot and kiss her, Say " Good-night " to Baby. Say " Good-night," though she be sleeping. Listening cherubs will be peeping Through God's windows, fondly keeping Loving watch o'er Baby. They will catch the words with pleasure, Floating downward through the azure ; They will cluster round your treasure, Whispering them to Baby. They will tell her many a story Of their Golden City's glory — Wiser than her grandsire hoary, Happy little Baby ! Purer sight to her is given. All the star-nailed gates are riven. Opening up a view of Heaven In lier dreams to Baby. 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 asleej), Kot understood. 70 AUSTRALIAN POETS. I^ot understood. We gather false impressions, And hug them closer as the years go by, Till virtues often seem to us trangressions, And thus men rise and fall, and live and die, Not understood. Not understood. Poor souls with stunted vision Oft measure giants by their narrow gauge ; Tlie 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 or the fancied slight Destroy long years of friendship and estrange us, And on our souls tliere 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 ! God ! tJiat 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. THOMAS BRACKEN. 71 MOTHER'S GRA VE. Up on the hill where beds are made Xarrow and deep with pick and spade ; Up on the hill where death-flowers grow, Over a grave a child bent low, Picking the weeds off a new-formed plot ; Up on the hill on a Sabbath morn, (Works of mercy that day adorn), Guardian spirits around the spot. Under the sun the city basked, The sun that over the valley smiled. " Why art thou here alone V I asked— "Why art thou here alone, my child?" Her bosom swelled with sorrow's throbs, Which burst the flood-gates of the heart. I watched the bright drops, born of sobs. Out from the wells of her sad eyes start. " Why art thou here," again I said, " Weeping over this lonely bed ? " And this was the only reply she gave, "O sir, I am weeding my mother's grave." I asked no more, but turned away From girl, and stone, and mound of clay ; I asked no more, for that sentence told Of lonely hearts, and of strangers cold ; And then I knelt in an old churchyard. Where one grim elm-tree stood to guard A daisy quilt and a crumbling stone. And I was a child, alone, alone; And the wild wind moaned through the ruins old, And the clouds were black and the world was cold, AUSTRALIAN POETS. And sadly I heard the weird gusts rave Through the crumbling walls near my mother's grave. Up on the hill, wdiere beds are made Narrow and deep with pick and spade ; Up on the hill, where death-flowers grow, Over a grave a child bent low. Picking the weeds ofi^ a new-formed plot ; Up on the hill, on a Sabbath morn, (Works of mercy that day adorn), Guardian spirits around the spot. AT SUNSET. Out on the beach when night was creeping — Robed in shadows — across the dome We watched the waves, as, shoreward leaping, They fringed the sand with streaks of foam. Ocean's heart, with its ceaseless throbbing, Beat 'gainst billows that rose and fell ; Sometimes singing, and sometimes sobbing, Sea-ghosts came on each foamy swell, I stood dreaming of some old story, Picturing forms on each white crest. Tranced in thought, till a flash of glory Limned the skirts of the distant west. " Look ! " you cried, and we gazed, in wonder, Over the deep where sea and sky ]\Iet and kissed, as the sun danced under Beams of gold in the archway high. JOHN BRIGHT. 7S ! the splendour that tipped the mountaius ! ! the beauty that rimmed the lea ! Streams of brilliants, from rainbow fountains, Sparkling fell on the purple sea. Calmness stole o'er the deep, and lowly AVliispers floated upon the breeze : " Hail to Thee, Holy, Holy, Holy ! Painted of shores and skies and seas ! " Not by us were the pure words spoken, Not by us were the pure words said ; "We were mute till the spell was broken. We but gazed at the Heaven ahead — Gazed, and worshipped, and prayed, and wondered If that glory would gild the way When life's sun sets, and friends are sundered, And spirits 'scape from their shells of clay. JOHN BEIGHT. [A South Australian comrade of Adam Lindsay Gordon's, an " overlander " constantly on the rove : when last heard of, was on the shores of Carpentaria. Has published a little paper volume of poems entitled Wattle Blossoms and Wild Flowers Gathered by the Way (Crabb & Bretherton, St. Kilda, Mel- bourne).] THE LAND OF DREAMS— A SONG* A PLEASANT land is the land of dreams, At the back of the sliining air ! It hath sunnier skies and sheenicr streams, And gardens than Earth's more fair. * This poem reached the editor in a very mutilated condition — • tiie parts printed in itidics are his own. 74 AUSTRALIAN POETS. And, oft as my heart feels weary and sad, For a rest I wander away To the realm where it all is happy and glad, 'Neath the light of an endless day. There I see the faces I knew of old, The friends that were true and kind ; And we meet as we met ere our hearts grew cold With the care that is left behind. For there is no sorrow or doubt or care. But Hope, like a sunrise, gleams. And shadows come not between us there — ■ In my wonderful land of dreams. You may ask the road, but I cannot tell. Though oft in its track I stray, And my spirit knoweth the path right well, And oft doth it long to stay : "But it lies in the toomb of the clouds somewhere, And in sorrow aye nearer seems ; — "When my soul would rest from trouble and care, It flies to this land of dreams. SIR FREDERICK NAPIER BROOME. [The present Governor of West Australia, son of tlie Rev. R. F. Broome, Rector of Adderley, Shropshire. Born in Canada, 1842, emigrated to Canterbury, New Zealand, in 1857. After ten years in New Zealand came to England, and then became a special correspondent of the Times newspaper for five years. He has been a contributor in prose and verse to the Cornhill, MacmiUans Magazine, &c., and has published two volumes of poems — Poems from New Zealand (Houlston & Wright, 1S86), and The Stranger of Seriphos, 1869. He was appointed in SIR F. N. BROOME. 75 February 1875 Colonial Secretary of Natal, and in February 1878, Colonial Secretary of the Mauritius, after which he re- ceived his present appointment.] A TEMPLE SERVICE. (Ordained in Israel after tue Deliverance FROM ;Moab.) Priests. The days were drawn towards the sun, Kissed, every one, By lips red-ripe with summer sweet, From brow to feet. Dawn's cold pale forehead with the black Night-hair pushed back, Flushed feet of eve, that walk the west, Were caught and pressed. Peoplk Yet ere the months had failed of flower, Their branch of time Grew heavy with a rij)eni>ig hour, God's plant of prime, More precious than the whitening wheat Or swollen fig ; Sweeter than palm fruit peeled to eat. Or grapes groivn big. Priests. Made-music of the harps we string. The silver ring Of beaten cymbals which we raise On feasting days, 76 AUSTRALIAN POETS. And on the lips of sweetest singers, Between the fingers Of those that pluck at silver wires Of writhen lyres. People. A psahn upon the psalteries, On shawms a song, Upon the horns great harmonies, Bloion loud and long ; A toriting for the scrolls of scribes, The graven gates That tell the triumphs of the tribes On brazen plates. Priests. Wherefore the heavy hearts and sad Be grown all glad, And rainbow light in eyes yet rimmed By grief that dimmed. Wherefore the mouth by mourning mute, The feeble foot, Hath joy in it as meat and bread, Is strong of tread. People. Ill garden ground the summer burns, Not yet grown old. And from the corn lohose colour tiirns From green to gold ; SIR F. N. BROOME, 77- But ]iarvt:st-men, before they make The sickle sharp, Go up to keep the days sweet sake With heart and harp. Priests. It falls within the twofold time : The youngest prime Of fruit, the latest looks of flowers, Are on its hours. And the blossoms sweet through loosening leaves, And early sheaves. Green gathered from the growing wheat, Are offerings meet. People. To lift up the slant scale of sin. And weigh at last IViih righteous recompense cast in Present toith p)ast, The pleasant patlis beneath our fact Wn-e broken up ; We tasted, through the foam of sioeet, A bitter cup. Priests. " Because your hearts are waxen dead," The Lord God said, " And in your ears My name sounds cold, !My name of old. 78 AUSTRALIAN POETS. " I lift a sword upon the land ; A heavy hand Between you and your sins falls keen, To scourge you clean." People. Was it so sweet from God to hide In garden ways, The women large-lipped and long-eyed ? What ivas their face? Were they so gracious in their groves^ The lords of stone, Or loere their damsels dear loith loves Beyond our oivn ? Priests. The Avell-graved images which ye Were pleased to see, Deenaing gods, clear of face and fair Of form, were there ; Gods gazed upon and drawn so near, Who could not hear, Were they as He unseen and far In whom Ave are ? People. The wanton toomen, scorning stealth, Their lust confessed, Spendtlirift of red coin and white wealth Of mouth a?id breast ; SIR F. N. BROOME. 79 Soft sin-flowers leaving jwison pods For bitter birth, Ungirdled girls and garden-gods. Were they well worth ? Priests. Yea, Avliat were all light-clotlien charms, And stretclied-out arms, By the pure hearts from out you failed, Your virghas veiled ? The flowery rods at first that beat So light and sweet, Their flowers fell off from them yet fresh, Thorns tore the flesh. People. " Our gods are great ! " the false priest said ; " For their fierce joys The fire must flow about the head Of girls and boys." Prone ^neath their wo7na7i's soft queenhood Their lords' kingship Smote off the silken servitude With bloody whip. Priests. " Have ye a garland for your headl" The wise God said. ** Lo ! here a fetter for your feet, It is but meet. 8o AUSTRALIAN POETS. " For strangers ye My laws forsake, Their yokes to take ; Think ye to choose the light and small, Xor wear them all 1 " People. Ottr hosts ii'ere hrolcen in the 7cars, And, faint of heart, Fled home, and from his shut house-doors None durst depart. Then were we aliens in our streets Ajid fatho's' fields, Dogs to be glad of morsel meats A ?naster yields. Priests. Their captains chose their slaves at will To toil and tiU, And princes for their serving-men, By five and ten. And spoused maidens for their bed, Cast out unwed To be the sport of lewd women, And mock of men. People. Ajid so the time went lieavily For years eighteeti, And God's face, which we sought to see, It was not seen. SIR F. N. BROOME. 8i 7'he seasons moved from frost to flower, From flower to fruit, But all the echoes of their power Were lost and mute. Priests. But He who sits above the years He told our tears ; He who before did count our crime In His good time, From where He ruled, ordained a deed. To help our need, And show the heathen Israel . "Was yet loved well. People. Unto their King, even where he sat, Girt round with sin, As ltdih a garment, foul and fat. Without, tcithin. Tliere in his huilded pleasant place. His ioindowed room., TJiat curtained out the summer days. Was sent a doom. Priests. A secret message from the Lord, — Was not the sword Of swift Ehud the pen of it 1 The scribe was fit. AUSTRALIAN POETS. lie wrote it where it miglit be road, Wrote it and fled ; We kept the fords and slew them, till None were to kill. People. A day amo7ig tlie days is thus A feast ; there is A man of all the tribes o'er us A judge for this. The day with service comes and parts, And sacrifice ; Arid in his hand ai-e all oiir hearts Held sceptre-wise. WILLIAM CARLETON, Jun. [Author of The Warden of Qalway, a metrical tale in six cantos, and other poems (Melbourne : Clarson, Massina, & Co. ; Sydney : Gibbs, Shallard, & Co,)] THE SKIPPER'S BRIDE. ! FAIR was the face of his promised bride, As she stood on the deck by the skipper's side ; But tlie bloom on her cheek decayed and died When the mariners, lifting the anchor, cried, " Heave, ho ! though the winds blow, The sailor must labour aloft and alow." WILLIAM CARLETON, J UN. 83 Then her lover, the skipper, so brave and bold, Smoothed back her beautiful tresses of gold, And he kissed her lips, that were wan and cold, While the song of the mariners loudly rolled : " Heave, ho ! though tlie winds blow, The sailor must labour aloft and alow." And he took one tress of her golden hair. And he gave her a golden ring to wear, And her young head fell on his bosom, where It lay in its sorrow and beauty rare. " Heave, ho ! though the winds blow, The sailor must labour aloft and alow." And again he kissed her and said farewell. And the words from the lips of the skipper fell On the ear of the girl like the sadding knell, As it drops at eve from the passing bell. " Heave, ho ! though the winds blow, The sailor must labour aloft and alow." Then she went ashore at the lighthouse pier. And parted from him whom her soul held dear ; And she watched the ship o'er the waves career. Till it faded away in the twilight drear. " Heave, ho ! though the winds blow. The sailor must labour aloft and alow." And months went past, and then news of grief Was brought to shore that the " Royal Chief " And all had perished without relief. " Heave, ho ! though the winds blow. The sailor must labour aloft and alow." 84 AUSTRALIAN POETS. And we stood on the lighthouse pier that night, And the skipper's maiden was there as white As the crest of the wave in the moonbeams bright, And her eyes were lit with a strange wild light. " Heave, ho ! though the winds blow, The sailor must labour aloft and alow." And while we stood on the lighthouse pier We saw the lights of a ship draw near. And her hull was holed and her sails hung sear, And we heard a moan like a ghostly cheer. " Heave, ho ! though the winds blow, The sailor must labour aloft and alow." A ghostly cheer, and it rose again Like the bubbling crying of drowning men, And we saw a shadowy crew, and then We knew that they were not living men. " Heave, ho ! though the winds blow, The sailor must labour aloft and alow." And the ship moved on till she touched the pier, And her hull was holed and her sails hung sear ; 'Twas the " Royal Chief," and a mighty fear Whitened the face of each person near. " Heave, ho ! though the winds blow, The sailor must labour aloft and alow." And when we looked on that ghostly crew, We saw those there whom we all well knew. And white were their faces and wet with dew, And the light of their eyes seemed cold and blue. " Heave, ho ! though the winds blow, The sailor must labour aloft and alow." WILLIAM CARLETON, JUN. 85 And fathers and mothers and sisters fair Beheld their relatives standing there, And saw them beckon ; but none would dare To enter the spectral vessel there. "Heave, ho ! though the winds blow, The sailor must labour aloft and alow." Then the skipper moved through the shadowy troop, And he took his place on the vessel's poop, And he spake aloud to our startled group, And the tones that he uttered made all heads droop. " Heave, ho ! though the winds blow, The sailor must labour aloft and alow." Quoth he, "I have sailed o'er a deep dark sea, Where danger and death sweep wild and free ; Through a fog and a mist that you cannot see, I have come to my bride — will she come to me ? " " Heave, ho ! though the winds blow, The sailor must labour aloft and alow." Then spake the maid : " O'er the deep dark sea, Where danger and death sweep wild and free, I will sail with my love, and its waves shall be A pillow of rest for him and for me." " Heave, ho ! though the winds blow, The sailor must labour above and below." Then the skipper's maiden so fair and white Flew to his spirit with wild delight ; And the ship moved off and faded from sight, ~ While we heard these words o'er the breeze of night : "Heave, ho ! though the winds blow, The sailor must labour above and below." 86 AUSTRALIAN POETS. JENNINGS CARMICHAEL. [Of Glenhope, Dalgety Street, St. Kilda, Victoria. Tliree of the pieces quoted below appeared in the Australasian, and "Tom- boy Madge " in the Weekly Times. He has been a frequent contributor to the leading Australian journals.] A WREATH FROM ADA ATS GARDEN. Around lie the limitless acres of forests Australian, Infinite solitudes scarcely disturbed by a sound, Only the keen, tireless tinklings of bell-birds, leaf-hidden, Break as a monotone chord on a silence profound. Stately and tall, with but rarely a varying foliage, Range the bush monarchs, with branches just rocked by the wind ; Low at their feet cluster saplings and giant-leafed tree- ferns. Anchored in mosses, with creepers caressingly twined. Rarely the sad, sombre leafage is brightened with colour, Save by the white-starred clematis and glory-pea bine. Or 'gainst the branch-trellised verge of the long-stretching forest Dagger-leaved lightwoods and gold-tufted wattle-trees shine. Strewn 'mid the tawny bush-grasses where dead leaves lie scattered. Myriads of daisies and faAvn-tinted violets blow. Green-hearted orchids upspring from the maiden-ferned slopings. And through the verdure the twin-creeks in harmony flow. JENNINGS CARMICHAEL. 87 Seen through a clearing of bush soft with velvety verdure, The plain's fertile acreage lies 'neath the westering sun ; Down to the flat rolls the marsh- merging fringe of the forest, And red cattle graze on the grass of the wide station- run. Vaulted in passionless purity glistens the heaven. Never the breath of a cloud on its measureless blue, Deeper the purple tints glow on the close-wooded moun- tains, Finer the " shadow and shine " blend in dreamiest hue. These are the days when the soul with its yearning dis- quiet Can for a moment be eased of the burdening pain. ! thus to roam in the changeless quiescence of forest Gives for a season relief from heart-sorrow and strain. TOMBOY MADGE. O FOR a swim through the reedy river, And one long pull with the boys at dawn ! Only a ride on the high-backed Rover, And one tennis-round on the grassy lawn ! Once more to see the sun on the wide waves, And feel once more the foam at my feet ; Give me again the wind in the sea-caves Rocking the weeds on the " Tomboy's seat ! " Only last week, when the sky was brightest, No single cloud in the vaulted blue, The boys and I, when the sea was calmest, Rowed through the waves in tlie " Black-eyed Sue." 88 A USTRA LI A N POE TS. Fred, you remember the great-eyed fishes Shining star-like through the emerald sea ; How the waves foamed with their gleaming riches, Splendid fun for the boys and me. Is it a week since we forded the river (Low and clear for the time of the year), And found the wattles and tall red clover, Scenting the air from far and near ? Is it a week since we all went jumping From the bent arm of the creaking gum ? Who would have thought that the half-bent stumpling Would lay the Tomboy crippled and dumb 1 Fred, were you frightened when I lay wailing. With eyes closed away from the dazzling sun ? As in a dream I saw your face paling Before the sky grew distant and dun. I can't remember the homeward wending Through the dark trees and the long spring grass ; Nor how you stopped at the river's bending And bathed my face in the stream as we passed. I woke in this room, where the blinds were darkened, And saw the face that was bent o'er mine ; And there was a voice to which I barkened — A voice that rings in my brain like a chime. '* She will linger on for a time," it was telling ; " Years may pass and ten seasons turn ; But never again will these feet, weak and failing, Rise to walk through the flowers and fern." " Ten seasons turn ! " One glad month of spring-time, With ferns and flowers I cannot see, Will make me long for the heavenly sunshine. Where you and the boys may come to me. JENNINGS CARMICHAEL. 89 How can I live under walls and ceiling When all my life has been spent in the breeze 1 Whenever the bells of the birds are pealing I will pine and long for their nests in the leaves. auntie, dear, draw the blinds up widely, Let stream the sun through the bow'ry trees ! ! see the clouds on the deep blue gliding, And watch them ride and sport on the breeze. And, Freddy boy, I hold your hand gently, AVith its boyish, hard, familiar palm — The hand I will feel in the far-off country When " Tomboy ^ladge " will be safe from harm. ]May, with the dove eyes gentle and shining. Come nearer, darling, and smooth my hair, And tell me the tale from the deep past chiming The saintly mother and infant fair. Not long ago these same *' Good Tidings " That brightened the blue of yoi;r loving eyes Would seem to me but as wearisome chidings, Heavy as clouds in autumnal skies. But now I must lie here far from the cool wave, Far from the sounds and the scenes I love, With nothing before but pain — and a green grave — And nothing to seek but the hope from above. No grand long walks through the dusk at evening. Or long-drawn swims in the wind-tossed wave ; No light to seek but the one that's waning Down the dim path to the Tomboy's grave. " Ten seasons turn " will have seen the grasses High and green near the sea-shelled cave. And the dull stonecrop that Fred pulls as he passes Will have twined and hidden my early grave. go AUSTRALIAN POETS. The boys, when they swhig on the blue-gums bending, And hear the hoarse voice of the ocean roar, Will sometimes think of the Tomboy's ending, And wait for her voice on another shore. THE BUSHRANGERS. Hunted, and haunted, and hounded. Outlawed from human kin, Bound with the self-forged fetters Of a long career of sin. Hands that are red with slaughter, Feet that are sunk in crime — • A harvest of tares and thistles For the pending scythe of Time. Mate, we have travelled together, In days less dark than now ; In the hours of early manhood, Ere Cain's brand marked each brow. You remember the life on the station, When the shout of the overseer Would rouse us blithe from the bracken. Hands willing, and conscience clear. The tramp to the diggings was later. Through the bush to " Chase's Ford " — We'd been on the straight to-day, old man, If it hadn't proved a fraud. Good Lord ! that week through the forest, In the heat and the fearful dearth ; No wonder the end of the rush left Chase Swinging quiet 'twixt sky and earth. JENNINGS CARMICHAEL. 91 Perhaps we'd have rallied a little If we'd missed the lengthened drought, That, and the diggings together, Made the world and us fall out. 'Twas hard to find the culled hoard strewn In dead heaps on the plain : I knew the losses made that year Would ne'er he gained again. We took to lawless living, Bill, When honesty proved dear, Tliough we never reckoned on reddened hands At the start of our career. Tom Chase's swing on the wattle-bough Was merely a just repay : But the fruits of that fight with the troopers IMust be looked at another way. You laugh at showing tlie feather blanch After years of ruthless sin ; I own it's late to look to my feet. When the mire-depths reach my chin. But somehow since that pistol-shot Life hasn't seemed the same ; Perhaps, like the sinking sun we watch, My day is on the wane. Old man, come nearer — by my faith ! I'm feeling strangely cold — These qualms of useless penitence I never felt of old. At nights, before the firelight's glow, Dead thoughts my conscience flood. Though hope and memory alike Are marred by hues of blood. 92 AUSTRALIAN POETS. "Why should the guileless days of youth Come swelling mem'ry now 1 My boyhood's honour mocking keen This aged and crime-worn brow 1 Mate, you may scoff to see me down, With head and spirits low, But chaflf falls on unheeding ears — Life's current flows too slow. Hark ! There's the beat of hast'ning hoofs ! " A false alarm," you say. Bill, after all, it's little odds If the end does come that way. I'd give a lot to have hands pure From the blood of those plucky Jews ; That acts as the bridgeless gulf between The old and a new ■ Hunted, and haunted, and hounded, Outlawed from human kin, Bound with, the self-forged fetters Of a long career of sin. Hands that are red with slaughter, Feet that are sunk in crime — A harvest of tares and thistles For the pending scythe of Time. THE FENNEL IN THE WINE. Live on, heart, for the night is long That follows the day called life ; Oblivion waits in the even's shade, After the noontide's strife. JENNINGS CARMICHAEL. 93 weary soul in travailing pain, When will ye cease to rave? What in the end is the sum of all 1 — A cradle and a grave ! The sunny face of a little child Can only ripen to die ; Yon leaves were green on the sun-seared tree, That the autumn breeze blows by. Birth and burial, hand in hand, Pace through the tracts of time ; And funeral dirges, slow and sad, Blend with the marriage chime. Fate — so hard is the stern design, Decreeing our being so, That the tranquil heart of to-day's content Should usher to-morrow's woe ; That flowers and sunlight, joy and peace, Will harbinger sorrow's gloom, And love and hope alike will meet The juggernaut of doom ! We live and love, while time blows wide Affection's wasted leaves ; And tare and thistle too are found In the gathering of the sheaves. Across the reapi^d fields of life The trembling pilgrims glean ; And only scattered ears abound, Where the harvest should have been. Friend ! for us is the gloom alone, The barren field and the story Of autumn leaves and funeral dirge. And the rose-bloom stripped of glory ! 94 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Of alien hearts and divided hands, Grey hairs instead of golden ; A dimming film on the face of all, As of everything grown olden ! No use to stretch out yearning arms And sigh for the joys withheld ; Why pine for treasures of the past, When their burial is knelled 1 The music of the chord, once lost, Is rarely found again ; We cannot call the beauty back Of the flower bruised by the rain. For us remains the ling'riiig loss Of a lifetime grown Avith weeds ; The broken chord, and the bruised flower, And the scattered harvest-seeds. The naked tree and the empty cruse, The dust of the apple's core ; Life's pathos of complaining pain, Vibrating evermore ! One quiv'ring sheath in a grassy plain Is man's epitome ; One trembling drop in the shower that falls On an ever- changing sea. Then wherefore weep in the face of Fate, 'Neath the cross so hard to bear 1 For the peace withheld in this life of ours Avvaiteth us elsewhere. ETHEL CASTILLA. 95 ETHEL CASTILLA. [Of Kew, Melbourne.] AN AUSTRALIAN GIRL. " She's pretty to walk with, And witty to talk with, And pleasant, too, to think on." — Sir John SucUing. She has a beauty of her own, A beauty of a paler tone Than English belles. The 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 some 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. 96 AUSTRALIAN POETS. ALFRED T. CHANDLER. [Born at Geelong, Victoria, 1852 ; is a journalist, on the South Australian Advertiser and on the Ha^isard staff, Adelaide. Has published a volume, A Bush ld;/ll, and other Poems (E. S. Wigg, Adelaide ; S. Mullen, Melbourne), from which our quotations have been made.] AT DUSK. Hear the distance-like tremulous bells, Murmurs of melody lingering low, Floating and gathering over the dells, Down where the whispering wattle-trees grow. Is it the ripple of rambling rills Kissing the feet of the dreamy hills, Singing a measure that faintly fills Forest and foreland where soft winds blow ? Hear the strange song in the deepening gloom Lulling to sleep the wearyful day, Closing the eyes of bright beauties that bloom, Crooning to those that are passing away. Is it the sigh of the evening breeze Wafted afar from beyond the seas Telling its love to the lisping trees, "Welcoming night with a gentle lay ? Hear from above, in tlie dusky air. Something that swells in an undertone Grand as echo from choristers rare Breathing their souls in some beautiful zone. Is it the wonderful symphony Struck by the stars in their sparkling glee, Speeding through space and eternity On to the end in the mystic unknown 1 ALFRED T. CHANDLER. 97 Standing out here on this southerly slope, What is this music that comes from without 1 — Nature's glad message of infinite hope Soothing the terrors of withering doubt ? Comrade, I know not, but still there seems Something disclosed in those songful dreams — Voices of comfort through starry gleams, Puttin" our sorrows and fears to rout. IN THE CITY. YE who are so gay. Come into the city ; Soon your smiles will flee away, And leave ye pity ! Ah ! here is one with eyes all dark, For light hath flown ; The golden sun, the light, the birds. Are lost to him. Speak gentle words. He lives by these alone. And here is one so young and fair, With tangled tresses ; She sits and thinks, but thought is care : A great sad sob starts from her there, Where she transgresses. fathers, brothers, sorrow-heeding, Can you resist So deeply passionate a pleeding Through tearful mist ? For she was Avronged, then slipped and fell When innocence had fled. ! thoughtless, stay and hear her pray That she were dead ! G c8 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Ah ! ye that are so gay, Here within the city, Win her from sin away, With love and pity. And here is one so grey and old, He begs a penny ; Lut pass him by not stern and cold, The poor are many. He once had wealth : and charity He held as holy : Misfortune came. He asks of thee So soft and slowly. Cease thy mirth ! ! why so gay, Laughing through the city, When so much want from day to day Demands thy pity 1 And here is one, a babe at play In dirt enshrouded, His lips 'midst guilt — by evil ray His young life clouded. From haggard hands the cup he drained Ere he could speak ; And she, his mother, long sin-stained. And bad, and worn, and weak. ! deep true-hearted, save the child (For love and pity) Who knows not God, who wanders wild Within so gay a city. Yea, save the children ere they be All grown in vile maturity. Lost and perished. let them taste the puri'ty Of being cherished ! ALFRED T. CHANDLER. 99 Our land is young and fair and free — ! Avoeful pity That there should be one misery To stain our city ! Ah ! ye who wrapped in comforts sit, Go bless again — For wrong is strong and life is brief : Then fight for right and lighten grief, And lessen sorrow's bane. ! ye who are so gay In the merry city, Soon your smiles must flee away, And leave ye pity ! CUR LEY. " COME round, chaps — here is a curious moke : Sundowner ! twig each weary limb. " Come thirty miles — nothing to eat — dead broke "- Yes, that's the yarn you'll get from him. Say now, my spark, you don't look very spry ; You want a job 1 Well, that's played out, That joke. On this here run we're pretty fly — We don't state plain " You lie ! " — we doubt. You needn't don such simple airs, my boy ; Such dodgings ain't no good with us ; Come, own the fact up straight — you shirk employ, And rather skim away from fuss ; It makes your head ache, eh, this dofhng coats ? The thought for you is quite enough. Of course we ain't all sheep — there must be goats. Oil, ho ! you shouldn't take the huff ! loo AUSTRALIAN POETS. " But chaps, just gaze ! He acts the part darned well, You'd think him just about to drop — His last weak Avalk for life — death or a spell " Here broke in Super Scotty : — " Stop Your borak ; givo the bloomin' man a show ; You might be down yourself 'fore long ; A pannikin of flour would pull you low, And make you sing another song ! " The hardy station hands were grouped at dusk Around the hut, and wreaths of smoke From blackened clays rose softly with the musk Of forest shrubs, A hearty joke Excited now and then a vigorous laugh 'Mong sun-browned bushmen stretched at rest, Or sudden challenge couched in cutting "chafi'" Provoked impromptu feat or test. The swagman stood with shy, pathetic mien, And stared with strange appealing eyes ; In those outlandish parts there ne'er was seen So sad a sight to wake surprise. Such fair proportions, weak and feebly worn. Such gentle features pinched and pale ; Such thick brown curls, unkempt and long unshorn — A manly form now weak and frail. Through all his joylessness, though thin and wan. With many a dangling shred and rag, There lurked a touch of something that had gone Ere he had known the " track " and swag ] And something still more pitiful was there — A blindness though possessed of sight, Fair features, less the light to make them fair — ■ Or darkness overcloudincc light. ALFRED T. CHANDLER. lol Like some bright land, where ever joy hath been In changeful growth and beauty rare, And perfect fruits, with fragrant flow'rs between, The winds of promise wafting there ; Wlien fruitfulness hath faded from its face And only barrenness is left — A life in death — a form yet lacking grace, Of warmth and feeling all bereft. True pity ever prompts the hearts, though rude, Of those who range the forests wild ; For, nursed in Nature's generous solitude. They catch her influence undefiled T>y unctuous mode. The bushmen gathered round. Forgetting sturdy joke and jeer. Gruff voices fell to sympathetic sound — Soft liearts make harshness sweet appear ! Then Scotty, leader of the little throng, Gave welcome to the weary tramp, ' iVnd led him in, and doubted " "What was wrong ? " Surmised he'd "left a hungry camp." But to all queries came no quick reply Of wakened thought, but timid looks ; And thus unasked he whispered by-and-by, "Tliey called me ' Curley ' down at Cook's." "I'm shot if Cooks don't treat their friends d — queer; Tliey're not much, mate, if that's their style. "Well, sit you down and make your wurlie here — I bet you'll spell with us a while. But — Cook? Some sugar-dealer taught a run. And hawked amongst the hills and gums Ilis scales to weigh free air to every one 1 Tiiank God, he's not around these slums ! " .2 AUSTRALIAN POETS. A week went by and Curley still remained, And no one seemed to wish him gone ; His way was meek although his mind had waned— A gleam that through the darkness shone. So he, 'midst warmth and kindly spoken tones. Was welcomed gently by the rest ; But still those sense-robbed eyes, like shining stones, Struck sorrow into every breast. A year went by, and every one had placed A light load on the blighted life ; If kindness could have from the past erased That grief, sweet joy would soon be rife. Through all the homestead strayed the stricken one. Played with the children in their freaks, Or gathered wild flowers 'neath the morning sun. Or crooned along the lonely creeks. And so wild winter brightened into spring ; Across the pools swift currents rushed ; O'er all tlie land full many a winsome thing Sprang budding forth, and beauty blushed From east to west. The station babes with joy Their voices gaily raised in glee, And laughter rang from merry girl and boy As part of Nature's minstrelsy. One glorious sunset flooded through the trees Like some kaleidoscopic dream Of light and shade and playing harmonies. Enchanting all the dashing stream ; And, lured by this bright dancing colour-blink, The shepherd's prattling child was led To scream delight and venture on the brink Of that false glowing waterliead. ALFRED T. CHANDLER. 103 One moment — then to catch the fleeting beams Fair Lily sprang, and sank below The gay illusion and its rippling gleams, That sparkled unaware of woe ; But Curley, touched by some quaint thought, Rushed laughing to the baby's cry ; And ere the station was by tears distraught, Had won her back to earth and sky. Eut when they found them all his clustering locks "Were red with blood, where he had met The hidden juts of sharply jagged rocks. And yet he owed to them a debt ; For fever seized him, and for days he lay Unconscious, tho' so gently nursed ; And when he woke, the shepherd's daughter May In vigil grave he saw the first. But had he caught from off the water's face The light of life — the vital gleam 1 — For now it shone — his form regained the grace It late had lost in that dark dream. Still was he more a stranger to them all, Amazed in flooding memory — A wondering soul's bewildered madrigal Of praise and joy in waking free. " Where has that blooming Curley gone — d'ye hear ? He found his sense — and we lost him : A line for some poetic chap. It's queer How some young folks are mighty trim And sensitive when they get use of wits. Why didn't he continue soft ? That rock's to blame — I'll take my davey it's l)arned interfering horns are neatly doff't." I04 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Another year had passed, and in the spring Along the winding station-track Came Curley, brightly changed in everything- N"o ragged bundle on his back. Again he went away — so blithe and blest — But not alone, for gentle May Now shared his honours and heraldic crest, And love beamed o'er them day by day. MARCUS CLARKE. [Com at Kensington, 1S47 ; only son of William Hislop Clarke, Barrister-at-Law, Middle Temjjle, and cousin of Major- General Sir Andrew Clarke, once Surveyor-General and Chief Commissioner Crown Lands, Victoria ; late Inspector-General Fortifications, England. Educated at St. Paul's. Emigrated to Victoria about his seventeenth year. Eour years on a station in Wimniera, then joined Argus staff. First literary "hit," " Peripatetic Philosopher," in Australasian — admirable imita- tion of " Thackeray's Round-about Papers." Assisted to found Colonial Monthly , in which appeared his first novel, "LongOdds ;" clever but immature. Same year (1868) married Marion Dunn, actress, daughter of John Dunn, comedian ; 1872, appointed Secretary to Trustees of Public Library, Melbourne ; afterwards Sub-Librarian. His Natural Life, Clarke's mar/num opus, first published in a Melbourne journal, republished by Bentley, remains the only standard Australian work of fiction written in the Colonies. Clarke only occasionally " dropped into poetry," but whether in verse or prose, it was impossible for him to be other than bright, witty, and forcible. He wrote and adapted several pieces for the Colonial stage. As a lite- rary critic, within the limit of his artistic sympathies, he was admirable, and his influence was felt, if not known, througli the columns of the A'je, Aryus, and other prominent local journals. Died i8Si,atSt. Kilda, near Melbourne, premature!}', leaving MARCUS CLARKE. 105 a widow and several children, who have been very generously looked after by the friends and admirers of "Australia's cl)ief novelist."] "7iV A LADY'S ALBUM." What can I write in thee, dainty book, About whose daintiness quaint perfume lingers — Into whose pages dainty ladies look, And turn thy dainty leaves with daintier fingers "t Fitter my ruder muse for ruder song; My scrawling quill to coarser paper matches ; My voice, in laughter raised too loud and long. Is hoarse and cracked with sintfins: tavern catches. No melodies have I for ladies' ear, Xo roundelays for jocund lads and lasses, — IJut only brawlings born of bitter beer. And chorussed with the clink and clash of glasses. So tell thy mistress, pretty friend, for me, I cannot do her "'best" for all her frowning. While dust and ink are but polluting thee, And vile tobacco smoke thy leaves embrowning. Thou breathest purity and humble worth — The simple jest, the light laugh following after ; I will not jar upon thy modest mirth With harsher jest, or with less gentle laughter. So some poor tavern-hunter steeped in wine, With staggering footsteps through the streets returning, Seeing, through gathering glooms, a sweet light shine From household lamp in happy window burning, lo6 AUSTRALIAN POETS. May pause an instant in the wind and rain To gaze on that sweet scene of love and dutj', But turns into the wild wet night again, Lest his sad presence mar its holy beauty. TEN YEARS AGO. Dost thou remember the old garden, where We used to steal To build our silly castles in the air, My pale Lucille 1 I was thy knight : and thou, my love, my queen, No shame didst know — For had we not played babies on the green 1 — Ten years ago. We part, we meet, thou statelier grown and cold, I gaunt and grey ; For thou art rich, and I — in sorrows old Since childhood's day. '• Lucille ! at last, my love !" — your pale cheek flames. " Did you not know j\Iy husband, sir ? We met — where was it, James ? — Ten years ago ! " Well — mine the fault was if I did not please ; You judged the best ; You feared for poverty, and longed for ease, Comfort, and rest. His horses stepped as high, your diamonds made As brave a show, For all he won them in the hollow trade Ten years ago. ALFRED T. CHANDLER. 107 Yet that white brow, methiuks, is less serene Than in that time "When bright birds sang and trees and fields were green, In youth's fair prime ; When all the world smiled rosy at our feet In fancy's glow, Ah me ! the wondrous dreams we dreamt, my sweet, Ten years ago ! Xow you are sadly learned, I am old ; Five tongues you speak ; You sing, compose — what leaf is that you fold 1 Plato in Greek ! I see — you study at all times — you fret At progress slow — You had not needed Greek, dear, had we met Ten years ago. Xay, never blush, Lucille. I am not base To him or you ; From thy soul's cell no love must his displace Thy whole life through. His safeguard and thy solace lies in this — Is it not so 1 — His constant kindness since the bridal kiss Ten years ago. "\Ye met. We part. If life's bright best be lost, Much still remains ; Perhaps a higher Heaven for him, the cost Paid with thy pains. Good-bye, my dear; and if this tale you tell, These verses show, Say only, " This man fought a hard fight well Ten years ago." lo8 AUSTRALIAN POETS. And ever figlits ! for if, as Churchmen say, In skies above Soul mates with soul, as ray melts into ray, And Heaven is Love, He will be there, and — if he still loves thee — Must never know That thou on earth hadst e'er a tliouglit for me Ten years ago. NELLIE S. CLEEK. [Of Kaidee, Gippslaad, Victoria, has published a thin paper book of poems entitled Sowjs from the Gippsland Forest (C. P. Niud, Miiboo, North Gippsland, Victoria, 1887)]. AT EVENTIDE. Through the forest, vast as ocean, Furious trees and furious winds Whirl and roar in mad commotion. Thunder deafens, lightning blinds. Down the sun has sunk, despairing. Clouds are pouring forth his tears ; I, too, weep, his sorrow sharing, I, too, sink in grief and fears. Life is short, but how weary ! For my best endeavours fail ; Fruitless, joyless years and dreary. Tire my brows, my cheeks make pale. I have lived, but why I know not, Nor what purpose I have served. Praise of God ? Alas ! I trow not ; From His paths my steps have swerved. NELLIE S. CLERK. 109 Long I dreamt of actions glorious, Conquered billows, conquered foes ; I have lived dull years laborious, Tilled the ground and cursed my woes. Toil, perhaps, has manful proved me, But has earned few gladdening gleams ; I ne'er won the love who loved me, Realised no youthful dreams. And this lot is not mine only, Else some comfort I would take ; Millions disappointed, lonely. Like me, their appealings make. Is there nothing waiting for us ? Our appointed tasks being done, Is no fairer state before us ? Shall we no more see the sun 1 With each stage of earth's creation Age on age has come and gone, Merely turned for rock formation Myriad living things to stone. What is life worth used thus cheaply. To build up a planet's crust % Must we in our turn lie deeply Crushed beneath the future's dust 1 And the planets incandescent. Shape they but to gorge more prey 1 Shall each germ in them increscent, Swell, develop, die for aye ? Next, shall man in conscious sorrow Tread as here on countless death — Dreading lest he ere the morrow To oblivion yield his breath 1 no- AUSTRALIAN POETS. What comes after ] Shall new creatures Think the universe their own 1 Ponder o'er man's fossil features, Deem themselves great Nature's crown, Through unnumbered, fateful ages, Till by earthquakes, floods, and fires They are sAvalloAved, and fresh sages Class them with strange human sires? On and on the scale ascending. If with Life Death hold no truce, \Vliat of all shall be the ending 1 What of all can be the use 1 Could we here but fill to fulness All our cravings after bliss, Banish envy, crime, and dulness. Life indeed were happiness. my soul, cease, cease complaining. Live we must, whate'er the goal ; Wherefore, then, waste time arraigning Forces past our poor control ? Yes, we live because we must do, Live with hearts unsatisfied. Ye who have a God to trust to, Would I were with you allied ! Fool ! you call me. Am I ? — choosing Doubt's wild waters for my bark, Overboard my compass losing, Vaguely drifting through the dark 1 That am I ! for revelation Shows the while a placid bay, Wherein men from every nation, Mooring, watch and wait for day. NELLIE 5. CLERK. m These are wise, nor weakly wonder That not yet they understand Things above earth, and under. By omniscient wisdom planned ; But they trust beyond death's portals Perfect knowledge God shall give ; Blessed faith ! they are immortals ; Here they but commence to live. Is this so 1 Then we are reigning Here o'er every mortal thing, And we are as sons in training For our Father, who is King. Hark ! a cry ! — " Soon thou shalt meet Him ! " Take, as Pilot, Christ the blest. Away, ye doubts ! I fain would greet Him ; Father, Father ! give me rest ! / SLEPT. I SLEPT in the great gum forest, By one of its mountain streams. Where tenderest touches and sounds ISIingled themselves with dreams. The stream, round a boulder's breast, Rippled, as ripples the sea. And over it swaying fern-fronds "VVafted me, darling, to thee, — So swiftly my darling to thee. "Wild tangled grass to my side Stirred softly, like ruffling hair. 112- AUSTRALIAN POETS. All I a leaf falling lightly down I clasped — 'twas thy hand so fair. " Dear hand, I will keep it ! " I cried (And a bird sang sweetly above) ; "Dear hair, as a royal crown Let me guard it for ever, my love, — " Yes, guard it for ever, my love." I had gazed in a silent pool At foliaged, sunlit skies ; But now I saw lovelier things In the depths of a woman's eyes. Circling so free and so cool, I had envied the dragon-fly's bliss ; But now, as he dipped his wings, I heard, yes, and felt a soft kiss, A gently breathed, tremulous kiss. •Love, I am here, I am here ! (Branches were whispering then.) I have traversed dividing seas, I have come to you once again. Enter my boat without fear, Sail with me homeward — Ah, no ! Alone in the chill night breeze I wake — must it ever be so ? Dear love, must it ever be so 1 VICTOR y. DALEY. 113 YICTOE J. DALEY. [Enjoys a considerable reputation in Australia, but unfortunately the editor has received no communication from him, and there- fore can give no biographical details, and no poems except one he had saved, which appeared in the Victorian lievieu:] LIFE AND DEATH. {Two Sonnets.) Death. The angel seers of old who writ in words Like drops of blood great thoughts, that through the niylit ( )f ages burn, as eyes of lions light Deep jungle-dusks ; who smote with songs like swords The soul of man on its most secret chords, And made the heart of him a harp to smite — AVhere are they 1 Where that old man lorn of sight, The king of song among these laurelled lords ? JJut where are all the ancient singing spheres That burst through Chaos like the summer's breath Through ice-bound seas where never seaman steers ? Ijurnt out. Gone down. No star remembereth These stars and seers well-silenced through the years — The songless years of everlasting death. Life. What know we of the dead who say these things, Or of the life in Death below the mould ? What of the mystic laws that rule the old Grey realms beyond our poor imaginings, Where death is life? The bird with spray-wet wings Knows more of what the deeps beneath him hold. Let be : Avarm hearts shall never wax a-cold, II 114 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Cut burn in roses through eternal springs ; For all the banished fruit and flower of time Are flower and fruit in worlds we cannot see, And all we see is but a shadow-mime Of things unseen, and time that comes to flee Is as the broken echo of a rhyme In God's great epic of Eternity. J. F. DANIELL. [Of Windsor, Melbourne, author of "Rhymes for tlie Times," a poetical commentary on current events appearing in the columns of the Herald, from which the poem quoted is taken. Formerly wrote under the nom-de-plume of " A Long Fellow."] THE JUBILEE OF MELBOURNE. For ages wild and restless waves had cast Their burden on a low untrodden shore, Which never stately white- winged ship had passed. Or rugged seamen touched with friendly oar ; Where never loving comrades flocked to pour Their boisterous welcomes, or sweet maidens came To look the language lips were shy to frame. Here 'neath the scorching heat of summer days The shimmering waves stole up to kiss the sands, And the fair moon with peerless silver rays Lent beauty luminous to Southern lands, Whose lonely, wild, yet not unlovely strands Had never echoed to the steps of men. Who dreamed of unknown worlds beyond their ken. The waters of this noble bay were fed By a pure stream which no pollution knew ; !Man's commerce had not stirred its rocky bed, But on its bank sweet-scented wattles grew, J. F. DANIELL. Amidst whose fragrant bouglis soft love-birds flew, And magpies poured from glossy plumaged throats Their morning song of rich melodious notes. From out the scrub that fringed the river-bank What dusky, strange, and uncouth forms emerge, With matted locks, which cling like sedges rank Round gaunt old tree-trunks on the water's verge — Sons of the forest wild whose plaintive dirge, The mournful wail of hapless destiny, The sad winds carry to the moaning sea ! There dawned, at last, a day when all was changed : The restless overflow of Northern lands. From Old World thoughts and sympathies estranged, Winged South their way in bold, adventurous bands, liearing courageous hearts and vigorous hands To carve their way to Avealth with manly toil. And plant dominion in productive soil. Here fifty winters since, by Yarra's stream, A scattered hamlet found its modest place : What mind would venture then in wildest dream Its wondrous growth and eminence to trace 1 What seer predict a stripling in the race Vould, swift as Atalanta, win the prize Of progress, 'neath the World's astonished eyes ? It is no dream. Upon those grass-grown streets Has risen up a city vast and fair, In whose thronged thoroughfares the stranger meets With signs of all the world can send most rare And costly to her marts. And everywhere Ascends the hum of nervous, bustling strife— The splendid evidence of healthy life. ii6 AUSTRALIAN POETS. "Where stalwart bushnien lounged through sultry hours, And large-boned oxen bowed beneath the yoke, Are parks and gardens rich with plants and flowers, Mansions embowered in ash, and elm, and oak. Churches where worshippers Heaven's aid invoke, And towers and steeples, monuments and domes, Rise amidst crowded haunts and peaceful homes. E. WILSON DOBBS. [Born in Melbourne ; an architect by profession ; for five years in the Public Works Department of the Tasmanian Civil Service ; now in the Melbourne Civil Service. Educated at the Church of England Gramniar-School, Melbourne. Has done important work in connection with literary clubs.] IN MEMORIAM. Charles George Gordon. " Come quickly " — 'twas thy last message— God pity thee ! — help was no help when it got to Khartoum ; Hark to their shouting ! — the foe in the city see ! — "Gordon," thy daring hath compassed thy doom. Ah ! what a greeting for those who were straining sinew and nerve, every heart-pulse and breath, Reachiig the goal to but find for their gaining nothing 1 ut treachery, conquest, and death ! Late ! ye ;, too late ! are the words that are tracM in letters of blood on that Arabic pile ; England must ever feel sad and disgraced, stabbed to the death is her Lord of the Nile. Gordon, thou type of a perfect knight templar, bearing the cross 'gainst a Saracen foe. Eminent, steadfast, and stainless exemplar, freer for nations, thou usest to go ALFRED DOMETT, C.M.G. 117 Onward serene like Crusader to battle, faith and the Bible thy armour-of-mail, Restfully calm 'mid the roar and the rattle ; trusting that God would be sure to prevail. Galahad thou — waging war 'gainst Saladin — with Gala- had's strength and with Galahad's heart ; Embodied soul of a noble Paladin, henceforth from heroes no more to depart. Guerdon for self — thou hast ever rejected — as for the Militant Church thou didst strive, Offering all, now, thy God hath elected thine own most wished for reward to arrive. Ring out, ye bells, with a strain pure and tender, comfort ye all that are sorely bereaved ; Divinity loves thus true service to render; a soldier of Christ from on-guard is relieved. O ! single soul, full of spiritual leaven, prophet, saint, warrior, alway confest, Now, on the shore of the river of Heaven, vanquished, yet victor, rejoice thee at rest 1 ALFRED DOMETT, C.M.G. [.■Vccording to the European Mail, born in Surrey, May 20, 18 1 1, and matriculated at Cambridge, as a member of St. John's College, in 1829. After three years' residence, left the Uni- versity without graduating, and was called to the Bar at the Middle Temple in 1 84 1. So early as 1832 published a small volume of poems, and six or seven years afterwards contributed short poetical pieces to Blackicood' s Matjazine, one of which — "A Christmas Hymn" — was much admired. It atti-acted the favourable notice of Longfellow, In 1842 went, among the earliest settlers, to Nelson, in New Zealand. His literary iiS AUSTRALIAN POETS. abilities soon obtained for him tliree eminent distinctions. Hig account of the Wairau Massacre in 1843, and the petition which he wrote at the request of the Nelson settlers for the recall of Governor Fitz-Roy in 1845, niay well rank as valuable State papers. Appointed a member of the Legislative Council in 1846, and on the introduction of the Constitution of 1847, Colonial Secretary of the province of New Munster, and in 1851 Civil Secretary of New Zealand. From 1854 to 1856 the sole management of a new and extensive district at Hawke's Bay was entrusted to him ; and he admirably discharged new and laborious duties. While so employed, elected without his knowledge, after a contest, to represent the town of Nelson in the House of Representatives. In 1862 and 1863 was Premier" of the colony. Afterwards, from 1864 to 187 1, Secretary for Crown Lands ; and i-n that difficult office so distinguished himself, that in 1870, when he held a seat in the Legislative Council, he was specially excepted, while he continued Secretary of Crown Lands, from the law of Parliamentary disqualification. Nor did he confine himself to official duties : his love of litera- ture led him to the devotion of his leisure to the organisa- tion and classification of the Parliamentary Library; and the colony is specially indebted to him for his efforts in that work. Came to England in 1871, and resided there till he died in 1887. Made in 1880 a Companion of the Order of St. Michael and St. George. Soon after his return to England published lianolf and Amohia (Kegan Paul, Trench, & Co.), a poem in which he de- scribed the scenery of New Zealand and the legends and habits of the Maoris; and in 1877, Flotsam and Jetsam (Smith, Elder, & Co.) THE PRELUDE TO RAN OLE AND AMOHIA. 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 1 Is there room for no hope — such a handbreadth we scan — In the permanence yet of the Spirit of Man ?— ALFRED DOMETT, C.M.G. 119 !^^ay we bless the far seeker, nor blame the fine dreamer ? Leave Reason her radiance — Doubt her due cloud ; ISTor their Rainbows enshroud 1 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 1 my friends, never deaf to the charms of Denial, Were its comfortless comforting worth a life-trial — 1 )iscontented 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 aur^olar rays may reveal That the Future is haply not utterly cheerless : AV^hile 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 wilh us deep into regions of Day — • Come away — and away ! — AUSTRALIAN POETS. MIROA'S STORY. " Alas, and well-a-Jay ! 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, this sad sweet pain ! senseless heart — simple ! to yearn so and to pine For one so far above me, confest over all to shine — For one a hundred dote upon, who never can be mine ! 'tis a foolish feeling — all this fond sweet pain ! When I was quite a child — not so many moons ago — A happy little maiden — then it was not so ! Like a sunny-dancing wavelet then I sparkled to and fro ; And I never had this feeling, this sad sweet pain ! 1 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, 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 — 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 purple red and points so free — quite a lovely show — To charm away this feeling — this sad sweet pain ! ALFRED DOMETT, C.M.G. i2t 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 — how charming they'll look there — All to chase away this feeling — this fond sweet pain ! Then tlie lads will flock around me with flattering talk all day — And with anxious little pinches sly winks of love convey ; And I shall blush with happy pride to hear them ... I dare say . . . And quite forget this feeling, O this sad sweet pain ! " LOVE AND NATURE LUXURL-iNT. From "Raxolf and Amohia," Book iy. Canto hi. I, I'hc Ilappy Loccr. 2. Love's Young Dream. 3. A Latter-da)/ Eden. 4. A suitable Home for the fascinating dread Deify, A KING — a God — a little child Your happy Lover is ; a Saint "With all the Eternal Powers at one- Serene — confiding — reconciled : He thinks no ill — believes in none ; There is for him no sin, no taint, No room for doubt, disgust, complaint, Misgiving or despondence faint : Life's mystery flies, her secret won, Like morning frost before the sun ; 122 AUSTRALIAN POETS. How should its cobweb-ties arrest The triumph of his bounding breast ! How should he feel, -with actual heaven In measureless fruition given, The mounting spirit's mortal load ? Feel, steeped in empyrean day And rapture without stint bestowed, The Mind too big for its abode, The Soul's discomfort in its clay ? Why look to some seraphic sphere For light, for love, so lavish here ? In this our gorgeous Paradise Why bend to grief — why stoop to vice ? Ah ! wh}'^ distrest and sorrow-prest ? — Why not be right and brave and blest? How easy, in a world so bright, To be, to live, blest, brave, and right ! — He breathes Elysium — walks on wings ; His own unbounded bliss he flings O'er all deformed, unhappy things : Transfigured are they — glorified ; Or vanish and cannot abide The flood of splendour, the full tide Of joy that from his heart so wide Wells over all the world beside. Melodist unequalled — Pride Of Nature's self-taught songsters he ! Inspired — unconscious — mute too soon — Who sits and sings bis lyric Life-song free To glad Creation's high triumphant tune ! 11. So for herself and most for her beloved All anxious cares and fears removed. So upon Amohia now unclouded beams — • ALFRED DOMETT, C.M.G. 123 In rounded fulness of possession streams Once more the dream of dreams — The dear divine delirium ! say Once to all by fate allowed ; Though from its shy crescent small, That finest silver eyelash, fall Only its earliest rising ray ; Clothing them ever with a luminous cloud Wherein they may a sweet while stray, In the thronging whisper-play Of Angels' wings, on life's highway ; Monomaniacs, in the charge Of Beauty, — blissfully at large 'Mid the sadly saner crowd. 1 HI. But ice pause — toe pale before if, Fairest reader — that soft splendour .♦ And your pardon we implore it, If in sight of scenes so tender Heart and voice we haply harden, And with faltering step pass o'er it. That sequestered Eden-garden ; Painting in evasive fashion Two young lovers, wildly loving, Through a lovely region roving. Free as Nature — free as birds are. Free as infants' thoughts and words are ! Ah ! too rich for our rude treating. Too exalted for our story, That intense absorbing passion — , That fine fever of young Love ; "Which, though cheating, swiftly fleeting, Oft it seems to mock and flout us. 12+ AUSTRALIAN POETS. Comes so innocent, undesigning, Comes into our darkness, shining, Comes and wraps the mystic glory Of the golden Heavens about us ! And though pining or declining, Buried — pent here — without vent here — Lone — a stranger, wild, erratic ; Soon returning to the burning Blisses of its home above — Leaves a bud elsewhere to blossom, Leaves a light in every bosom ; — Just revealing ere off-stealing, One brief glimpse of soul-enjoyment, To endure a memory sure — Pure — a secret life-refiner And great lure to realms diviner, Where abandonment ecstatic To the infinite of feeling — Loftier love than aught existent. Ever by indulgence growing Deeper, fonder, and more glowing — Tide at flooding still new-flowing, Flower fresh-budding while full-blowing — Is consistent — is persistent, Is our normal, true employment ! IV, But say, in any Age of Gold Or song-lit classic clime of old, Where the amorous azure zephyr-fanneJ Caressing,^ kissed with murmur bland Some finely-pebbled Paphian strand ; Where Cyprian sea-winds whispering made Love-plaint in hot Idalian glade ALFRED DOMETT, C.M.G. 125 And marble-terupled mulbeny-shade ; Or wliere Avith wanton freaks and frets Sing rough Cythera's sparkling jets And silvery-laughing rivulets ; Or out of sight and sunshine slipped. And lone in limestone cave and crypt, Slow heavy tears in silence dripped ; — Were ever loveliest scenes in sooth So typically fit to be A birthplace and a home for thee, Impassioned Love ! as these that see Our sylvan Maid, our sailor Youth, Love-linked go loitering where they list, Love-led through Love's own mighty misl 1 A wondrous realm indeed beguiled The pair amidst its charms to roam. O'er scenes more fair, serenely wild, ^ot often summer's glory smiled ; AVhen flecks of cloud transparent, bright, 'No alabaster half so white, Hung lightly in a luminous dome Of sapphire, seemed to float and sleep Far in the front of its blue steep ; And almost awful, none the less For its liquescent loveliness, Eehind them sank, just o'er the hill, The deep abyss profouiad and still. The so immediate Infinite I That yet emerged the same, it seemed, In hue divine and melting balm, In many a Lake whose crystal calm Uncrisped, unwrinkled, scarcely gleamed ; AVhere Sky above and Lake below "Would like one sphere of a^ure show, 126 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Save for tlie circling belt alone, The softly-painted purple zone Of mountains — both where nearer seen In sunny tints of sober green, With velvet dark of woods between, All glossy glooms and shifting sheen ; AVliile here and there some peak of snow ^V"ould o'er their tenderer violet lean. And yet within this region, fair With wealth of waving woods — these glades And glens and lustre-smitten shades, Where trees of tropic beauty rare With graceful spread and ample swell Uprose ; and that strange asphodel On tufts of stiff green bayonet-blades. Great bunches of white bloom upbore, Like blocks of sea-washed madrepore, That steeped the noon in fragrance wide, Till by the exceeding sweet opprest The stately tree-fern leaned aside For languor, with its starry crown Of radiating fretted fans, And proudly-springing beauteous crest Of shoots all brown with glistening down, Curved like the lyre-bird's tail half-spread, Or necks opposed of wrangling swans. Red bill to bill — black breast to breast ; — Ay ! in this realm of seeming rest What sounds you met, and sounds of dread ! Calcareous caldrons, deep and large, With geysers hissing to their marge ; Sulphureous fumes that spout and blow ; Columns and cones of boiling snow ; And sable lazy-bubbling pools ALFRED DOMETT, C.M.G. 127 Of sputtering mud that never cools ; With jets of steam through narrow vents Uproaring, maddening to the sky, Like cannon-mouths that slioot on high In unremitting loud discharge Their inexhaustible contents : While oft beneath the trembling ground Rumbles a drear persistent sound Like ponderous engines infinite, working jVt some tremendous task below ! TREES AND THE TREE-GOD. From "Ranolf and Amohia," Book iv. Canto iv. I. Ranolf, on a hint from Amo, rhrpsodises on beautiful trees and plants, 2, Amo affects jealousy : Which tree shall she be ? I. What kindly Genius couching in Poets' eyes. For Custom's cataracts dim the keenest sight. Gives them the Infants' crystal power to prize The simplest beauty that before them lies, Transparent to its wonder and delight ? " Why, Rano," with her cheerful smile Raid Amo, at her wifely tasks, the while lie, as we told, in such enthusiast-style Revelled in all the leafy life — All the green revel round them rife : *' If you were Tane's self indeed, The Atua and the Father of the Trees, You could not of their ways take greater heed ! " The fancy seemed his mood to please : *' Hurrah ! " he cried, and following her lead AUSTRALIAN POETS. Went on, as with mock-solemn triumph fire Half to himself, and half to her, as whim To speech or thought unspoken guided him, To dally with the notion she inspired : II. "I am Tane — the Tree-God ! Mine are forests not a few — Forests, and I love them greatly, Moss-encrusted, ancient, stately ; Lusty, lightly-clad, and new. Mottled lights and chequered changes, 'Mid all these my roam and range is ; Shadowy aisle and avenue ; Creeper-girdled column too : In the mystic mid-day night Many-mullioned openings bright ; Solemn tracery far aloof Letting trefoiled radiance through ! Many a splintered sun-shaft leaning Staff-like straight against the roof Of black alcoves overspread — Arched with foliage intervening Layer on layer in verdurous heaps, 'Twixt that blackness and the sun ; With a tiny gap, but one, Light-admitting ; brilliance-proof, Day -defying, all unriven Elsewhere — all beside off-screening Of the grand wide glow of Heaven ! Or, where thinner the green woof Veils the vault of outer blue, Many a branch that upward creeps, Wandering darkly overhead ALFRED DOMETT, C.M.G. i2<) Under luminous leafy deeps, "Which an emerald splendour steeps, From the noon that o'er them sleeps . — O I tend them, love, defend them, And all kindly influence lend them ; For my worship all are suited. If, but, in the firm earth rooted, By the living air recruited, They, ere it grow withered, dull, Their green mantle beautiful, Still repair, revive, renew." (Then to himself, more musingly ;) " Many creeds, and sects, and churches, — hopeful each its own way going ; Bigots, sceptics, saints and sinners, — precious to the Power all-knowing, So they Iceep absorbing evermore of Truth, the ever- growing." (This, by the way, because he could not smother That inveterate tendency To find in all things symbols of each other.) II. " I am Tang— the Tree-God ! My sons are a million ; In every region. Their name it is legion ; And they build a pavilion My glory to hold. AVhich shall my favourites be ? "Which are most pleasing to me, Of their shapes and their qualities manifold 1 — The gigantic parasite myrtle That over its victims piles up Great domes of pure vermilion, I I30 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Filling the black defiles up : The King-Pine that grandlj^ towers : — • The fuchsia-tree with its floAvers, Poor rustics that timidly ape Their sisters of daintier shape "With their delicate bells down-hung, And their waxen filaments flung So jauntily out in the air, Like girls in short crimson kirtle That spins in the wind as they whirl A-tiptoe one pointed foot, And one horizontal outshoot : — The cZe//2a^2s-garlands that curl And their graceful wreaths unfurl From many a monstrous withe ; Snowy-starred serpents and lithe That in sable contortions writhe, Till fancy could almost declare That great Ophiucus, down-hurled From his throne in the skiey star-world, Had been caught with his glittering gems 'Mid those giant entangling stems Which he deemed but a dwarfish copse, So was struggling and surging in vain To rear his vast coils o'er their tops And his gleaming lair regain ! — Then the limber-limbed tree that will shower its Corollas — a saffrony sleet Till Taupo's soft sappharine face is Illumined for wonderful spaces With a matting of floating flowerets — Drift-bloom and a watersward meet For a water-sprite's fairy feet ; 'Tis the koiohai, that spendthrift so golden : But its kinsman to nature beholden ALFRED DOMETT, C.M.G. 131 For raiment its beauty to fold in Deep-dyed as of trogon or lory, How with parrot-bill fringes 'tis burning, One blood-red mound of glory ! Then the pallid eurybia turning The vernal hill-slopes hoary With its feathers so faintly sweet And its under-leaves white as a sheet ; — All of them, all — both the lofty and lowly, Equally love I and wholly ; So that each take form and feature After its genuine law and nature, Its true and peculiar plan ; So that each, with live sap flowing, Keep on growing, upward growing. As high from the earth as it can. " Many creatures — varied features — darh and bright, still onward moving ; Tyrants — tumblers — boors and beauties, kings and clowns ali/ce approving, To them all the Gods are gracious — to them all the Gods are loving. HI, " I am Tane the Tree God. What will you bring to me ? Fruits of all kinds will I take. So ripe, true fruits they be ! Melting pulp — ^.juicy flake — Sweet kernel or bitter — None are better — none fitter — All are grateful to me. But your shell with no lining Though splendidly shining; But your husk with a varnish That nought seems to tarnish ; 132 AUSTRALIAN POETS. If any of these I espy, Empty and hard and dry, That serve but for clamour and clatter Or the genuine fruit to belie ; These cheats will I shiver and shatter And their fragments scornfully scatter, none of them bring to me ! " Pains and ]r)assions — deeds and duties — virtues, vices — gifts and graces — Have not all their value, uses, — in their various fitting places — So they he not false pretences, moclcing masTis for natural faces ? — " There, my sweet one, that is what, Were I Tane (which, thank God ! rm not, Seeing mine's a happier lot,) That is about what I should say, Had I my own, my wondrous way." II. And Amo coming to his side amused, Her smiling eyes with tender love suffused, "How fond, O Eano mine," said she, " Of these dumb things you seem to be ; I shall be jealous soon, I think, And wish myself a tree ! " " A tree, my Amo ! — but I wonder which » which so fair that we might link Such loveliness in fancy with its form ? "Which should be haven for a heart so warm, So sweet a Spirit's dwelling-place ? The Rata-myrtle for its bloom so rich — Or Tree-fern for its perfect grace ? Its slender stem I would embrace ALFRED DOMETT, C.M.G. 133 How fondly ! — Nay, but that would never do — That limbless Tree-fern never should be you, With nothing but a stem and plumy crest ! Ah no ! the glorious Rata-tree were best. With blooming arms that spread around — above ; lliat should be you, my sole delight, My darling bliss ! that so I might Embosomed in embowering beauty rest. And nestle in the branches of my love ! " " Nay — but I would not be," said Amo — " I, That Rata — if the change I had to try ; Rather the snowy Clematis, to twine About the tree I loved ; or rather yet That creeper Fern, with little roots so fine Along its running cords, it seems to get For its gay leaves with golden spots beset Its dearest nurture from the bark whereto It clings so close ; as if its life it drew. Drew all its loving life from that alone — As I from thee, Ranoro, all my own ! " She paused a tender moment — then resumed : " Xay, not the Rata ! howsoe'er it bloomed, Paling the crimson sunset ; for you know, Its twining arms and shoots together grow Around the trunk it clasps, conjoining slow Till they become consolidate, and show An ever-thickening sheath that kills at last The helpless tree round which it clings so fast. Rather, how much rather than destroy The thing 1 loved, the source of all my joy. Would I, my Rano, share the piteous fate The Rata's poor companion must await — Were you the clasper, I the tree that died, That you might flourish in full strength and pride ! " 134 AUSTRALIAN POETS. " Nay — nay — my Amo ! were't to be my doom To clasp you till you perished in your bloom, Neither to misery should be left behind — Together would we be to death consigned — In death, as all through life in love entwined. But now, my lovely Clematis, be gay ! — Though never shall I see that Kata bright, In murderous fondness, fastening round its prey The serpent-folds that hug the friend they slay, Without a sigh for the poor victim's plight ; Without a wish to cut and cleave away The monster throttling what has been his stay ; Without some wonder why the Power divine Includes such pictures in His world's design, And even in the lovely vegetable life Leaves startling models of unnatural strife." THE HAUNTED MOUNTAIN. "Shall we run into the cloudlet, love, so luminous and white, That is crouching up in sunshine there on yonder lofty height ? We could step out of the splendour all at once into the mist — Such a sunny, snowy bower, where a maiden might be kissed ! From the woody lower terrace we could climb the russet steep O'er that chasm gorged with tree-tops still in shadow dewy-deep, Where another slip of vapour, see ! against the purple black, Set ou fire by the sunbeam which has caught it there alone, ALFRED DOMETT, C.M.G. 135 Like a warrior-chief inciting his adherents to attack, Has upreared itself upright with one imperious arm out- thrown ! Up that slope so smooth and ruddy we could clamber to the crags, To the jutting rim of granite where the crouching cloudlet lags : In and out the bright suffusion up above there in the skies, I would follow my fleet darling by the flashing of her eyes, O'er that lofty level summit, as they vanished vapour- veiled. Or would glitter out rekindling, and then glance away to seek, Like swift meteors seen a moment, for some other silver streak — Now be dimmed and now be dazzling till each dodge and double failed, And I caught her — would clasp her ! such delicious vengeance wreak On those eyes — the glad, the grand ones ! on that laughter- dimpled cheek. Till with merciless caresses the fine damask flushed and paled, And half quenched in burning kisses those bewitching lustres quailed ! " " Nay. but Rano, my adored one — my heart and soul's delight !— Scarce with all your love to lead me — fold me round from all affright — "Would I dare ascend that Mountain ! woody cleft and fissure brown Are so thick with evil spirits — it has such a dread renown ! 136 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Such a hideous Lizard-monster in its gloomy shades it screens, That as rugged as the rocks are, winds along the closed ravines — E'en asleep lies with them sinuous like a worm in twisted shell— And has eaten up more people in old days than I can tell ! "Would you go and wake that Taniwha ! not at least to-day : Look how lovely calm the Lake is ! — 'twill be sweeter far to stray In the blue hot brilliant noontide to each secret shadowy ^ay, And afloat on liquid crystal pass tlie happy time away ! " — LILLIE RAYMOND. I THINK ... if you saw in a fairy palace ]"or lamp an Arum as big as a chalice, Wherein its Queen had chanced to imprison One beam caught from the sun new risen — One fine shaft of blinding white And one of tenderest crimson light Flung off at eve on ocean's shore With all the kingly robes he wore ; Could you see their brilliant sheening Mellowed by such intervening Pure, pellucid, pearly screening ; Why then I think . . , but doubt it rather — A faint idea 'twere yours to gather Of the delicate blending of roseate brightness With sweet Lillie Kaymond's diaphanous whiteness ; ALFRED DOMETT, C.M.G. 137 How sweet Lillie Kuymond's fair-blossoming features Shed a halo like some high-beautified creature's ! II. I think ... in an Arab court somewhere — Dark-fringed with plants of bloom most rare And many a leaf from flesh to hair ; Breathing through the trembling heat Many a scent, cool, chymic, sweet — Breathing from that emerald dusk Camphor and lemon, mint and musk ; If, midst the white piazzas set, All marble of Morisco fret, You marked a dainty fountain-jet Singing up in silver splendour, Straight as an arrow, straight and slender ; Then watched a cataract's snowy rope. Lying on a mountain's slope ; Saw the fixed swift-moving veins, Finely-fibred sinuous skeins Of foam in milky mazes wandering, In every curve of grace meandering : Why then I think ... in some doubt . . . you could guess What opposite beauties coalesce, — What rich waves of loveliness mingle in lightness With sweet Lillie Raymond's tall wandlike uprightness; IIow sweet Lillie Raymond's rich figure so fashioned Keeps the gaze never sated. Love ever impassioned ! ni. I think ... if you saw a swan slow-swimming Down a river crystal-brimming — Not swimming, say, all effort hiding, In white glory trance-like gliding ; Then if you saw the swaying grace Of an Emu's stately pace ; 1 38 A USTRA LI A N POETS. And o'er notions gathered thence — Sweet pride and gentle confidence — ■ Could diffuse a subtle sense Of the elastic lively gestures Of slim gazelles in Syrian pastures, When Spring and Love lend double joyance, Each light bound a lighter buoyance ; Why then I think . . . still with a sprinkling Of doubt . . . you might haply get an inkling Of the sprightly erectness and ease so endearing Of sweet Lillie Raymond's fine walk and frank bearing ; How sweet Lillie Raymond in motion and manner Is as graceful and free as an eddying banner ! I think ... if you wove the dazzling notion Of sleek slips of azure ocean, A-gold with sparkles, leaping, linking, Dallying, dancing, trembling, shrinking ; And the cool calm lustre worn By the innocent, breaking morn. When little waves in snow-fringed bands Gently lap the yellow sands ; Could you mix such fair bright things With shy gleams from ravens' wings ; Moon-lit dewdrops shining wet. On ripe black currants' skins of jet ; Or whate'er gives notion fitter Of brilliant blackness, sable glitter : Why then I think . . . no, scarcely can deem Even then you could guess how changefully beam The mingled bewildering bright and dark flaslies Through sweet Lillie Raymond's black curling eyelashes ; How sweet Lillie Raymond's rare glances can fire us Through the glow of black pupil, the gleam of blue iris ! ALFRED DOMETT, CM. (7. 139 I think ... if in wild admiration You ransacked all God's great creation For types of beauty, spirit, sweetness, Fit to paint in clear completeness, This pearl, this darling, this delight, This topmost charm of raptured sight ; Her cheek — the orient cloud-tints' fineness ; Her eyes — a heaven of blue benignness, Darkening to such weird divineness ! Her breath — fresh wallflowers summer-blowing, All her timid true love showing In its quickened coming — going Through lips like crimson corn-bells glowing, In sunset's crimson overflowing ! Those lightening wreaths — swift mantlings gay O'er chin, cheek, many a dimple's play. Lips, eyelids, eyes — her sudden smiles 1 Her careless witcheries, artless wiles ; Her mirth ; her mimic arch simplicities ; Pretty mock pruderies ; feigned rusticities ; Large-hearted sympathies that spring At every tliought of suffering, And run all golden-rippling warm O'er rigid rule and freezing form ! Yes ! if you ransacked all creation To paint this piquant strange temptation, Why then I think . . . and do not doubt it, 'Twere loss of time to set about it ; Fur you never could guess though all types you should tether What sweet Lillie Raymond is like altogether ! — How sweet Lillie Raymond wins, witches, entrances, He only who knows her — knows, pictures, or fancies 1 I40 AUSTRALIAN POETS. A CHRISTMAS HYMN. It was the calm and silent niglat ! — Seven hundred years and jB.fty-threo Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was Queen of land and sea ! No sound was heard of clashing wars ; Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain ; Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars Held undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago ! 'Twas in a calm and silent night ! — - The senator of haughty Rome Impatient urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home ! Triumphal arches gleaming swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away. In the solemn midnight Centuries ago ! Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor : A streak of light before him lay, Fall'n throudi a half-shut stable-door ALFRED DOMETT, C.M.G. 14 r Across his path. He passed — for nought Told what was going on within ; How keen the stars ! his only thought ; The air how calm and cold and thin, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago ! strange indifference ! — low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares : The earth was still — but knew not why ; The world was listening — unawares ! How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world for ever ! To that still moment none would heed, Man's doom was linked no more to sever, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago ! V. It is tlie calm and solemn night I A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness, charmed and holy now ! The night that erst no name had worn To it a happy name is given ; For in that stable lay new-born The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago ! 142 AUSTRALIAN POETS. "LINDSAY DUNCAN." [Mrs. T. C. Cloud, of Wallaroo Bay, South Australia. Has published no volume, but has been a frequent contributor of fine poems to the Australian press.] WHISPERS. ]5eneath a grey old gum-tree A lover was wont to lie, And whisper of love, As he gazed above At its boughs against the sky. " Old tree," he would softly whisper, " My love is the proudest maid That in all thy day, Though thou'rt old and grey, Ever sought thy welcome shade ! Old tree, she is far above me ! My love sits throned in pride, To be worshipped afar Like some pure bright star. Not won as a mortal bride ! Old tree, she is cold and stately. She dwells from my love apart — Though my soul may yearn. Though my bosom may burn, No passion can reach her heart I Old tree, of my life I am weary ! would I had never met "With her fatal face, And her cruel grace — Or would that I might forget ! " LINDSAY DUNCAN. 143 Then the tree would whisper of comfort, In the stir of its myriad leaves — "No soul so sad But may yet be glad, For there's balm for the heart that grieves." Leneath the gnarled old gum-tree A lady was wont to stand, And in sweet caress Its rough rind press With the palm of her dainty hand. E'en her lips would gently touch it — One might deem such a kiss misplaced, But it always fell, As the tree knew well. On the letters his hand had traced. For, like those in the forest of Arden, The tree bore a lady's name, And she'd daily read This woodland screed "With blushes of pride and shame. " Old tree," she would softly whisper, "Does he love me — yes, or no? He has grown so dear, That I hourly fear Lest, unwitting, my love I show I Old tree, with my secret I tremble Whenever my love draws nigh, For I know in my heart Were we kept apart There were nothing left but to die 1 144 AUSTRALIAN POETS. And I dread lest he read my secret Of love that is given unsought, For my heart shall break, If he fail to speak, With the sorrow that he hath wrought. But never, though life be dreary. Will I suffer that he should see, That though no word From his lips I've heard. He is more than the world to me ! " Then the tree would whisper of comfort In the stir of its myriad leaves — " No soul so sad But may yet be glad, For there's balm for the heart that grieves. But all the time it was wond'ring, Deep down in its ancient breast, Why the power of pride Two souls should divide, And true love be unconfest. Perchance the old tree gave wise counsel — Perchance it their whispers betrayed ; But be that as it may, At last came a day When the twain stood hand-clasped in its shade. But no more to the tree they whispered ! Their whispers were each to each. For the veil of pride Had been torn aside, And love had found bliss in speech. LINDSAY DUNCAN. 145 "While the grey old tree was whisp'ring In the stir of its myriad leaves — " No soul so sad But may yet be glad, For there's balm for the heart that grieves." HUSH / The long waves murmur on the lonely shore, Chanting that ancient, rhythmic slumber-song With which they lulled the infant world of yore, And soothed it ceaselessly the ages long. Their tuneful monotone soft solace speaks To weary hearts and overburdened hands ; Do you not hear it, as the ripple breaks In silver foam upon the golden sands 1 — Hush ! Iidand, the tit-lark mounts the lucid air. And faintly quivers forth a fitful strain ; "Wliile distant crickets the low music share. And million-censered wattles on the plain Their subtle, balmy fragrance freely pour Upon the open bosom of the breeze. That bears it to us on the whispering shore, And seems to murmur with the murmuring seas,- Husli ! ! is the world so precious to your heart That you can spare no hour to linger here ] ])o you so love the crowded, noisy mart That you would have its tumult always near 1 Come, slip for once the trammels of the town ; Leave greed and scorn and bitterness behind : K 146 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Fling all your cumbrous load of trouble down, And listen to the wavelets and the wind. — Hush ! Hush ! the red sun dips in the western sea, And in the fading light the stillness grows ; The earth is wrapt in tender mystery ; All nature lies in one sublime repose. A happy sadness fills the soul at rest, Perchance in painless tears its utterance seeks ; For mingling love and wonder have confest, 'Tis God's own voice that through the silence speaks- Hush ! "EUREKA." [John Sheridan, of Toowooiuba, Queensland. Has published no volume, but has been a frequent contributor of poems to the press.] QUEENSLAND. My native land, I sing of thee, Thou glorious land, proud, great, and free j With joy I claim thee as the clime Which gave me birth. land sublime, Be proud, be great, be free all time ! Gem of the Southern world, shine forth In all thy splendour. From the North The stranger comes, — from South, from West, And East, — to thee, land the blest. And finds in thee sweet peace and rest. ''EUREKA." 147 Thy sun is bright, tliy sky is clear, Thy forest trees throughout the year Are decked in smiling, brightest green ; Perennial smiles the verdant scene, As if dull winter had not been. IV. The flowers imported to thy shore Breathe forth in fragrance sweet as yore ; For me thy native birds full well Symphonious vernal breezes swell — To me they sing as Philomel. v. Sweet Queensland, best of lands ! I ween Thou art of all earth's lands the Queen ; Thy charms abound in every grove, Soft zephyrs, lingering, sip thy love, And waft thy praise to spheres above. VI. ! may the music of thy name For ever swell the song of fame ! May Heaven patriot statesmen send, May progress be thy angel-friend, And with proud freedom ever blend ! 148 AUSTRALIAN POETS. DUGALD FERGUSON. [Of Tapanui, Otago, New Zealand ; formerly a sliepherd on the plains of the Darling, New South Wales. Has published a volume, Castle Gay, and oilier Poems (John Mackay, Dunedin, New Zealand, iSSj), from which the poem quoted is taken.] HARD ROWS THE WORLD. Hard rows the world, With its freight of toil and care, With its weary fight of life That ev'ry one must share ; But his lot is hard to bear Who scarce can hold his own, While misfortunes round him stare Till he sinks beneath their frown. Hard rows the world, When once a man is down. Hard rows the world When adversity blows keen ; That chills affection's ties, And leaves mistrust between ; And the loving social scene, With its cheery hearth-side glow. Compelled by fortune mean. The poor must oft forego. Hard rows the world. When its clouds hang dark and low. Hard rows the world To the friendless and the poor. Where virtue, clothed threadbare, Is slighted as obscure ; WILLIAM M. FERRAR. 149 And the soul of feeling pure, From the narrow churlish mind "With its proud slights must endure, By his social bounds confined. Hard rows the world, Yet the poor must bear resigned. Hard rows the world, But the man to honour true, Let fortune smile or frown. Will his even course pursue. "With his bright goal well in view, Strong in the right he'll stand, Though understood by few, Still those a chosen band. Hard rows the world. Yet will worth respect command. WILLIAM M. FERRAR. [Of Ross, Tasmania.] FROM 'M JUBILEE ODE." Neither with Jier, Elizabeth, the brave, Tlie lion-hearted Queen, of virgin charms. Who shattered on the island-girdling wave The might of Spain with England's hosts in arms ; Who, while all kings in solemn awe beholding. Wondering and trembling at tremendous power, Played the pretending lover, her white hands folding Prepared to strike, smiling in Cupid's bower ; — Lost in enchantment, making fools of men, Laughing at tears : her battlemented tower A tower of care indeed : her house a den 1 50 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Of mocking beings : its grim walls arrayed With ghastly heads ! Dread Queen who ruled by fear ! These she and Biron of France surveyed, She hissing — "See hoio we punish traitors here!" Laughing at wisdom, her own wild way pursuing, Her smile a Circe's cap, her frown a terror Of Gorgon- wreathed serpents ; her hands embruing In kindred blood, a sister Queen's ! Sad error, Fatal to future peace. What has fate to show This maiden Queen who once was sweet and fair ; Who from young hands took flowers; whose, tears could flow In tender sympathy, worn to the grave with care A miserable wreck, lately fresh And winning girl ! Let Es^ex cry, with maddening groan, Her heart — one-half indeed was heart of flesh. The other half — of stone ! BAREON FIELD. [A Judge in the High Court of New South Wales. Printed privately at Sydney, in 1819, First-fruits of Australian Poetry ; reviewed by Lamb in Leigh Hunt's Examiner for January 16, 1820. He also published several poems, in his Geographical Memoirs of Ntw South Wales, by several hands (John Murray, 1825).] SONNET. ON VISITING THE SPOT WHERE CAPTAIN COOK AND SIR JOSEPH BANKS FIRST LANDED IN BOTANY BAY. Herb fix the tablet. This must be the place Where our Columbus of the South did land ; He saw the Indian village on that sand, And on this rock first met the simple race Of Austral Indians, who presumed to face ALEXANDER FORBES. 151 With lance and spear liis musket. Close at hand Is the clear stream from which his vent'rous band Kefreshed their ship ; and thence a little space Lies Sutherland, their shipmate ; for the sound Of Christian burial better did proclaim Possession than the flag, in England's name. These were the commelinae Banks first found ; ]]ut where's the tree with the ship's wood-carved fame 1 Fix there the Ephesian brass. 'Tis classic ground. ALEXANDER FOEBES. [Born at Boharn, Aberdeenshire, younger brother of Archibald Forbes, the prince of war correspondents. Educated at the parish school of Boharn (of which place his father was thirty- eight years minister), and at King's College, Aberdeen, where he showed evidence of brilliant promise. His university career had an unfortunate end ; for some youthful folly, either snow- balling or lampooning a crusty professor, he was " sent down." In shame for this youthful mishap, he must needs run away to sea. After voyaging all over the world, he at length settled down in Queensland ; and after a very chequered career, shepherd- ing "up north," reefing on the Morinish gold-field, engaged in the sugar culture in the Mackay District, road-making in Roma and at Mount Abundance, sheep-washing at Toowoomba; at last, worn out by exposure and hard life, he found a rest- ing-place in the graveyard at Toowoomba, Queensland. Author of Voices from the Bush (Jlockhampton, Queensland).] THE SHEPHERD'S GRA VE. On a grassy bank doth the shepherd lie Which the creek's dull waters lave, "Where tlie gum-trees nod to the azure sky, And naught one hears but the curlew's cry, You may see his lonely grave. AUSTRALIAN POETS. In a distant land, long years ago, A tender mother smiled O'er the cradle of him who sleeps below ; And she often, I ween, would a kiss bestow On the lips of her slumbering child. When his father died, in that trouble great, She turned to her sturdy boy, — All ! little she dreamed of his dismal fate ! — And she prayed that he, in her widowed state, Might grow up her hope and joy. Even yet she may think that her boy doth roam ; And her aching heart may burn With hope that again he will seek his home, As she wistfully gazes across the foam For him who will ne'er return. For low and deep doth the shepherd sleep. By the Queensland waters lying ; He hath laid him down in a nameless grave. Where the curlews shriek and the gum-trees wave, And the southern winds are sighing. THE HON. WILLIAM FOESTER. [New South Wales is rich in public men who have displayed literary and poetic talents. Parkes, Forster, Lang, Dalley, Martin, and others have all shown themselves clever writers, as well as successful members of Parliament. Mr. William Forster, some time Premier of New South Wales, was a brilliant example. He was born in Madras in 1818, but arrived in Australia in his eleventh year. His public career was very remarkable, but THE HON. WILLIAM FORSTER. 153. he always held a high place as a jmirnalist, miscellaneous writer, sonneteer, satirist, and poet. His sonnets written in Sydney during the Crimean War are the most widely known of Anti- podean sonnets. It was during his residence in England as Agent-General for his colony that Mr. Forster published "The Weir- Wolf : a Tragedy" and other poems. He was author also of " The Brothers " and " Midas," the latter pub- lished posthumously. He died a few years ago.] SONNETS WRITTEN AT THE TIME OF THE CRIMEAN WAR. Ah me ! the world's a vault that history paves With buried nations. Egypt's awful bones Are blanched in deserts. Hark ! the dulcet tones Of Asian winds come whispering over graves ! Greece only melts us as with odorous breath Of churchyard flowers that make a friend of death. Fair Italy in hollow accents raves, Mingling reproach with anguish, as a ghost Complains 'mid scenes in life she loved the most, And Poland like a prisoned spirit sighs ! Far off how many a dusky nation lies. Deep hid in woods, or in oblivion lost. Oh, Heaven ! the end — shall this be ever so 1 And whither these have y the toils which made you weary, which your doubtful days depressed, "Was your evening leisure sweetened, sweeter fell your nightly rest. Happy were ye then returning from the trouble and the strife, "When the sacred hour of rest and freedom smiled upon your life ; "When ye read the precious charter of release from labour done. In the files of friendly shadows lengthening from the level sun. In the sunset's crimson glory, in the twilight's tender charm. In the coolness closing like the pressure of a loving arm, In the birds' sweet evensong, the headlong bat's bewilder- ing flight. In the sober-tinted mountains, blackening with the breath of night. When the sweltering brightness and exhausting glare of anxious day. Sinking in the lap of silence, melted gradually away. 156 AUSTRALIAN POETS. And amid the soft sad light and glimmer of the golden dew Many a common shape transfigured to diviner beauty grew, And transmuted by your fond desires the discord and the noise Toned down softly to melodious murmuring of domestic joys, And diviner beauty still was woven with the witching time, And diversities of discords closed in harmony sublime ; As the sense of gentle welcomes beaming from beloved eyes Shot like prophecies of Heaven across the silence of the skies, And the whisper of home voices, like enchanted music heard In Elysian dreams of poets, in the faithful memory stirred ; And each saw, or thought he saw, the sparkle of his hearth afar. Out of the predominant darkness creep like a familiar star. Thus upon your quiet lives shed joy and love their peace- ful beams, Haunted by no dismal shadows, heated by no frantic dreams. Happy were ye, for whatever blessings by the gods were sent Sprang like seeds from fertile soils and fruited in your full content. And the bolts of evil, by the genius of your days con- trolled, O'er your heads like harmless thunder in unmeaning menace rolled. Happy, for though worn and weary, yet by conscious pride sustained, By no patron's leave encumbered, by no tyranny restrained ; THE HON. WILLIAM FORSTER. 157 "What ye earned your own strong arms had manfully and nobly won, Whatsoever tasks accomplished by your own free will were done. Then ye led the lives of heroes, conquering nature by your toil, Spreading still your blest dominion over the transmuted soil. Conquering, as the gods themselves once conquered when the noxious brood Of Hell-gendered monsters by their heavenly labours were subdued. FROM MIDAS. Cho7'us. Hither walks the winsome stranger, Loved of all for godlike ways, Ah ! what maiden free from danger On that glorious face shall gaze 1 Welcome ! thou sublime new-comer ! Towards thee every heart inclines ; Shine upon us like a summer Shining on a hill of vines ! Look, where'er his step advances All around him kindles bright, From his warm creative glances Floats an atmosphere of light. Happier seems the world and fairer, Music breathes and beauty beams, As when some high message-bearer Sheds his presence on our dreams. Tones and pulses of creation Chime on his harmonious pace, 158 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Earth and sky take consecration From the beauty of his face. As from gods in ancient story, Fly before him fear and woe, In his eyes a golden glory, On his cheeks a rosy glow. On his brow, serene and holy, Dwells a high religious calm, Joy that blends with melancholy — Mixed as in a marriage-psalm. Balmy breezes waft him over, As when round some new-born star Mystic airs and odours hover, Preluding its path afar. Faint as tones that memory traces, Their melodious murmurs roll. Scarce we feel them in our faces Ere they thrill the conscious soul. On his track the people follow, Like the scattered clouds that run In the red horizon's hollow, Kindled by the coming sun. Surely something more than human In his wondrous presence charms : Was he born of mortal woman 1 — Did some god's enamoured arms, Wandering earthward, fancy-laden. With predominant will divine Clasp in love a mortal maiden. Fathering an immortal line 1 Welcome, still, thou blithe new-comer ! Whether man or god thou be ; Welcome, as a breath of summer Simmering on the polar sea. THE HON. WILLIAM FORSTER. 159 FROM MIDAS. Happiest who the soul's ideal Still through farthest flights pursuo, For to them their dreams are real, And their fondest faith is true ; Dim and indistinct though be all, Heights of Heaven they keep in view. ! let us continue dreaming— Let for us the golden haze Wrap in rich and glorious seeming All that's left of lovely days, As through western windows streaming Stretch the sunset's lingering rays. What we learn through love's revealing Never out of memory dies, Many a flash of sudden feeling Floats its message from the skies ; Through our griefs come softly stealing Glimpses as of godlike eyes. FROM MIDAS. Our existence must we measure By the flight of years or days 1 Look what portion most we treasure, Ah ! how brief a time it stays ! Always when we're least at leisure Pass we through the blissful ways. l6o AUSTRALIAN POETS. Great events alone be reckoned, Let the passion and the power Stamp itself on every second, Making ages of an hour. In our front by them we're beckoned, From behind they grandly tower. Great events our souls enlighten, Piercing through the haze of time ] Past they still in interest heighten By the shadows made sublime. As the stars grow clear and brighten To the zenith as they climb. But our infinite apprehensions Always great and small confound, Foolish hopes and vain pretensions Fog-like our horizon bound. Until Time their right dimensions Takes in his eternal round. There are hopes and dreams that die not, Colours ever bright and pure. Voices from of old that lie not, Lives which their own lives ensure, Joys o'er which we groan and sigh not, Since, though gone, they still endure : So this hour, whose bitter ending Racks our hearts with fatal strain. Shall appear through memory blending. Purged of life's ephemeral pain ; And to stars serene ascending Shine among them not in vain. THE HON. WILLIAM FORSTER. i6r FROM MIDAS. 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 Avaxes 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 tlie veins Aud strengthen the steps of age. L l62 A USTRA LI A N POETS. Love takes the taint of years, And beauty disappear?, But wine in worth matures The longer it endures, And more divinely cheers, And ripens with the suns and mellows with the spheres. KASSANDRA. I KNOW they never heed me, when mine eyes Forecast some awful horoscope, and pierce The eternal haze that wraps the ages round, And shrouds from mortal vision — when my voice, Constrained to sad prediction by the woes That in my breast accumulate and throb, By the deep pain that gnaws me at the heart. And by resistless impulse of the God Who moves me to be true, and smites me hard. And will not suffer me to keep it in ; Makes vocal what I cannot choose but know, And think, and see before me, and express, Portrayed in dismal pictures — how they hiss And hoot me in the streets, and laugh, and jeer ! " There goes the mad Kassandra " is the cry Of many that molest not, but pass on Indifferent, or insensible, or weak. But mobs pursue me with disdainful yells, And threatening gestures, and indignant breath, Which trouble me to pity, not to wrath, For theirs is wisdom, if indeed it be Wisdom at all, then wholly of this world, To wisdom leaning less, to folly more ; And what such deem of me, by God inspired. THE HON. WILLIAM FORSTER. 163 lu their mad ignorance and unseemly scorn, Were fit to draw down pity from the gods Who suffer long the follies of mankind But curse them in the end — and I can see Their curses in the skies, and on the clouds, Can read them written in the shining stars — The horror and the ruin that await !^[y people, and my kindred, and the sons And daughters of my father, and the towers Of this imperial city, and her race Of brave and haughty nobles, valiant sons And lovely daughters, and her ancient throne. Stout citizens and stalwart artisans. And this foreknowledge, Avhich to me was given For their advantage, not for mine, to warn Them, reckless of their danger, profits not, Because they neither hear nor comprehend. Alas ! the more they threaten and revile The more I weep, the more I am constrained To warn and preach, to threaten and protest, Expostulate and solicit and exhort, And strive to move them with my sighs and tears And waste myself in woeful prophecies. The many hate me, but the few despise. Nor from my brethren nor my father's house, From parents or from sisters, have I help Or sympathy, or auglit but sullen looks, Or sneers, or dire upbraiding, or contempt. The few in their indifference are sublime. And hold themselves aloof in unbelief. And selfish coldness and unreal trust. They care not what the doom my lips proclaim, Because it is a nation's, not their own, And their own part in it but little felt, So strong their sense of insignificance. i64 AUSTRALIAN POETS. So small their portion seems, and so remote, I^or chink nor corner in their narrow souls, Nor place for thought the public welfare finds, 'Nov intuition of the general woe Awakens fear, or trouble, or mistrust. But in the many do my words instil A secret fear and indistinct belief. Which cannot be got rid of or gainsaid. Or put away from knowledge, but which haunts Them like a spectre they have never seen. But not the less, though forudess, felt and feared. And these despise me not because they fear. Thus I'm forsaken of all human love. All human sympathy and brotherhood; Thus, like a creature from another sphere, Alien, and isolated, and alone, I walk amid the herd of men, and live A separate, cold, and uncongenial life, Fulfilling horrid duties, and oppressed With this hard burden of prophetic sight, Which still clings to me, still enciimbers me, And which I cannot lighten or shake off. Thus among populous cities I'm alone, Alone among their hurrying multitudes, Alone in darkness, more alone in light ; For smiles are foreign to my face, and tears, Like fountains poured down from the heaped-up years Plough never-ending furrows in my cheeks. And night and day are conscious of my groans, And night and day the fury rends my frame, And night and day the mystic voices speak, I am the "Mad Kassandra." Would indeed That I were mad and happy, so I were Unconscious of my sad pre-eminence ! How often have I prayed? for I'm not proud — ISABELLA COCKDURN GILES. 165 AVho could indeed possess it and be proud 1 Of this so fatal melancholy gift — How often have I prayed the cruel gods To take it back again, and make me dull And blind to what is coming, and once more A common daugliter of the sons of men. ISABELLA COCKBURN GILES. [Of North Adelaide, South Australia. The Jubilee referred to below is that of South Australia, which was proclaimed a colony on December 28, 1S37, under an old gum-tree at Glenelg, South Australia.] A JUBILEE HYMN. God of the Nations, hear our song of praise ! Almost the youngest 'mid the lands are we, Yet time, slow-circling on through hours and days, Now brings to us our Year of Jubilee. Hear us, Lord, in heaven Thy dwelling-place, And on the hearts that praise Thee shed Thy grace. When from their Northern homes our fathers came. Seeking a country, like the men of yore — Leaving behind them friends and dreams of fame — To cast their anchor on this distant shore ; Thou, their God, from heaven Thy dwelling-place. Didst then behold, and guide them by Thy grace. Goodly and large the land before them lay, From far blue hills outspread to azure sea. And it became a nation's on the day Our fathers, gathered round a hoary tree. Took up the task assigned them by Thy grace To found on these fair shores a mighty race. 1 66 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Heavy their labours, both of brain and hand, To organise the State and tame the soil ; Unchecked by hardship was that stalwart band, Brave hearts, they faltered not at any toil ; Thus, through their courage, and Thine aiding grace, The infant State took life, and grew apace. And now a fair white city crowns the rise, Glassing her beauties in the lake below ; Whilst far and wide, beneath these favouring skies. Glad homesteads smile, and earth's bright trophies glow. So, bounteous Lord, from heaven Thy dwelling-place. Hast Thou enriched and blest us by Thy grace. Thou in the past hast helped us ; stretch out still Thy mighty hand. In this our Jubilee Grant us the grace supreme to do Thy will. We shall be greatest when we best serve Tliee, And win amongst the nations honoured place As we shall keep Thy laws and seek Thy face. FRANCES TYRRELL GILL. [A Victorian. Has never published a volume, but has been a constant contributor to the press, and has written some of the most beautiful poems which have appeared in Australian periodicals.] BEYOND THE SHADOWS,— LIGHT. Stealeth sweetly from the river Through the street the summer breeze, Hither sent by God, the giver Both of peace and care ; He sees FRANCES TYRRELL GILL. 167 That we faint 'neath burdens heavy : nearer gleam the angel hands ; Smiles of welcome on dear faces ; cool and sweet the shadow-lands. Faint and low my soul was drifting All confused 'twixt wrong and right ; "When in latter days uplifting "Wearied eyes, to where the light Floods the eventide ; I then saw, faintly formed in dreamy air, Climes, in which life seemed as grand as ever sought in purest prayer. Damp and pale thy brow, my brother, Death's drear voice calls thee away : On this earth I have no other Friend ; but through — all through to-day I have known thy hours are numbered, — see, I weep no passionate tears ! Clod by this new patience tells me, needless are my trembling fears. Dearest ! I, beside thee kneeling. While thy soul is lingering yet. See that earth hath been revealing God to us. Thou may'st forget, "Wlien the grand days spread before thee, that we 'midst this mortal air Learned, though dimly, truths eternal, side by side, to perfect there. Tired, my hnnds now cease from braiding This rich garment : 'twas to gain Food and wine, to liring the fading Life to thy loved form again. 1 68 A USTRA LI A N POE TS. All too late, and all so useless ! Yet my heart is strangely calm : Faded now its fitful fever — learning this far grander psalm. See, I draw aside the curtain From the casement brown and old ; Trembleth here the light uncertain, Shadows deep our room enfold. Let me raise thee from the pillow : earth seems yet so wondrous fair — Sunlight sweet on far fields falling, e'en though seen through mists of care. Past tall roofs the river gleametli ; Down the bank with trees o'erhung Slowly lovers ride — one seemeth Soft to speak the tale oft sung ; Reineth in his steed's arched neck, and bendeth low his youthful head, — Dreams like these once tilled my soul before sweet hope of life lay dead ! See, they ride into the hollow, 'Midst the shadow cool and deep ; Day is sweet, and night will follow, Bringing the still, dreamless sleep I Strangely mingled joys and sorrows, on this fair bewild'ring earth ! Thou and I wait in Death's shadow, — from the street come sounds of mirth ! And, perchance, when I to-morrow Upward look through depths of blue. In this stillness I may borrow Comfort from the thought that throu^jh FRANCES TYRRELL GILL. 169 Summer warmth and light and brilliance thy soul lingers mine to meet, When my tired limbs rest for ever, when my pulse shall cease to beat. Look, dear, on this strange sweet painting Where the Christ doth patient stand — Though we've been with hunger fainting, This was treasured still, — the hand Gifted with such wondrous cunning ages since hath turned to dust ; Yet this work remains a token of the power he held in trust. Taking these attempts unfinished (Faint beginnings here of life), There, Avhere trials are diminished. Work again ! Our memories rife With sweet sights and sounds of this fair earth : soft shadows fall On the far-off hills, and night steals near ; and tell me, is this all ? Clear, thine eyes now see the dawning Of thy grand eternal day ; Nay, I will not sit here mourning, Blaming God for my brief stay. Yet some days I'll watch the shadows of the tall house on the street, Thinking still of long past times, until the glad hour when we meet. Kind hands brought these roses hither, Richest red and purest white ; Going where they do not wither. Take one, for in fields of light I70 AUSTRALIAN POETS. 'Twill recall this earth ; and, when thou com'st to meet me, in thy hand Bring this rose Thy lips are still ! thy soul hath glided to the Land ! THE DIFFERENCE. A MONTH ago to-day since you died ; Thick clusters of blossom I place on your tomb. Five weeks to-day since you stood by my side, And showed me the first faint almond-bloom ; It passed in a week from flower to leaf — Can my world have changed in a time so brief 1 You have gone from the earth that you loved so well, And the sky to-day is so deeply blue ; You have left the walks and the ways of life, And the light is so fair on that far-off view Of the sea that you loved. Yet this dumb great pain Like a weight on my heart through each day hath lain. The swallows are cleaving the soft, warm air ; They are building to-day their last year's nest ; You always stood to watch them — there — In your favourite place that looks to the west. Yet the world seems to go on just the same. As though Death were nothing, or only a name ! And the spring is coming so fast this year ; In the fresh, wild winds I can almost see The branches blowing into bud, and near Can feel the awakening life in tree And flower, through the rush of the midnight rain, Yet through all, this deadening Aveight of pain ! FRANCES TYRRELL GILL. 171 I know there is more e'en yet to be borne, For the days will pass, and the roses will bloom ; The deepening flush of the early dawn. With the lengthening light, will steal through the room. But the anguished cry of my soul, "Thou art gone," Will but keener grow with each summer's morn. And the breeze, alive with the breath of the sea, Will come sweeping again through the quaint old street : How you used to say that each rustling tree Was filled with the song that the sea-breeze fleet Had brought from the heart of the sea to the air : But, ah ! you may not remember there. \Miy, the silent house is echoing still With the tones of the voice it knew so well, And the books you loved still send a thrill Because of your fingers' touch, which fell So oft on each poet-page, while the rare Words softly floated on the listening air. And they tell me for comfort you've gone to God ; As though God were more there than here. Why, just to watch the way that you trod, More than of any promise made clear That God dwells in the soul, whose stainless days Are sweet in His sight as a hymn of praise. And we are not, they say, too far apart For you, all unseen, to approach again ; Nor too far, Avhen I stand with despairing heart, For your unfelt touch to soothe my pain ; Nor with unheard speech, from your fulness of light, Too far, as of old, to show me tlie right. AUSTRALIAN POETS. But yet — ah, me ! what a gulf betAveen The warm human touch of the living hand And this remote and shadowy sheen Of a love still felt in the spirit-land, Between the living love of the olden tone, And this spirit-speech made faintly known ! Yet I cannot tell, for your soul may yearn With such wealth of love for the weal of mine, That, drawn by you, I at length may learn E'en here, to reach higher and nearer to thine. But I only know you're beyond my call, And that, for these present days, is all in all. SPRING'S MESSENGERS IN AUSTRALIA. Eve winds awake the crocus-flower, The faint narcissus dares unfold Her face uncaring of the cold ; As though in dream she heard the shower, And breathed the sunshine of that hour The roses may behold. And change the dear birds' voices tell — As new song takes new form of rhyme — ■ Not these the notes of winter's clime That now, with brief and sudden swell At dawn, the lengthening day foretell. And pleasant nesting-time ! Night through, the fierce storm holds its way ; With morn the almond-blossom blows ; Fair blooms ! ye bravely do unclose. FRANCES TYRRELL GILL. 173 To meet or rain or sun, and sway Your slender branches to the play Or rage the wild wind knows. loud-voiced wind — (for now we hear Still other tunes within thy song Than storm resounding loud and long) — Thon, as the next Day draweth near To eve, dost fold thy wings, and clear And low dost flute along The pathways of the Night so sweet An air we cannot choose but list ! What though the morn bring back the mist, Or troubled waves in strife should meet 1 Again those spirit-tones shall greet Our ears, although we wist Not all their speech ; nor are aware AVhat from beneath the sunset's glow The viewless voyageur may show. A something doth possess the air, That through the earlier day did wear A look of unshed snow ! — A something far too fleet and fine For naming. Yet it still may bo, Unseen, the fair Persephone May yearly seek an alien shrine ; And her charmed breath may be the sign To wake for flower and tree. 174 AUSTRALIAN POETS. KEIGHLEY GOODCHILD. [A Victorian by birth, son of John Goodchild, librarian of Echuca. Is a pressman. Has published a little volume entitled lllio are You? (Advertiser Office, Echuca), and has another volume in preparation. Writes under the nom-de-plume of Keighley.] WAIFS WEDDING. There's a hush of Sabbath about the place, The puddlers' horses are all at rest, The children for once are clean of face, And the diggers are dressed in their Sunday best — ■ Then a sound of music sweeps o'er the land — 'Tis the martial strains of the Coketown band. It seems determined to shine to-day, And silence for ever the doubters' sneers, As with mighty lungs the members play, And the air is cleft with the children's cheers. And it must be owned that it does look smart As it drives through the Lead in Watson's cart. No work is done in the town to-day — Indeed the feeling has been so strong. That Ah Yap has been soused in some puddler's clay, By Cockney Billy and Tony Long — For the heathen no-saveed the great event, And to-day to his work as usual went. The children were out since the early dawn. To gather the flow'rs of the heath and broom. The bright blue-bells (the eyes of Morn), And the wattle-spray with its sweet perfume ; For the wedding of Waif takes place to-day, And the flow'rs are gathered to strew the wa}'. KEIGHLEY GOODCHILD. 175 IIow strangely the digger-folks are clad ! What coats come out of a style antique ! The finery almost makes one sad, For of poverty deep it seems to speak ; And the rusty razor has left its trace In bright red lines on the digger's face, Tlie children are marshalled two by two, And follow old Jessop, the leader bold (And the sight brings a strange unwonted dew To the eyes of men who are worn and old) ; And they march through the streets of the joyous town, To where "VVaif is awaiting her woman's crown. Old Torke, with a mixture of grief and joy, Stands ready to give the bride away — For happiness ever has some alloy ; 'Tis a run of gold through a bed of clay — And with weddings there must be a sense of doubt As to how the wedding may yet turn out. IIow lovely Waif looks in her bridal veil ! How the glistening tears become her cheeks ! And Charley looks well, though he's rather pale, As the all-important words he speaks ; And the pastor blesses the handsome pair, And adds to his blessing a silent prayer. Then out through the church, now hand in hand, As in future they'll travel the path of life. They pass through the porch where the children stand Strewing flow'rs for the path of the new-made wife — And the band strikes up, playing " Cheer, Boys, Cheer," Having strengthened its corporate lungs with beer. 176 AUSTRALIAN POETS. And there we will leave her, for all unknown, Save to wives themselves, are their joys or cares ; The peasant or queen upon her throne Makes or mars her life when the veil she wears — • Yet with youth and love, on the wedding-day Heaven don't seem quite so far away. TOO LATE. The sun went down with a crimson glow. At Fossicker's Lead on Johnson's Flat ; And the waters of Johnson's Creek were low, Where the sturdy craw-fishing children sat. The barefooted girls drove the goats along, And carefully tended the humble stock ; And the notes were hushed of the axe's song. And the sounds of the creaking cradles' rock. And where the fires of the burning-ofF Shone like fallen stars on her father's land, Young Walter Huntly and Mary Gough, On a fallen log sat hand in hand. The traces of tears were on her cheek, And her brow was drawn into lines of care. As she listened to what the youth might speak. With a growing sense of a dark despair. " Mary," he said and his voice was hoarse — For he pitied the girl he had led astray — " I am sure what I've said is the wisest course — What folly 'twould be on the Lead to stay ! KEIGHLEY GOODCHILD. 177 Look np, my love, with a pleasant smile — Let me kiss from your eyes those glist'ning gems — • I feel I am certain to make my pile, From the news that has come from the splendid Thames 1 I'll come for you, darling, indeed I will, As soon as I see that my way is clear. Come, dry your tears — what ! weeping still 1 You know you are mine, what need you fear 1 " And when next the sun in its glory shone On the drowsy creek and deserted claim. From the worn-out Lead the youth had gone. And the girl was left in her tears and shame. O ! weary the waiting week after week As her face grew haggard and wan and thin ! ! crimson the flush on her sunken cheek, "When a careless word seemed to hint her sin ! O I weary the watching day after day, ! dreary the toil of the joyless life — No beaming smile for the children's play — Their tongues could wound like the sharpest knife. And night after night, with hope deferred, She sleeplessly wept for the absent man, And yearned for the loving and tender word, That should save her through life from the social ban. Time came when the trouble could not be hid, And she fled at the sound of a father's curse ; God pardon the man for what he did ! — Thus driving the girl from bad to worse. M AUSTRALIAN POETS. And it chanced on the day that an infant-form To the heart of a mother brought sad relief, That a ship went down in a fearful storm, Having struck in the night on a sunken reef. And one there was on that ship, who came In haste to atone for a wrong he had done — But the sorrowing girl he was not to claim — He sank, Aveighed down with the gold he'd won. Some wrongs are righted, of course, we know. But it's playing with Satan, with Hell at stake, To think we can sin without causing woe. Or shall live reparation in full to make ! And the girl who once was a lovely lass — A pretty bush-flower to delight the eye — Now prowls the street 'neath the glaring gas, And looks for her prey in the passers-by. And if asked where the Devil finds most recruits To people the vast domains of Hell, I should say from the ranks of the selfish brutes Who flatter the conscience by meaning well TOO GOOD TO FIGHT. "We come of a goodly race — The finest the world has seen — With a hatred of all things base, And a loathing of all things mean ; But this world is a world of change. And we're proud of our stronger light, And the ways of our sires were strange — We are growing too good to fight. KEIGHLEY GOODCHILD. 179 But with something of sad regret, I look back on the primitive man, Whose body was firmly set, And who lived in a fighting clan. "We're wiser, perhaps, than he. And our knowledge is far more bright ; But I'd like just for once to see Those men who could dare to fight. Our weapon's the slanderous tongue, And words that are worse than blows Have succeeded the gauntlet flung. Or the blow on a foeman's nose ; And there's something I think we've lost In this beautiful age of peace, And we pay at a fearful cost That the war of the world shall cease. Now the cowards alone are brave, In their own despicable way ! We tolerate rogue and knave, And the dogs are having their day ; And women may be defamed By whoever may choose to write, And mothers and maids be shamed — We are growing too good to fight. No champions have wo now, To fight for the weaker's cause — The tyranny we allow Is protected by costly laws ; And the doctrine of love alone. And forgiveness for numerous times, Makes the wretched to starve and groan, And covers the earth with crimes. l8o AUSTRALIAN POETS. And the spirit of tolerance wins, For it fits with our slavish fears ; And we each have onr own pet sins, So we carefully close our ears ; And the helpless may shriek for aid 'Gainst Mammon's tremendous might, And although we are not afraid, We are really too good to fight. It's Ho ! for the springy heath, Down under a bright blue sky ; And the words — " You lie in your teeth 1 " Then smiting both hip and thigh. Now the vent is the hateful law For the righteous anger of man. We settle disputes with jaw — Maybe 'tis the wisest plan. And peace has a lovely charm, And we've heard of the coals of fire — You shall not let the strong do harm, Is something I more admire. In the matter of turning the cheek One can act as it seemeth right, But when in defence of the weak 'Twere an excellent thing to fight. ADAM LINDSAY GOKDON. Vide Introduction, the most popular of Australian poets, son of Captain Adam Gordon ; was born at Fayal, one of the Azores, in 1833, and educated at Cheltenham College (where his father was teacher of Oriental languages), Woolwich, and Oxford, Went to Adelaide in the ship Julia in August 1853, and while on the voj'age wrote the "Exile's Farewell," quoted below. Lived chiefly in the Mount Gambier District of South Australia ADAM LINDSAY GORDON. iSi as a mounted trocper, &c. ; was elected to the South Austra- lian Parliament for the district of Victoria, and sat 1865-6. Went to Victoria, and lived at ^lelbourne and Ballarat from 1866 till his suicide at Brighton, Victoria, 24th June 1870. Was the most famous amateur steeplechase rider in the Colonies, and while in Melbourne published his poems, "Sea-Spray and Smoke-Drift" (1S67), "Aslitaroth " (1867), and "Bush Ballads" (1S70), which have since been collected into one volume. Many of his poems appeared in the Australasian. Would have been represented as fully as Kendall had not the holders of the copyright of his volume demanded a prepos- terous charge for each poem included, thus depriving Gordon of his proper place in such a volume. The "Exile's Farewell " is the property of Mr. Bentley, and the fragment belongs to the proprietors of the Argus and Australasian, to which papers the editor tenders his best thanks for courteous help in the compilation of this work. " D. Mackay " (Wodonga) writes : — " I enclose an unfinished poem of A. L. Gordon's which appeared in the Australasian after bis death. I have not seen this fi-agment in any of the editions of the poems, nor heard any allusion to it by enthusi- astic admirers, I have, therefore, come to the conclusion that it is almost unknown, and would be glad to see it inserted in your next issue. ] UNFINISHED POEM BY THE LATE A. L. GORDON. All night I've heard the marsh-frog's croak, The jay's rude matins now prevail, The smothering fire of bastard oak Now bhizes freshened by the gale ; And now to eastward far away Beyond the range a tawny ray Of orange reddens on the grey, And stars are waning wan and pale. We mustered once when skies were red, Nine leagues from here across the plain, And when the sun broiled overhead Rode with wet heel and wanton rein. AUSTRALIAN POETS. The wild scrub cattle held their own, I lost my mates, my mates fell blown ; Night came, I slept here all alone : At sunrise riding on again, I heard yon creek's refrain. Can this be where the hovel stood ? Of old I knew the spot right well : One post is left of all the wood, Three stones lie where the chimney fell. Rank growth of ferns has well-nigh shut From sight the ruins of the hut. There stands the tree where once I cut The M that interlaced the L — What more is left to tell 1 Ay, yonder in the blackwood shade, The wife was busy with her churn ; The sturdy sun-burnt children played In yonder patch of tangled fern. The man was loitering to feed His flock on yonder grassy mead : And where the wavelet threads the weed I saw the eldest daughter turn, The stranger's quest to learn. Shone, gold-besprinkled by the sun, Her wanton wealth of back-blown hair. Soft silver ripples danced and spun All round her ankles bright and bare. My speech she barely understood. And her reply was brief and rude, Yet God, they say, made all things good At first, that He made fair. ADAM LINDSAY GORDON. 1S3 [Note. — The manuscript here is rather blurred and indistinct, and probably the author's words are not accurately copied, as the sense is rather vague.] She bore a pitcher in her hand Along that shallow, slender streak Of silver-coated shelving sand, That splits two channels of the creek ; She plunged it where the current whirls. Then poised it on her sunny curls ; Waste water decked with sudden pearls Her glancing arm and glowing cheek — What more is left to speak ? It matters not how I became The guest of those who lived here then ; I now can scarce recall the name Of this old station ; long years, ten Or twelve it may be, have flown past, And many things have changed since last I left the spot, for years fly fast, And heedless boys grow haggard men Ere they the change can ken. The spells of those old summer days With glory still the passes deck. The sweet green hills still bloom and blaze With crimson, gold, and purple fleck. For these I neither crave nor care, And yet the flowers perchance are fair As when I twined them in her hair, Or strung them chainwise round her neck — What now is left to reck ? The pure, clear streamlet undefiled Durgles * the flowery upland yet ; * ? Gurgles through. iS4 AUSTRALIAN POETS. It lisps and prattles like a child, And laughs and makes believe to fret O'erflowing rushes rank and high ; And on its dimpled breast may lie The lizard and the dragon-fly. [Note. — The manuscript, which is carelessly written and un- revised, abruptly leaves off here.] AN EXILE'S FAREWELL. The ocean heaves around us still With long and measured swell, The autumn gales our canvas fill, Our ship rides smooth and well. The broad Atlantic's bed of foam Still breaks against our prow ; I shed no tears at quitting home, Nor will I shed them now. II. Against the bulwarks on the poop I lean and watch the sun Eehind the red horizon stoop — His race is nearly run. Those waves will never quench his light, O'er which they seem to close ; To-morrow he will rise as bright As he this morning rose. ADAM LINDSAY GORDON. 185 How brightly gleams the orb of day Across the trackless sea ! How lightly dance the waves that play Like dolphins in our lee ! The restless waters seem to say In smothered tones to me, How many thousand miles away My native land must be. IV. Speak, ocean ! Is my home the same, Now all is new to me ? The tropic sky's resplendent flame, The vast expanse of sea ? Does all around her, yet unchanged, The well-known aspect wear? ! can the leagues, that I have ranged, Have made no difference there 1 V. How vivid Recollection's hand Recalls the scene once more ! 1 see the same tall poplars stand Beside the garden-door ; I see the bird-cage hanging still, And where my sister set The flowers in the window-sill — Can they be living yet 1 Let woman's nature cherish grief, I rarely heave a sigh, i86 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Before emotion takes relief In listless apathy, WTiile from my pipe the vapours curl Towards the evening sky, And 'neath my feet the billows whirl In dull monotony ! VII. The sky still wears the crimson streak Of Sol's departing ray ; Some briny drops are on my cheek — 'Tis but the salt sea-spray ! Then let our bark the ocean roam, Our keel the billows plough, I shed no tears at quitting home, Nor will I shed them now. AETHUE GEEEN. [Of Windarra, Lauuceston, Tasmania. Has published a volume entitled Rose-leaves.^ THE ANGEL-REAPER'S CHOICE. An angel-reaper, with a two-edged sword So keen and bright, Stood pensive in the garden of the Lord But yesternight. The sword was drawn, yet on the angel's face A radiant smile Played sweetly, though half veiled by just a trace Of sadnes-s, while ARTHUR GREEN. 1S-7 Fondly she gazed o'er bud and blossom near, Then far and wide, As if she sought one bloom more sweet, more dear, Than all beside. Two rosebuds grew upon one parent stem. The angel stood And lingered lovingly awhile to gaze on them — They seemed so good. Both spotless white, and pure as morning dew, But one if aught Of greater sweetness. This the angel knew Was what she sought ; A lovely blossom fairer than the rest In earth's rich store. And meet to lay upon the Saviour's breast For evermore. Then swiftly, tenderly, with snow-white wings, Through heav'n's blue dome She bore her treasure to the King of kings, To home — sweet home, r.ut from the garden, with the early morn, A sigh so great Arose — earth seemed (though but one flower was gone) So desolate. Tho night winds wafted upward and afar A long, low moan, When high in heav'n above a new bright star Shone out alone ; And from that star a little angel cried, " Come unto me," While golden harps resounded far and wide Sweet sympathy. AUSTRALIAN POETS. HENRY HALLOEAN, C.M.G. [Of Mowbray, Ashfield,, near Sydney, New South Wales, the patri- arch of Australian poets. According to Henniker Heaton's Dic- tionary of Australian Dates, born at Cape Town, April 6, l8ii, where his father was then Chaplain to the Forces and Rector of the Grammar-School. After passing some years in England, came out to New South Wales, and in 1S27 entered the Survey Department, continuing in tlie Civil Service of New South Wales until 1876, by which time he had risen to be Principal Under-Secretary. Retired in 1878, on a pension, after fifty-one years' service. Has written many pieces of poetry, which have from time to time appeared in the Colonial press, and published a volume, Poems, Odes, Songs. Sydney : Turner & Henderson, 1887.] A LOVE-LYRIC. I WISH thou wert a stem of roses, And I a golden bee, to sip The honey-dew that now reposes In Lahny kisses on thy hp. I wish thine eyes were violets blue, And I a wandering western breeze, To press thee with my wings of dew, And melt them into ecstasies ! I wish thou wert a golden curl. And I the myrtle- wreath that bound it ; I wish thou wert a peerless pearl. And I the casket to surround, it ! I wish thou wert a lucid star, And I the atmosphere about thee ! But if we must be as we are. Dearest, I cannot live without thee. HENRY HALLORAN, C.M.G. STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. Little Eddy ! little Eddy, through the watches of the niglit Does my tortured heart turn to thee in its anguish and affiright ; And I see thee starkly lying with the foam upon thy lips, And thy beauty fading, fading in Death's terrible eclipse. Little Eddy ! little Eddy, yet upon thy brow there lies Such a look of quiet transport as is worn beyond the skies ] Didst thou in that fatal moment look the veil's dim mystery through, Winning to that angel forehead something of the blissful view 1 Something that to aching bosoms should this consolation give, "Where the Shepherd leads His loved ones does our little lamb still live ; In the sweet green pastures resting, where the living waters flow, Does he live whom we so wildly, vainly weep for here below. But that little chair is empty — doth the cot the sleeper lack? On the wall a cap hangs idly — will the wearer not come back? AVill the jocund voice that greeted fondly every eve and morn Never speak again to make our lonely bosoms less forlorn '^ I90 AUSTRALIAN POETS. "When the spring birds wake the morning with their sweet and tender cries, Shall we hear that voice of music echoing from beyond the skies 1 When the buds and flowers sweeten all our saddened home around, Sweeter thoughts of him shall gather — him our darling lost and found. O'er the rugged hill-side toiling, to the valley faint and dim, Will our wearied steps still bear us, drawing nearer still to him — Near to him our ravished treasure, whom we vainly thought to hold, Hoping, fearing — fearing, hoping, e'en as misers with their gold. ODE ON THE ANNIVERSARY OP THE BIRTHDAY OF HER MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA, 24TH MAY 1 873. The one star in the firmament, Still shining through ethereal space, — Lustre and purity are blent In its divinely-beaming face ; The one star in the firmament,— Which blind decay Wears not away, Serenely shining still o'er ocean waste and continent. II. The Sun, with his imperial caresses, Fills full of light forest and ocean-cave, HENRY HALLORAN, C.M.G. 191 Gladdens man's heart in its forlorn recesses, Brightens the mountain-slope and whirling wave : The Sun with his imperial caresses Showers from above His potent love, Till the earth rings with joy — blessing the light that blesses. Orb of majestic splendour, Meridian and serene, The loyal heart, as chivalrous as tender, In thee beholds irradiate, its Queen. Orb of majestic splendour ! Enthroned Eight ! Enthroned Might ! Thy people look to Thee, by might of right — Defender. Thy banner floats unquestioned on the deep. For honour gathers in its ample fold ; — And glory, which seems perilous to keep. The nations own, and wonder to behold : Thy banner floats unquestioned on the deep ; — Who bars its way, Or dreads its sway — Still sheltering the oppressed, the fallen, and those who weep? The shock of armies which have filled the years With desolation and uncounted graves, With widows' groans and helpless orphans' tears In ruined cities ; by the sounding waves : — 192 AUSTRALIAN POETS. The shock of armies which have filled the years With agony That may not die, — Within her happy homes, — far off — Britannia hears. VI. Thy starry daughter of the western sky. Scourged by her fervours into conflict dire, — Bleeding at every pore, — has questioned why Thou didst abstain, and answer her desire : — Thy starry daughter of the western sky — Welded by strife, — In mightier life. May now the nations, and e'en fate, defy. VII. The dews of heaven may wash away the stain Of blood from thy bowed Lilies, stricken France, Whose heart misled thee into dreams again Of cities trampled in thy dread advance : — The dews of heaven may wash away the stain, And, thou more wise In thy emprise, May'st quiet thy proud heart, — nor God's decree disdain VIII, The Lord of Hosts, who guards a righteous land, Still shield thee, Britain ! although nations shake ; Still hold thee in the hollow of His hand, And spare thy people for thy servant's sake ! The Lord of Hosts, who guards a righteous land, Shield thee from foes, Though Northern snows See millions gathering under one command ! HENRY HALLORAN. 191 Thy people multiply in many a clime, Bearing within their hearts, Queen ! for thee A love which loyalty has made sublime, — A tower of strength, in coming years to be : — Thy people multiply in many a clime, And at thy word Withdraw the sword. And pay the debt of sons, in God's appointed time. And on this day, thy day, the breath of love Fills every loyal bosom at thy name, — And " Bless her ! " echoes every sound above, " Preserve her, Heaven, and guard her queenly famt-, ! ' And on this day, thy day, the breath of love Fills every heart In camp and mart, — And floats above life's ills with pinions of the dove. XI. The eyes of beauty with a gentler glow, The ruddy cheek of youth with ruddier flame, Repeats the blessing, — while the head of snow Bows in accord of love, and names thy name : The eyes of beauty, and a gentler glow, Bless those who own, Beneath thy throne, Thee, as their liege — thy foes, their only foe. XII. A summer wilderness 'midst sunny seas, Thronged with thy subjects, hears the psean loud ; N 194 AUSTRALIAN POETS. " God bless the Queen ! " is borne on every breeze, "God bless the Queen!" the hope and prayer avowed A summer wilderness 'midst sunny seas, With stores untold Of glittering gold, — Of flocks, and herds, and vines, and honey-bearing bees. JUBILEE ODE. There is sorrow for the dead who perish for the living. Though the living have the gain achieved by those who die ; The soldier has most joy, for his joy is in the giving, And the blessing that he gives his guerdon will suppl}'. His red blood is the wine which his country will re- member When the suns of June look down on his solitary grave ; Or when the howling winds of a pitiless December Sweep the gnarded shores of Britain, which he proudly died to save. They gave their lives ungrudging, as the widow in old story Gave " her all," two " mites," nor grudged she all her princely bounty gave ; Their names, like Gordon's name, shall live in chronicles of glory — The memory should never die, 'midst brave men of the brave. HENRY HALLORAN. 195 IN MEMORIAM OP THE DEATH OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE LEOPOLD, Ddke of Albany. The lightning rends the goodly tree, Whereon the sunbeams loved to play ; Through which the starbeams found their way ; But who may read God's dark decree ? He spares the tree of lowly form, Through years that seem without an end, — In every wind to sway and bend, No mark for lightning nor for storm. Through toilsome years, on scanty fare. The artist and the poet seem Dimly to live within their dream ; Time leaves them with their pleasant care. Time brings into a perfect grace The marvel of the stream and hills ; And Time the perfect volume fills With words that thrill the human race. Time ! that didst shape the cedar fair, Wilt thou not bring to her who grieves More than the glory of its leaves, A people's love and grief and prayer 1 We are but shadows one and all ; The solid earth on which we move Is nothing, seen by saints above ; So small^ — but still man is not small. 196 AUSTRALIAN POETS. His days are written in Thy sight, "Who rulest days and rulest men ; And in Thy will he finds Thy when, And knows that all he finds is right. Thy Eoyal student's days were led In ways that make the day a year, Fulfilled with intellectual cheer Whereon all noble minds are fed. A thirty years of life like his Is more than threescore years and ten Of vain pursuits of selfish men, Who find a path 'twere wise to miss. So shall we say his life was life, Extended to a noble span ; A life that was a life for man, Worthy of mother and of wife. CHAELES HAEPUE. ["The grey forefather of Australian poetr}'," was boru at Windsor, New South Wales, in iSii or 1812. His father was a school- master, and gave the future poet all the education he ever received. In 1853 he published a volume of poems, among which were some sonnets which won the admiration of the "celebrated Sydney lawyer," Mr. Robert Lowe, now Viscount Sherbrooke. He at this time contributed to the Empire, the least successful and most brilliant of all Australian papers, as it has been described. Returning to the " Bush," Harpur married Miss Mary Doyle, a settler's daughter, by whom he had five children. He died in 1S68, comparatively un- recognised and unknown ; and recently his fame has widely CHARLES HARPUR. 197 increased, mainly o^ing to an admirable edition of his poems, published by ^Ir. George Robertson. Charles Harpur was, however, greatly admired by Kendall, who addressed two set of beautiful but simple verses to his memory.] DORA. It was, I well remember, the merry sjiringtime when Young Dora in the eventide came singing up the glen ; And the song came up the glen, till one oft-repeateJ part In a subtle stream of melody ran glowing through my heart. A fond desire long cherished, till then I might control — Till then — but ! that witching strain swift drew it from my soul ; Swift drew it from my soul, and she did not say me nay, And the world of love was all the world to us that happy- day. I'm happy now in thinking how happy I was then, A^^len towards the glowing west my love went homeward down the glen ; "Went homeward down the glen, while my comfort surer grew, Till methought the old-faced hills all looked as they were happy too. All happy for that Dora and I so happy were ! All happy, for that human love had breathed its spirit there 1 Had breathed its spirit there, and had made them conscious grow Of the part they bore in that sweet time, that happy long ago. AUSTRALIAN POETS. ONWARD. Have the blasts of sorrow worn thee, Have the rocks of danger torn thee, And thus shifted, wreck-like drifted, Wouldst thou find a port in time 1 Vain the quest ! That word sublime — God's great one word, Silent never, pealeth ever, Onward ! Hast thou done all loving duty, Hast thou clothed thy soul with beauty. And wouldst rest then, wholly blest then, In some sunny lapse of time 1 Vain the hope ! That word sublime — God's great one word. Silent never, pealeth ever, Onward ! Hast thou won the heart of glory, Hast thou charmed the tongue of story, And wouldst pause then for applause then, Underneath the stars of time 1 Vain the lure ! That word sublime — God's great one word, Silent never, pealeth ever, Onward ! Truth and virtue hast thou wrought for, Faith and freedom hast thou fought for, And then shrinkest, for thou thinkest Paid is all thy debt in time ? CHARLES HARPUR. 199 Vain tlie thought ! That word sublime — God's great one word, Silent never, pealeth ever, Onward ! From endeavour to endeavour, Journeying with the hours for ever, Or aspiring, or acquiring This, O man, is life in time. Urged by that primal word sublime — God's great one word, Silent never, pealing ever, Onward ! TO Wno would not be a poet 1 Thus I read In thy proud sonnet, my poetic friend ; And unto this my full assent was given : " There is not, cannot be, under all heaven, Aught happier in itself than the witch, Poetry." But '* Who'd not be a poet 1 " Here I pause Forebodingly, my poet friend, — because " To see all beauty with his gifted sight," To love, like him, with all the soul, To be, when life is morning bright, The very creature of delight — Delight beyond control, — Is still to be in like degree. Too sensible of misery And loss and slight, and all the weeping shapes of dole. )o AUSTRALIAN POETS. And this is truth, too, that with saddened heart Oft must he from his fellows live apart ; For how can men whose every breath of life Is drawn in the hot air, and 'mid the strife Of pettiest interests, have a kindred heart With him who hath built heavenward and apart. The structures of his mind, and looking thence Over this world-thronged universe immense, Is wont all such embroilments to deplore As light-obscuring vapours — nothing more? "What ladder of experience can they build To mount with — i;p, into a nature filled With beauty, or by mighty truths inspired, Or one even with a bold ambition fired ? But least of all in such men can there be Devotions chiming into sympathy AVith some pure soul, unsuccoured and alone, Struggling in weariness unwearied on — Unwearied day and night, and night and day, Towards the far Mecca of its faith alway. Yet thus the poet, armed only with the right. To life's dishonest battle oft must come, To front instead of valour, mean despite, With envy aye in emulation's room, Blotting heaven's sacred light ! To see unblushing fortune's minions doom To obloquy through some repute unholy, Or to some vile and miserable estate, All such as would not trample on the lowly, And basely glorify the falsely great. Yet if a thought like this Should mar at times thy tuneful bliss, CHARLES HARPUR. 201 Stronger within thine earnest will Be the spirit of song, that still Thou niayest sing of eloquent eyes That are of sunny thoughts the ever sunny skies ; Sweet dreams that swarm round honeyed lips, Like honey-loving bees ; Glad birds, fresh flowers, clear streams, and trees All starry-bright with golden pips ; Or, with a loud, bold chime. Sing of that braver time, "When world-wide justice from her Alpine chair Shall read at length in the rich reddening skies The gospel of her advent, and declare The sacred sign of her epiphany there, Amid the purple dyes ; "While all true men, the bravely wise. Shall seek her there with fearless feet and free, "Where the prophet- peaks arise Out of the shattering mist, the phantom sea Of old iniquity ! Through dense and rare, shall seek her there, Breathing with iron lungs the clear keen mountain air Of a supreme up-climbing, God-great liberty. Then envy not the splendid wretchedness Of Mammon's dupes ! Sing thy great rhymes For those diviner spiritual times Our country yet shall know, and, wisely knowing, bless. Downward, through the blooming roofage Of a lonely forest bower. Come the yellow sunbeams, — falling Like a burning; shower : AUSTRALIAN POETS. So through heaven's starry ceiling, To the hermit soul's abode, Comes the Holy Spirit, — earthward Raying down from God. THE VISION OF THE ROCK. I SATE upon a lonely peak A backwood river's course to view, And watched the changing shadows freak Its liquid length of gleaming blue. Streaked by the crane slow gliding o'er, Or chequering to the leafy roar Of woods that 'neath me grew, Or curdling dark, as high o'erhead The gathering clouds before the sounding breezes fled. Straight I bethought how once the scene Spread in its primal horror there, When, but some lone bird's weary threne Or bowlings from the wild dog's lair, Or rush of startled kangaroo, As near some stealthy savage drew With hunger in his air. Or from the stream some murmured sound Broke the dread slumbrous calm of solitude pro- found. A change came o'er my thoughts — behind A length of coming time I threw, Till round me, on that rock reclined, Its folds prophetic vision drew ; CHARLES HARPUR. 203 And purpling, like the morning, gave ^line eyes of Freedom's birth to have A seeming ante-view ; As haply in brave promise stole Ilis country's purer weal o'er youthful Hampden's soul. All round me villages upgrew At once, with orchards clumped about, And oft between, tall pine-rows through. Some mansion's pillared porch looked out. And thickening up from alleys green. Where rustic groups in dance were seen. Came merry cry and shout ; While from tall groves beyond, the cheer Of maiden's laughter soft, broke in rich wavelets near. And in the gusts that overpassed The stir of neighbouring cities came, Whose structures in the distance massed Proclaimed their opulence and fame. O'er fields of ripening plenty viewed. Or hills with white flocks fleeced, and strewed With herds that grazed the same ; While on the paven roads between The crowding chariots came with rapid-rolling din. Now gaining depth, the vision lay Around my being like a law. So that ray spirit might not say But all was real that I saw ; I mark a youth and maiden, pressed By love's sweet power, elude the rest, And as they nearer drew I list the vow that each imparts Folded within the spells of harmonising hearts. 204 AUSTRALIAN POETS. But suddenly a grim-faced sire Strides like a fatal wraith between With, that cold whiteness in his ire Which in the bad alone is seen .' Alas ! this world can never be A poet's Eden utterly — 'Twill be what it hath been ! So long as love's rich heart is red And beauty's eyes are bright — so long shall tears be shed. They pass ; and lo ! a lonely boy With wandering steps goes musing by ; Glory is in his air, and joy And all the poet in his eye ! And now, whilst rich emotions flush His happy face, as cloud-hues blush In morning's radiant sky, He sings — and to the charmful sound Troops of angelic shapes throng into being round. But 'neath a sombre cypress-tree. And clad in garbs of kindred gloom, A mother and her child I see Both mourning o'er a lonely tomb ! Ah ! life hath ever been a brief Mixed dream of glory and of grief — Its earliest, latest doom ! That heart in which love's tides first ran Descends with all its risks to every child of man. 'Now turning see, with locks all grey, A form majestic ; wisdom true Illumes his brow — the power to weigh All worth, and look all semblance through ; CHARLES HARPUR. 2C5 And stately youths of studious mien, Children of light, with him are seen, His auditory — who Attend the speaking sage along, And hearken to the wisdom of his manna-dropping tongue. And now doth his large utterances throw A sacred solemnising spell O'er scenes that yet no record know, Round names that now I may not tell ; But there was one — too long unknown 1 Whereat, as with a household tone Upon the ear it fell, Each listener's speaking eyes were given To glisten with a tear, and turn awhile to heaven. Thus night came on ; for hours had flown, And yet its hold the vision kept, Till lulled by many a dying tone, I laid me on the rock and slept ! And now the moon hung big between Two neighbouring summits sheathed with sheen — When all with dews bewept, And roused by a loud coming gale, I sought our camp fire's glow, deep in the darkling vale. LOVE DREAMING OF DEATH. I DREAMT my little boys were dead And I was sitting wild and lone ; On closed unmoving knees my head Lay rigid as a stone. 2o6 AUSTRALIAN POETS. And thus I sat without a tear, And though I drew life's painful breath, All life to me seemed cold and drear, And comfortless as death : Sat on the earth as on a bier, Where loss and ruin lived alone, "Without the comfort of a tear — Without a passing groan. And there was stillness everywhere, Ensphering one wide sense of woe — The stillness of a world's despair, Whose tides had ceased to flow. Yea, so eternal seemed my grief, Time moved not, neither slow nor fast, Nor recked I whether periods brief Or centuries had passed. It was as if to marble cold My loss had petrified the air, And I was shut within its hold. Made deathless by despair — Made deathless in a world of death. There ever sitting wild and lone, With all but one pent painful breath Transmuted into stone. And more the gorgon horror crushed With dry petrific pressure in. Till forth my waking spirit rushed With agonising din ! CHARLES HARPUR. 207 And what joy it was to wake — To cast that haggard dream awaj', And from its stony influence break Into the living day ! I sought the objects of my care, And felt, while I embraced the twain, How much even from a dream's despair A Father's love may gain. When this dream-record long ago I penned, how little did I dream That yet a distant coming woe Was shadowed in its theme ! For ah ! of that beloved twain The lips of one, then warm with breath, I since have kissed, unkissed again, For they were cold in death — A swift wild death ! and when I think Of all that I have lost thereby, My heart hath pangs that seem to drink All Mara's waters dry ; Yea, pangs that would my life destroy. Did faith not whisper oft between : " Peace ! sire of an immortal boy Beyond this mortal scene." 2o8 AUSTRALIAN POETS. A MIDSUMMER'S NOON IN THE AUSTRALIAN FOREST. KoT a sound disturbs the air, There is quiet everywhere ; Over plains and over woods What a mighty stillness broods ! All the birds and insects keep Where the coolest shadows sleep ; Even the busy ants are found Resting in their pebbled mound ; Even the locust clingeth now Silent to the barky bough : Over hills and over plains Quiet, vast and slumbrous, reigns. Only there's a drowsy humming From yon warm lagoon slow-coming : 'Tis the dragon-hornet — see ! All bedaubed resplendently Yellow on a tawny ground — Each rich spot not square nor round, Rudely heart-shaped, as it were The blurred and hasty impress there Of a vermeil-crusted seal Dusted o'er with golden meaL Only there's a droning where Yon bright beetle shines in air. Tracks it in its gleaming flight With a slanting beam of light Rising in the sunshine higher, Till its shards flame out like fire. Every other thing is still. Save tlie ever-wakeful rill, CHARLES HARPUR. 209 Whose cool murmur only throws Cooler comfort round repose ; Or some ripple in the sea. Of leafy boughs, where, lazily Tired summer, in her bower Turning with the noontitle hour, Heaves a slumbrous breath ere she Once more slumbers peacefully. O 'tis easeful here to lie Hidden from noon's scorching eye, In this grassy cool recess Musing thus of quietness. WORDS. "Words are deeds. The words we hear May revolutionise 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 i;pon 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 ^lore glorious than Thcrmopyloe, And many a lay that schoolboys scan A nobler feat than Inkerman. 2IO AUSTRALIAN POETS. THE CLOUD. One summer morn, out of the sea- waves wild, A speck-like cloud, the season's fated child, Came softly floating up the boundless sky, And o'er the sun-parched hills all brown and dry. Onward she glided through the a2aire air, Borne by its motion without toil or care, When, looking down in her ethereal joy. She marked earth's moilers at their hard employ ; " And ! " she said, " that by some act of grace 'Twere mine to succour yon fierce-toiling race. To give the hungry meat, the thirsty drink — ■ The thought of good is very sweet to think." The day advanced, and the cloud greater grew. And greater ; likewise her desire to do Some charity to men had more and more, As the long sultry summer day on wore, Greatened and warmed within her fleecy breast, Like a dove fledging in its downy nest. Til 6 heat waxed fiercer, until all the land Glared in the sun as 'twere a monstrous brand ; And the shrunk rivers, few and far between. Like molten metal lightened in the scene. Ill could Earth's sons endure their toilsome state, Though still they laboured, for their need was great. And many a long beseeching look they sped Towards that fair cloud, with many a sigh that said, " AVe famish for thy bounty ! For our sake break ! thou in a showery blessing, break ! " CHARLES HARPUR. 211 " I feel, aiul fain "would help you," said the cloud. And towards the earth her bounteous being bowud ; But then rememb'ring a tradition she Had in her youth learned from her native sea, That Avhen a cloud adventures from the skies Too near the altar of the hills, it dies ! Awhile she wavered, and was blown about Hither and thither by the winds of doubt ; But in the midst of heaven at length all still She stood ; and then suddenly with a keen thrill Of light, she said within heiself, " I will ! Yea, in the glad strength of devotion, I Will help you, though in helping you I die." Filled with this thought's divinity, the cloud Grew world-like vast as earthward more she bowed. ! never erewhile had she dreamed her state So great might be, beneficently great ! O'er the parched fields in her angelic love She sj^read her wide wings like a brooding dove : Till, as her purpose deepened, drawing near, Divinely awful did her front appear, And men and beasts all trembled at the view. And the vroods bowed, though well all creatures knew That near in her, to every kind the same, A great predestined benefactress came. And then wide-flashed throughout her full-grown form The glory of her will/ the pain and storm Of life's dire dread of death, whose mortal threat From Christ Himself drew agonising sweat, Flashed seething out of rents amid her heaps Of lowering gloom, and thence with arrowy leaps Hissed jagging downwards, till a sheety glare Illumined all the illimitable air ; \2 AUSTRALIAN POETS. The thunder followed, a tremendous sound, Loud doubling and reverberating round ; Strong was her will, but stronger yet the power Of love that now dissolved her in a shower Dropping in blessings to enrich the earth With health and plenty at one blooming birth. Far as the rain extended o'er the land, A splendid bow the freshened landscape spanned, Like a celestial arc hung in the air By angel artists to illumine there The parting triumph of that spirit fair. The rainbow vanished, but the blessing craved Rested upon the land the cloud had saved. MARY ARDEN. When a simple English maiden, Nested warm in Wilmicote, Sang forth like a lark uprising Heavenward with its morning note, Did no English ear that listened, Even then, foretouched by fame. Tremble to the prophet-music, Fountain-headed in thy name, Mary Arden 1 And to thee thyself, tell me ! Shade of Shakespeare's mother, tell me ! Did no dazzling vision come, Banishing all thoughts of gloom, Of the bardic grandeurs waiting On thy matron fate, when He Who in time should call the mother Should all time's subjector be, Mary Arden ? PHILIP DALE HAVILAND. 213 When a motlier we behold thee, With thy babe upon thy breast, That great nascent soul, so bird-like, Babbling in its fragrant nest : what spirit sweetly human, what instincts mildly wise, Sucked he from those mother-fountains, Drew he from those mother-eyes, Mary Arden ! But shall we, now spirit-basking In the noonblaze of his fame, Fail to read a sign prophetic In thy lovely maiden name ? No, it is the star that trembled O'er a royal poet's birth ; And amongst immortal Maries Second to but one on earth, Mary Arden ! Glory to thee ! Mary Arden ! Shakespeare's mother ! England's Marj' ! PHILIP DALE HAVILAND. [Desires the incognito preserved. Has a volume of poems conjointly with Cyril Haviland in preparation, and has been a frequent contributor of poems to Australian periodicals.] AN AUSTRALIAN FOREST. I GO, — but to return, — Your dreamy haunting breeze Would sing me back again ; Old friends I might forget. 214 A USTRA LI A N POE TS. Old liopes merge in the new, All, all, but you, — but you. Your great dark trees would rise And beckon to my soul ; I could not wait and know How cool the autumn mist Was creeping on the air, And I — ! I not there. In dreams my eyes would see The great long golden bars That lie upon your grass. When, like a ball, the sun Rolls down the shining day, And I, — but I, — away. I could not live and rest Far from your wild fir-trees. Your branches murmuring, Your night-bird's distant note ; To hear each hidden sound Were happiness profound. For in the resinous air That rises 'mid your trees. My soul once more could breathe ; Give me your soughing wind With perfumed odours blent. And I, — I am content. EBENEZER STOREY HAY. 215 EBENEZER STOREY HAY. [Eoni at Kilsyth, Scotland. Was a solicitor at Dunedin, New Zealand, and one of the most esteemed contributors to the New Zealand periodicals. He died prematurely, at the age of thirty- seven. Published a pamphlet entitled Some Characteristics of Wordsworth's Poetry, and their Lessons for tis, an essay, and some Poems b>/ Fleta (Dunedin, New Zealand : Jolly, Cameron, and Co., 1S81). A volume of his collected poems is contemplated.] PROMETHEUS. How long, devouring vultures, Avill ye pierce With sharp and sluttish bills my flesh, and tear With agonising wrench your bloody fare From my exhaustless sides 1 Relentless, fierce, Meet ministers of Jupiter ye are ! Whose gifts to men are massacre and war, And trampling pride, and all that is averse To that sweet lore I filched them from afar. But I, who have foreknowledge of all things. Know the predestined hour will come when He And all the race of tyrants and of kings Must fall, and man in brotherhood be free — Then all these sleepless years and your foul stings Shall have for guerdon Love and Liberty. PROMETHEUS AND ASIA. L When a rose in beauty blows, When a bud from earth outpeeps, When a soul another knows In love's glassy, dreamy deeps, Is not then Prometheus wed 1 Is not then sweet Asia led 2i6 AUSTRALIAN POETS. To the spotless bowers of love ? And Love is lord all thinfrs above. When a toiler finds some law Through all change unchangeable, And in joy and loving awe Sees less dim the Eternal Will, Is not then Prometheus led Joyous to the nuptial bed? Is not then his Asia's rule Gracious, loving, beautiful 1 III. Wlien a poet's frenzied brain Catches at some hidden truth, When is Avashed a crimson stain With forgiving tears of rutli. Is not then Prometheus' bride Standing glowing by his side ? Is not then more sweet to him Than the song of Seraphim Her sweet breath and placid eyes ] For Earth is one with Paradise. ISABEL. " Lap me in soft Lydian airs. Married to immortal verse." — Milton. I. She will not wake whate'er I call, She will not stir as there she lies, The colour from her lips has fled, And gone the glory from her eyes — EBENEZER STOREY HAY. 217 0, what is life if she be dead ? — A world with only sunless skies. II. I knew her young, and fair, and strong, And loved her then, ah ! who so well 1 But wisdom bade me (monstrous lie !) Resign my darling Isabel — I strove with love, repressed the sigh, And bade my Isabel farewell, III. I rose in place, in power, in wealth, I gained esteem and great applause, Lly name became a household word, I ruled the State, I made the laws, My voice throughout the land was heard, Triumphant in the people's cause. IV. " Now I will let me love," I said, " And I am worthier far than then ; My wisdom has been dearly bought In conflict with the wisest men ; Come then, sweet love — so long unsought — And fold me in your wings again." I thought me wise, but soon was stunned, To find no love in all I met. But worldly wisdom and a smile. That made me mad with wild regret — I thought of Isabel the while. And found my burning cheeks were wut. 2i8 AUSTRALIAN POETS. VI. She will not wake wliate'er I call, She Avill not stir as there she lies ; The colour from her lips has fled, And gone the light from her sweet eyes ; JMy darling Isabel is dead, And love, too late, has made me wise. IN A GARDEN. I SAW my fair one plucking fruit, The velvet peach and dusky plum ; And, as she stooped to gather some That hid themselves in scarlet plots And blue beds of forget-me-nots, I stood as though I'd taken root, And durst not lift intruding foot — So, leaning on a neiglibouring gum (I knew she had not seen me come), I watched her stand, and upward reach And shame the pink of tinted peach In stretching where some ripe one lies Behind its screen of leafy green, "With just a speck of crimson seen — The burning kiss of summer skies — Then turn, some laurel-leaves to cull Wherewith to trim her basketful ; And as she sat with careless grace, And set each beauty in its place, I drank the scene with open eyes, And like half-wakened memories, Came tender thoughts in quiet mood That made me wish for solitude. EBENEZER STOREY HAY. 219 I coi;ld. not clioose to linger there Where all was grace and debonnair, Where ever}' movement seemed to bo Some preconcerted melody, Where but to speak was to destroy The blissful calm, the tender joy. , So, turning from the magic spell, And from the form I loved so well, I mused how pleasure often springs From far-off, half-remembered things, And how the vision I had met Might yield a richer harvest yet ; Then stole away — and in my mind I carry still that garden scene. The motions of my graceful queen, And all the beauty left behind, The charm of flowers, the wealth of fruit. The dusky plum, the velvet peach, And the bright lesson that they teach. How grace and beauty more than preach, And to the soul are never mute. TWO SONNETS. 1S\y pipe is small, but I will labour hard That naught but melody shall issue thence ; And though the song, tumultuous and intense, Inspired of passion is to me debarred, Yet in some golden moments happy-starred Apollo holds me in a sweet suspense. Breathless and rapt — and straining every sense, I hear his lyre, and great is my reward. AUSTRALIAN POETS. And ! what joy when song lias wed to it The clanging choral music of the sea, Or whirr of birds that in green shadows flit With brisk and timid flight from tree to tree ! — When sounds like these find voice in what is writ, happy poet ! how I envy thee ! II. But song should be uidaboured as a flower That grows in beauty in some deep retreat, Spreading a dewy freshness round our feet Or kindling into flame some leafy bower. True song is ever prodigal of power Delighting in its strength, its form complete — And loves the lore of beauty to repeat With changing loveliness from hour to hour. It should be like the sea, buoyant and deep, And like a star that shines serene and clear, A beck'ning voice from an untrodden steep, A murmur of far music in the ear, A dream that has no fellowship with sleep, But to the Dawn looks for a golden sphere. A SONG. Be still, my heart, be still, I only heard his name. And through my cheeks I felt The colour rush like flame ; Although he loves me not, I love him still the same — EBBNBZER STOREY HAY. llim I should scorn and hate — He treated me so ill. ! surely this is Fate To love against my will ! Because I heard his name My heart is beating still. Be still, my heart, be still ; ! could he only know The height of woman's love, The depth of woman's woe, He surely could not dare To love — and leave me so. Be still, my heart, be still, 1 must forget the past. It was an idle dream — A dream too sweet to last ; And I through life must feel Love's blighting, lightning blast. DESPAIR. Once, dread visitor, you came. Once, or twice at most, But you stayed not, so your name Soon to me was lost — Kow you linger like a guest, And I cannot, cannot rest. Wlien the tender hues of spring Came with birds that pair, With the pairing birds I'd sing Life is sweet and love is fair — 223 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Now I languish and I sigh, And I only wish to die. I am young in years, but you Aged me long ago ; What to me is spring-time's hue, Birds that sing, or buds that blow Every prospect now is drear, For I look — and you are here. Once, drear visitor, you came To my troubled heart, But delight, with sword of flame, Bade you soon depart — Now you come an armed host : Delight is dead, and I am lost. THOMAS HENEY. [Of Wilcannia, River Darling, New South Wales ; has published a volume entitled Fortunate Days (Sydney : Turner & Hen- derson, 1886).] THE FLOWER EVERLASTING. Shy flower that aye delights to grace A desert place, And glorify the thankless stones With golden crowns and cones, While in the meads thy sisters fair The bounty share Of wind and dew and sun, content With whate'er good be sent. THOMAS HYENE. 223 Some corner narrow and obscure Dost choose, secure From sudden grasp of hands unkind That oft thy sisters find ; Wouldst rather safe be than admired And so retired, Those charms to lovers only show That rocks hide from a foe. Mature denies the haunting scent To others lent, Instead she gives thee longer stay Than beauties of a day. They ope and show their charms awhile. Their life a smile — Then close and gently die ; but thou Death not so swift can bow. SALUT A L' HOMME— WALT WHITMAN. Passionate voice of Democracy, exultant, militant, triumphant. Poet of Democracy celebrating the destiny of unborn men in thy song. Sweet heart singing stern songs of sacrifice in times of calm-faced selfishness. Strong heart singing sweet songs of liope, aird ultimate triumph in dark days, Closing with tender hands the eyes of dead soldiers, dead to fulfil your idea, (So only the work could be wrought) — 224 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Yourself is the song we shall sing of you, Walt Whitman speaking for men, Now the echo of your great voice is ringing from utter- most lands. What music for you, old man, going with serene eyes to death, Glancing back at the fate-brooding world, singing, " Go bravely, dear world ; so long " ; — The music of eyes luminous with new hope, and lives advancing to new destinies, Lips that have found voice for brave thoughts, no longer chorus to lie-leaders — What is the praise of a man who opens a new future before humanity, Therein himself leading the slaves of systems to accomplish themselves 1 Christ's cross, Socrates' cup, rejection of Buddha and Confucius, Then acceptance, and after a thousand years a rotting system again. Through what long paths must the world rise to a better gospel than yours ! After the deep-chanted curses of priests, hail a calm strong assent, That rolls the fog of the past as a wind clears the sea-fog from Californian valleys. So long have we listened to curses, of God, of man, of all that is or that may be ; Now the curses die like the dying echoes of impotent cannon. Hail the great voice that rose through that din, telling a new gospel — The gospel of acquiescence with nature and co-operation and obedience. And the divine doctrine of solidarity — the comradeship eternal of men, THOMAS HENEY. 225 A noble sympathy not born of ignorance and pity, but of understanding and love, And a perpetual watchful hatred of the exploitation of men. THE WILD DUCK. Tell me the charm of thy haunts, bird, Far in the unknown "West, Of the desert pools whose waves are stirred By press of plumy breast. And the diver's plunge and flutter of wings — "When the ripples speed their increasing rings. Tell of the lakes that sleep in the reeds, Crystal and gold and green ; "Whenever the wind his legion leads Through banks that sway and lean, They renew the fable of olden Pan "Who taught his music through reeds to man. How oft sought'st thou rest in darkling glade, In some well-hidden pool, "Where centurial trees o'erspread their shade And waters glimmered cool. And the gentle murmur of leaf and wave "Were the only voices that ISTature gave. Tell of the marsh in the swamp-oak's gloom Whence sound the curlew's cries. Echoed like prayers of souls in doom That aye unpitied rise ; Of the river's reach and the shallow flow Of creeks whose waters sparkling go. P 226 A USTRA LI A N POE TS. Say how in a night of fear thy glance Through the dark woodland aisles Saw the corroboree's measured dance And the sway of painted files In the camp-fire's light, while the echoes long Bore far the chant of the savage throng — How thine eyes, too, saw on some inland road The labouring oxen draw The dray that groaned 'neath its pilM load As it felt the burden sore, While the teamster trolled in his rough strong voice Some bushman's lay, to a bushman choice — Or saw, while thy wings upbore, below The brown plains far expand, Desolate but for the flocks that slow Stray and nibble, or stand. And the shepherd who sees with a careless gaze The well-known scape half-hidden by haze. A SONG OF FLOWERS. WALL-FLOWERS with the jonquils white, When spring's first winds blow widening rifts In winter skies and swift soft drifts Of rain athwart the tender light, Then ope your gentle eyes to see Who wakes you so caressingly. Sweet flowers of England and of France, Give me your perfume till I dream 1 see the jonquils' gracious gleam On bosoms throbbing in the dance, The village dance when twilight falls, And meet the young-souled Proven9aIs, THOMAS HENEY. 227 Nor you, wall flowers, forget mine eyes ; Ye speak of placid English garths, Where far beside the winding paths A wilderness of blooms there lies, Like music visible that are Or leafy heavens, each flower a star. "Wall-flowers, your opening buds be mine, And yours, golden-eyed jonqiuls. Till from these far Australian hills I bring a bloom with them to shine. What from this flowery land shall I Set to your sweet-breathed blossoms nigh 1 The waratah I may not choose — That would outshine your modest charms — Nor swamp-mahogany's floss-flowered arms, Nor golden wattle, the shade that woos. Nor crimson splendours and bells of heath, Nor sarsaparilla's purple wreath. No, but a stem of dainty bells With silver rims, in a rose-red sheaf. Dropped from a wealth of shining leaf, I bring from sun-kissed slopes and dells. May it gain a breath of scent from you ; And do ye borrow a nobler hue. WOOD-NOTES. What magic hath the air this day of spring That it can bring So many memories of wood-delight — The tender shadow mixed with tender light, The birds' full song. The gracious silence, halting hours and long ? 228 AUSTRALIAN POETS. For in this dream I leave the noisy streets For cool retreats Of forest aisles and bowers of underwood ; "While constant memory obeys my mood — Again I see The far abodes of charm and mystery — Those woods where envious autumn hath no sway, Nor til ere she may, As in the Northern climes, her victims freak With colours that approaching fall do speak. Those glowing hues, The wonder of a week, I would not choose. Nor where, like lords despoiled, stretch miles on miles The naked piles. Which, as unpitying victors, storms berate, And from those woods, their lov^d haunts so late. To mourn the wrong, Silent from grief, depart the quiring throng. Here in unending songs the woods rejoice, And hear a voice Each hour resume an intermitted lay, Pouring bloom-perfect notes, so full and gay, Now fast, now slow. Air and the echoes seem to overflow. When as the dawn suffuses eastern skies, While night still lies Amid the dewy shadow unawake, The magpie swells from knoll or silent brake His loud sweet tune. How rare those notes, that always end too soon ! THOMAS HENEY. 229 As if till that song ceased each voice were still, Now air doth thrill With other fainter and less daring notes ; Yet is this revelry of.dainty throats As sweet, though soft, As theirs to whom the echoing woods ring oft. Full many a voice, wood, hast thou unnamed. Though none hath famed. Save it those twitterings and tremolos clear, Yet are to thee its consonances dear ; Its perfect art In thy long symphony fills well a part. On him who, mem'ry-haunted, walks thy halls The music falls, "Wanting such charms as fills the olden rimes : Sweeter, wood, than that of other climes, Thine own song flows, As wattle blooms for thee, and not the rose. Yet wert thou through all seasons still the same. Spring but the name. How few would love that fair monotony ! So do the passing months bring change to thee, Kor change so great, Since no month ever sees thee desolate. Twice in thy pleasant year the wattles crown "With golden down Their sombre rames, and with the gum's stiff leaves A dusk- white fragrant bloom May interweaves, And spring bestows ilany a flower less bright and sweet than those. 230 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Nor but one sense to please dost thou incline — Breaths anodj'ne, And heavy with perfume of flower and wood — ]\Iysterious scents whose founts do search elude — The warm air holds, And bears far out upon the neighbouring wolds. How great an answer is your gracious mood, stately wood, To those who oft deny tlie charms thou hast, And think thee dumb because their ears are fast ; And, full of care. Find not those tranquil hours which they sought there. PHILIP J. HOLDSWOETH. [Of Sydney, New South Wales. Is cashier of the Colonial Treasury, Sydney, and editor of the Illustrated Sydney Neus. Kendall pronounced him "an authentic singer." In iS8o he published Station-Hunting on the Warrego, and other Poems (Sydney : William Maddock, 381 George Street).] AUSTRALIA. Muse divine ! within whose strange soft lyre Melodious lays of subtle strength and splendour Sleep, till the bard's quick touch and tongue of fire Lure them to life : — even thou, sweet Muse, engender Within my brain songs passionate and tender — Songs sung or harped 'mid thy most secret spheres, But snatched by amorous couriers to mine ears. And hoarded in mysoul's most hallowed cells. Where the mute seraph, Contemplation, dwells Till the renascent hour. When, summoned by thy power. Dainty and swift once more their melody out-wells. PHILIP J. HOLDSWORTb. 231 I. Australia ! he that anthcras thee aright Must psahn his loud delight With lips of gold, and supple tongue as pure, And sounding harp than mine less immature ! Yet, should my happy verse, though faint, refuse To trumpet forth thy dues, Methinks dumb trees (each leaf a tongue of flame !) Would clarion out thy grandeur and my shame : Thy timorous vales responsively would hj^mn Like sweet-lipped Cherubim — Each peak would lift its sky-saluting crest Still loftier from Earth's breast, And blend, with melting murmurs, into strong Ambrosial breaths of song : Yea, vehemently plead to listening Earth The perfect marvel of thy matchless worth. II. Thrice hail the bright day when the refluent sea Witnessed the birth of thee ! WTien from dark, solemn depths of foam-fringed surge, Mysterious and divine, thou didst emerge ; Framed, by God's grace, that after-years might see A sacred shrine thrice dear to Liberty ! On that glad day (0 best-born day of Time !) (xod gathered rare delights from each fair clime. And scattering them with bountiful High Haml, ^Most lavishly they reigned on thee, O land ! Such was the ripe wealth of the prodigal dower That decked thy natal hour ! III. Yet, like some such scroll. Which no man dare unroll, 232 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Enchantment veiled thy beauties, while sublime And shadowy epochs scaled the steeps of time, Till the brave mariner, with bounding ships, Clove through green seas' foam-lips, To where thy tranquil splendours slept, impearled, And, from obscure recesses, called a Second World. IV. Thine was the trumpet-tongue, illustrious Cook, That roused mankind, and shook Blind, brooding Ignorance from Austral waves, And drove her, darkling, to far dungeon-caves ! Thine was the hand that found, And valiantly unbound, The long-closed volume of our land's delight, And barred the priceless wealth thereof in all men's sight. v. For this, chief of Ocean's pioneers. Thy dauntless deeds make music in our ears (Outsinging all thy peers !) For this, just Memory, heedful of great acts Imperially enacts That, in her clearest chronicle, loud Fame Shall glorify thy name (A shining tribute which few kings can claim !) VI. Dear land, above whose hills, and vales, and streams Joy swoons, delirious rapt with honeyed dreams ! — Thou hast no storied plains, Thick-strewn with shattered palaces and fanes — PHILIP J. HOLDSWORTH. 233 Xo old-\yorld wrecks, which j^rate to distant times Of perished pomps, and records red with crimes ; And thy clear-springing waters, Unbeaconed with the blood of human slaughters, Haste, garrulous with glee, To mix full treasures in one placid sea ! ^OT hasfc thou viewed the baleful day When phalanxes in mailed array, Spurred by the hate that vengeance hoards. Shook the sharp clamours from their clashing swords, And bade the foe, with blow and thrust, Bite the blind suflfocating dust, Till Virtue trembled from her god-like seat, And, wailing, fled with faint, reluctant feet. VII. For round thy broad delectable expanse Soft peace broods sweetly in celestial trance ; "While, quiet and benign, Unnumbered synods of winged joys combined To guard with gracious care thy prospering state From rough, rude brawls and travelling tongues of hate ! VIII. Austral hills and dim delightful dells ! boundless plains, made glad with fruitful things ! O storm-worn cliffs, whose stern, stark front repels The surge that spins aloft on soft white Avings ! O sleepless clamours of sea-thunderings ! Straight through your realms let one triumphal chant Eing, — swift and jubilant — Even from the sea, to where lone, swirling plains (Remote from grovelling cits and stolid swains !) Stretch for fantastic leagues their drear domains — 234 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Lift your high anthems — till dull man confess (Right volubly) my land's rare loveliness ; And trump in tones that none dare controvert A world's loud homage to her rich desert ! AT THE VALLEY OF THE POPRAN. Where hurrying Popran slides and leaps Past white, smooth sands and stubborn steep, Or glides through green arcades — whose trees (Branch-tangled) weave strange bowers to please This traveller toward abysmal seas — I loiter ! — From the grove's heart comes (Grave-voiced like oceanic hums), — God's mystic forest-rhyme, that dumbs And drowns the blare o' the world. Above, The wonga, myrtle-perched, coos love, And petulant red-bills, fleet- winged, free, Prattle their magic minstrelsy ! Hark ! haply from yon black-butts' height. Small yellow-bosomed bell-birds smite Crisp air with clarions of delight ! — bell-bird, happy bird ! that shrills Strong trumpet-tones where tongueless rills And lustrous pools, fern-nooked, perdu, Lurk — hid from all — save God and you ! — O joyful sprite ! whose strains unbar Song-treasures, filched, perchance, from far Star-realms where spiritual dearth And anguish vex not as on earth ! — Strong transport whirls me, as your grand PHILIP J. HOLDSWORTH. 235 Hymns climb yon mountainous hills that stand Like monstrous outlooks to the land ! Ah ! if to me your jubilant chant Seem Mirth's mellifluous ministrant, — What whirlwind-joys must needs seize him "Who, lost 'mid labyrinths dire and grim, With hazards near, — with helps remote, — And Hell's thirst dominant in his throat, — Hears — hails, — your lyric pilot-note ! May God, when fowlers range your land, Baffle each rough churl's murderous hand ! Thus hedged, where clustering vine-shrubs climb Past storying boughs to spheres sublime, — Quick drift-winds (blown through odorous plots) Steal sweets from blossoming clumps and grots, Till, stored with pillaged perfumes, dipt From wattle, beech, and eucalypt, — Their strange, fresh fragrance balms my sense As though Heaven's bounteous Providence Showered driblets of Sabean spice To dower this tranquil Paradise. Yes, canopied even here, 'mid throngs Of huddling scents and passionate songs, — And lulled by motherly Peace, whose furled Plumes shroud me from the turbulent world, My happy soul, grown rhythmic, sings These tributary anthemings : — Hijmn to Peace. O gracious Peace ! whose prodigal gifts make light Dead strifes and perished toils, — dear Nymph bedight With maiden comeliness, — and girt with grace In queen-like mien and face, — 236 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Beneath thy sceptred sway Heaven rightly sets Green shadowy groves and rippling rivulets ; And pure cold breadths, where broadening lakes expand, Yield fealty to thine hand, — Here, where cool springs and bubbling rills rejoice Like lullabies (smooth-lisped), thy slumbrous voice Creeps softly through the tremulous air, replete With subtle tones and semitones more sweet Than woodland warblings piped by small, bright birds, Or winsome low of herds — More witching than the nectarous speech that slips From love-enamoured lips — More pure than seas whose swift stupendous shocks Lash congregated rocks, — More calm than moonless nights, when scarce one breath Stirs from its sleep of death, — As tuneable as streams, and storms, and seas. Ay, tunefuller thrice, Supernal Peace, than these. Lo ! years draw nigh, when, by thy might divine, Eude wars shall cease, and ravenous fiends malign, With frenzied rage and tempest-clamour start, From Earth's tormented heart ! — Yes, years approach when man shall feel once more Heaven's own miraculous impress, which of yore Transformed him from a lifeless carven-clod To Man, — a visible God ! — Then Eight, not Might, shall rule through Earth's fair zones, Possess proud realms^ and buttress mighty thrones — And cheer glad myriads 'mid the bland careers Of long-predicted years, — Then Man — new-born — shall start from tomb-like sleep August, sublime, nor crouch like beasts that creep, — PHILIP J. HOLDSWORTH. 237 Sliall spring erect, and gather grace and strength, While swift Time (mellowing into bliss at length) Shall crown his being with thy boon, Peace ! Till Death bid Life surcease ! — I pause ! Day droops : — and with the Day My song's strong effluence wastes away ! Light dwindles where far hill-peaks rise, Eartli's last gold torch of sunset dies, — While 'mid deep glens, dun Eve's obscure Hand paints Night's mimic portraiture. Even yet the Alchemist Sun beguiles High West with glorious cloudlet isles Whose opalescent splendours gleam Like Iris-hues in yon still stream, Lo ! moist glooms fold me : — as I stir. Crushed rosewood-leaves ooze fumes of myrrh- Exuberant fumes, that scent and cling Round hands which wreak their ruining, — (So Martyrs, panged with death-pains, pray, God's benison on them that slay !) Now halts my Hymn : — the stately trees, (The quivering, multitudinous trees !) Stirred to the roots i' the Dusk's chill breeze Rustle grand twilight-liturgies, — Now dies my Hymn ; — see, treading groves Wherein no venomous fanged thing roves — • Housewards, and disenchained, I plod 'Neath stars that mystically nod And tremble at Thy glance, God. AUSTRALIAN POETS. '^THE ASTRONOMER. He stands aloof from grovelling souls that strain With keen desires, and toilings manifold, To lard their leanness with the graceless gold That Greed and Avarice wring from human pain ! — The sensuous aims of earth's voluptuous train, "Whose days are days of mirth, whose nights behold The poisonous stores of sin and sloth outrolled — Shake not with Passion's pangs his kinglier brain ! — For, at his ardent glance, Night's orbed domain Unbars her marvellous wreath of stars untold And hymns the splendours of their mystic mould With lyric lapse of song and sweet refrain. Heedful, he hears, — while, with subdued delight. He tracks God's soundless steps through labyrinthine Night. ''HAST THOU FORGOTTEN MEV Hast thou forgotten me ? The days are dark, Light ebbs from Heaven, and songless soars the lark ; Vexed like my heart, loud moans the unquiet sea — Hast thou forgotten nie 1 Hast thou forgotten me ? O dead delight "Whose dreams and memories torture me at night — love — my life ! sweet, so fair to see ! Hast thou forgotten me % Hast thou forgotten ? Lo, if one should say — Noontide were night, or night were flaming day — Grief blinds mine eyes, I know not which it be ! Hast thou forgotten nie ? PHILIP J. HOLDSWORTH. 239 Hast thou forgotten 1 Ah ! if Death should come, Close my sad eyes, and charm my song-bird dumb, — Tired of strange woes — my fate were hailed with glee — Hast thou forgotten me ? Hast thou forgotten me 1 What joy have I % A dim blown bird beneath an alien sky, — O that on mighty pinions I could flee — Hast thou forgotten me ? Hast thou forgotten 1 Yea, Love's horoscope Is blurred with tears and suffering beyond hope — Ah ! like dead leaves forsaken of the tree, Thou hast forsrotten me ! ''LOVE'S LAMENTATION." STEADFAST Love ! — more strong than sea-girt rocks, Round which the rough surge raves ; — That stand, triumphant 'mid the mightiest shocks Of warring winds or waves, — powerful Love ! — majestic as the star That governs Day's bright skies, And showers God's boon of prodigal light afar On hungering eyes ! Thou art not symbolised by any flower Or gem that man has prized : — Thine own perennial splendours make thy power, Love, immortalised ! Thou art not emblemed by the wide wild sea That belts rich earth around ! What deeps or gulfs, O Love, can image thee 1 What shores can bound ? 240 AUSTRALIAN POETS. My bliss, and bane ! when last I paced yon strand, — Glad with assured delight, I saw my love's light shallop leave the land And, seaward, wing its flight ! — The great round sun loomed low ; — bedraped and pranked With black fantastic clouds. And ah ! the tremulous sky grew crossed and flanked With mists like shrouds. Day drooped his plumes of gold : — hoarse fiends of air Sprang up with clamorous mirth. Loosed the red whirlwinds from their thunder-lair And ravaged sea and earth : — Fear's palsying films my dim, strained sight bedewed, (Higher the bleak brine surged !) For in the storm's blind march Love's sail I viewed. Wind-driven, sea-scourged ! Than quick chafi", winnowed by the whirl-blast's hand, Swifter the shallops pace : — I saw the frail blown boat drawn near the land — (Near, till I saw his face !) The wild, wild waves raged, foaming out their strife. And shrill blasts drowned his moan, — lost, lost Love ! Hell's malice crushed thy life, — And marred mine own ! Ah me ! cold cradled in thine oozy home, Thou grim, pernicious Deep, — 'Mid cerements of the grave, white-fringed with foam, My perished love found sleep. Thy rage set free his soul from joys and cares, — One touch bade all surcease — Barred out Life's raptured hopes and bleak despairs, And brought him peace. PHILIP J. HOLDSIVORTH. 241 All night the storm--vvinds slackened not, but wailed Their dirge of undelight : — The surge, all night, spat flakes of froth, and railed, Mocking my passionate plight : — All night the rain sobbed strange weird monotones, And pounced with, furious spite, — - As, from my shuddering soul, Hope ebbed in moaus — In moans — all night ! Pull eve limps heavily, as maimed with pain. And hark ! with pattering feet, The night creeps trammelled with the trampling rain And thick with plunging sleet ; — Days dawn and die : — foul nights and fair depart, Nor intermit Grief's song : While, like a battered bird, with bleeding heart I linger, Death, how long? QUIS SEPARABIT? Heart clings to heart ! Let the strange years sever The fates of two who have 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, tiU I fade and die ; And when hereafter our souls rekindle, "Who shall be fonder, You or I ? 242 AUSTRALIAN POETS. FRANCIS R. C. HOPKINS. [(,)f Errowanbang, Carcoar, New South Wales, author of the follow- ing plays : — All for Gold, Good for Evil, Only a Fool, Russia as it is, £. S. D., all of which have been put on the stage.] TO A LITTLE FRIEND. The ships that meet upon a world-wide waste Of waters in a peaceful summer calm, And hail each other with a heart-felt joy, May part, to meet no more. At eventide The night-clouds gather, and the storm- wind shakes Them far asunder, on their watery way. So we, indeed, may never meet again. Until the shelt'ring haven's reached at last. Eut sometimes in your happy thoughts perchance A memory of the bygone trails may come And steal some faint remembrance from your brain. May gladsome youth, that riches cannot buy, Linger with joyous footsteps in your way. And keep you in God's sunshine crowned with flowers ! May all as sweet and fair as you ne'er know The marks of sorrow's rude unkindly hand. While love and joy like guiding stars shine bright Beyond the friendships of a callous time. Ah ! pure and bright as sparkling mountain-dew, Unsullied by a world of care and pain, Unspoiled by stage tricks of a social art, The great world's flattery or its empty praises, You seem the shadow of a summer dream, And waft one back to better, happier hours, When we, like you, were children, gathering fair Sweet blossoms in the happy summer fields, With care unheeded, and the past forgot. RICHARD HENRY [HENGIST] HORNE. 243 Here, in the midst of flocks and herds alone, With constant round of busy active life, Romance of ev'ry kind or shape stamped out, One's nature's dull and commonplace as lead. That matters little if you only say, "With this poor paper in your dainty hands, "'Twas time alone, and age, that could efface The words here written by a kindly friend, AVhose Avork perchance has ceased for evermore." RICHARD HENRY [HEXGIST] HORXR [The Colonial career of this distinguished English poet is briefly told. In 1852 he went to Victoria, and was appointed to take charge of the Gold Escort between Ballarat and Melbourne ; subse- quently he held the office of ^Yarden of the Blue Mountains. It was in this latter place, which he describes as "this Blue Mountain of dark forests, rains, and hurricanes," that he com- posed his Prometheus the Firc-hringer. He wrote occasional verses in Victoria, and a cantata, The South Sea Sisters, But he will be remembered in Australia chiefly for the influence he exercised in moulding the poetic fancies of Kendall and tlie then rising school of Australian poets — vide a sketch in the London Acadcmi/, March 29, 18S4, entitled "'Orion' Home in Melbourne," by Mr. Patchett Martin. R. H. Home returned to England in 1869. He was born in 1803, and after a long and adventurous life — his youth had been spent in the Mexican navy — he died so recently as 18S4 at Margate.] ORION. BOOK THIRD, CANTO THE FIRST. There is an age of action in the world ; An age of thought; lastly, an age of both. When thought guides action and men know themselves ^Vhat they would have, and how to compass it. 244 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Yet are not these great periods so distinct Each from the other, — or from all the rest Of intermediate degrees and powers, Cut off, — but that strong links of nature run Throughout, and prove one central heart, wherein Time beats twin-pulses with Humanity. In every age an emblem and a type. Premature, single, ending with itself, Of loftier being in an after-time, May germinate, develop, radiate. And, like a star, go out, and leave no mark Save a high memory. One such is our theme. The wisdom of mankind creeps slowly on, Subject to every doubt that can retard, Or fling it back upon an earlier time ; So timid are man's footsteps in the dark, But blindest those who have no inward liglit, One mind, perchance, in every age contains The sum of all before, and much to come ; Much that's far distant still ; but that full mind, Companioned oft by others of like scope, Belief, and tendency, and anxious will, A circle small transpierces and illumes : Expanding, soon its subtle radiance Ealls blunted from the mass of flesh and bone. The man who for his race might supersede The work of ages dies, worn out — not used, And in his track disciples onward strive. Some hairs'-breadths only from his starting-point : Yet lives he not in vain ; for if his soul Hath entered others, though imperfectly, The circle widens as the world spins round, — His soul works on while he sleeps 'neath the grass. So, let the firm Philosopher renew RICHARD HENRY [HENGIST] HORNE. 245 His wasted lamp — tlie lamp wastes not in vain, Though he no mirrors for its rays may see, Nor trace them through the darkness ; — let the Hand Wliich feels primeval impulses direct A forthright plough, and make his furrow broad, With heart untiring, while one field remains ; So, let the herald Poet shed his thoughts. Like seeds that seem but lost upon the wind. Work in the night, thou sage, while Mammon's brain Teems with low visions on his couch of down ; — Break, tliou, the clods while high-throned Vanity, 'Midst glaring lights and trumpets, holds its courts ; — Sing, thou, thy song amidst the stoning crowd. Then stand apart, obscure to man, with God. The Poet of the future knows his place, Though in the present shady be his seat, And all his laurels deepening but the shade. But what is yonder vague and uncouth shape, That like a burthened giant bending moves, With outspread arms groping its upward way Along a misty hill ? In the blear shades, Sad twilight, and thick dews darkening the paths Whereon the slow dawn hath not yet advanced A chilly foot, nor tinged the colourless air — The labouring figure fades as it ascends. 'Twas he, the giant builder-up of things. And of himself, now blind ; the worker great, Who sees no more the substance near his hands, Nor in them, nor the objects that his mind Desires and would embody. All is dark. It is Orion now bereft of sight, Whose eyes aspired to luminous designs. The sun, the moon, the stars are blotted out AVith tlu'ir familiar glories, which become 246 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Henceforth like chronicles remote. The Earth Forbids him to cleave deep and trace her roots, And veins, and quarries : whose wide purposes Are narrowed now into the safest path : Whose lofty visions are all packed in his brain, As though the heavens no further could unfold Their wonders, but turned inward on themselves ; Like a bright flower that closes in the night For the last time, and dreams of bygone suns Ne'er to be clasped again : thou art reduced To ask for sympathy and to need help ; Stooping to pluck up pity from all soils — Bitterest of roots that round Pride's temple grow, — Losing self-centred power, and in its place Pressed with humiliation almost down : Wliose soul had in one passion been absorbed, Which, though illimitable in itself. Profound and primal, yet had wrapped him round Beyond advance, or further use of hand. Purpose and service to the needy Earth : Whose passion, being less than his true scope, Had lowered his life and quelled aspiring dreams, But that it led to blindness and distress, Self-pride's abasement, more extensive truth, A lighter consciousness and efforts new. In that dark hour when anguished he awoke, Orion from the sea-shore made his way. Feeling from cliff to cliff, from tree to tree. Guided by knowledge of the varied tracks Of land, — the rocks, the mounds of fern, the grass. That 'neath his feet made known each spot he passed, Hill, vale, and woodland ; till he reached the caves. Once his rude happy dwelling. All was silent. Rhexergon and Biastor were abroad. RICHARD HENRY [HENCIST] HORNE. 247 Searching the jasper quarries for a lynx That had escaped the wreck. Deeply he sighed. The quiet freshness came upon his heart, Not sweetly, but with aching sense of lass. He felt his way, and listened at the cave Of Akinetos, whom he heard within Sing to himself. And Akinetos rose, — Perceiving he was blind, — and with slow care Kolled forth a stone, and placed him by his side. Orion's tale soon closed ; its outward acts And sad results were all that he could speak : The rest writhed inwardl}'', and — like the leads That sinks the nets and all the struggles hide, Till a strong hand drags forth the prize — his words Kept down the torment, uttered all within In hurrying anguish. Yet the clear, cold eye, Grey, deep-set, steady, of the Great Unmoved Saw much of this beneath, and thus he spake : — " My son, why wouldst thou ever work and build, And so bestir thyself, when certain grief, Mischief, or error, and not seldom death, Follows on all that individual will Can of itself attain ? I told thee this : Nor for reproach repeat it, but to soothe Thy mind with consciousness that not in thee Was failure born. Its law preceded thine : It governs every act, which needs must fail — I mean, give place — to make room for the next. Each thinks he fails, because he thinks himself A chain and centre, not a link that runs In large and complex circles, all unknown. Sit stilL Eeraain with me. No difference Will in the world be found : 'twill know no change, Be sure. Sav that an act hath been ordained ? 248 AUSTRALIAN POETS. Some hand must do it : therefore do not move : An instrument of action must be found, And you escape both toil and consequence, Which run their rounds with restless fools ; for ever One act leads to another, and disturbs Man's rest, and reason — Avhicli foresees no end." " I feel that thou are wise," Orion said ; " The worker ever comes to the cast down ! Who with alacrity would frame, toil, build. If he had wisdom in results like thee 1 Would strength life's soil upheave, though close it clung, And heavy, like a spade that digs in clay, Therein to plant roots certain not to grow 1 miserable man ! fool of hope ! All I have done has brought me no fresh good, But grief more bitter as the bliss was sweet, ]jecause so fleeting. Why did Artemis Me from my rough and useful life withdraw? O'er wood and iron I had mastery, And hunted shadows knowing they were shades. Since then my intellect she filled, and taught me To hunt for lasting truth in the pale moon. Such proved my love for her ; and such hath proved ]\Iy love for Merope, to me now lost. 1 will remain here : I will build no more." He paused. But Akinetos was asleep, Wherefore Orion at his feet sank down, Tired of himself, of grief, and all the Avorld, And also slept. Ere dawn he had a dream : 'Twas hopeful, lovely, though of no clear sense. He said, "Methinks it must betoken good ; Some help from Artemis, who may relent, And think of me as one she sought to lift RICHARD HENRY [HENGIST] HORNE. 249 To her own spliere of purity : or, indeed, Some God may deem nie worthy of a fate Better than that Avhich locks up all design In pausing night. Perchance the dream may bode That Merop6 shall he to me restored, And I see nature through her death-deep eyes. And know the glorious mysteries of the grave, Which, through extremes of blissful passion's life, Methought I saw. ! wherefore am I blind 1 " " Abandon all such hopes of Merope, Murmured the Great Unmoved : " her truth was strong, First to herself, and through herself to thee, AVhile that it lasted ; but that's done and gone. How should she love a giant who is blind, And sees no beauty but the secret heart Panting in Darkness ? That is not her world ! " Orion rose erect : " She is not false — Although she may forget. I will go forth : I may find aid, or cause some help to come That shall restore my sight ! " The Sage replied : "Thou'st seen enough already, and too much For happiness. This passion prematurely Endeth ; and therefore endeth as seems best, Ere it wear out itself with languor and pain. Or prostrate all thy mind to its small use — Far worse, methinks." " Hast thou," Orion cried, " No impulses — desires — no promptings kind 1 " The Sage his memory tasked ; then slow replied : " Once I gave M'ater to a thirsty plant : 'Twas a weak moment with us both. I^ext morn It craved the like — but I, for Nature calling. Passed on. It drooped — then died, and rotted soon ; And living things, more highly organised. With quick eyes and fine horns, reproached my hand rso AUSTRALIAN FCETS. Which had delayed their Lirth. What wrong we do Ey interfering with life's balanced plan ! Do nothing — wait — and all that must come, comes ! " Silent awhile he stood ; Orion sighed : " I know thy words are wise " — and went his way. The blindness of their leader, and his woe, I^ow had Rhexergon and Biastor learnt, And thoughts of plunder cried out for revenge, Which on Oinopion they proposed to wreak, And make good pastime round his ruined throne. "Revenge is useless," Akinetos said: " It undoes nothing, and prevents repentance Which might advantage others." Both replied, " Thou speakest truth and wisdom ; " and at eve Departed for the city, bent to choose Some rebel chieftains for their aid, or slaves, Or robbers who inhabited the rocks North of the Isle. A great revenge they vowed. And where was Merop6 1 The cruel deed, Her sire had compassed for Orion's fall, Smote through her full breast, and at every beat Entered her heart ; nor settled tliere, but coursed Tlirough all her veins in anguish. Her despair Was boundless, many days, until her strength, Worn with much misery and the need of sleep, Gave way, and slumber opened 'neath her soul Like an abyss. The deed, beyond recall, Was done. She woke, and thought on this with grief. The cruel separation, and the loss Of sight, had been completed. I*^othing now Of passion past remained but memory, AVhich soon grew painful ; and her thoughts oft turned, For some relief, to listen to the songs RICHARD HENRY [HENGIST] HORNE. 25 That minstrels sang, sent by the youthful King Of Syros, rich in pastures and in corn. Beardless he was, dwarf-shaped, and delicate, Freckled and moled, with saffron tresses fair ; Yet were his minstrels touched with secret fires, And beauty was the theme of all their lays. Of her they sang — sole object of desire — And with rare presents the pale King preferred His suit for Merope. Iler sire approved ; — Invited him ; — he came ; — and Merope With him departed in a high-beaked ship, .And as it sped along, she closely pressed The rich globes of her bosom on the side. O'er which she bent with those black eyes, and gazed Into the sea, that fled beneath her face. All this Orion heard. His blind eyes wept, Now Avas each step a new experiment ; Within him all was care ; without all chance ; Dark doubts sat on his brain ; danger prowled around. He wandered lost and lone, and often prayed, Standing beside the tree 'neath which he slept, And would have offered pious sacrifice But that himself a victim blindly strayed, His forehead dark with wrinkles premature Of vexing action ; his cheek scored all down With debts of will that never can be payed ; Chagrin, pain, disappointment, and wronged heart. At length, one day, some shepherd as he passed, With voice that mingled with the bleat of lambs, Cried, " Seek the source of light ! — begin anew 1 " On went he, thinking, pausing, listening, Till sounds smote on his ear, whereby he knew That near the subterranean Palace