THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES The Horses of the Hills And other Verses The Horses of the Hills And other Verses. By Marie E. J. Pitt MELBOURNE : THOMAS C. LOTHIAN 100 FLINDERS STREET FIRST IMPRESSION JULY 1st, 1911 The Specialty Prets Pty. Ltd., 189 Lit. Collins St.. Melbourne PR P' CONTENTS The Horses of the Hills - - -7 Veiled . 10 The Reiver - - - - 12 Gold and Grey - - - - 14 Ballade of the Road - - - - 15 Mountain Myrtle - - - - .16 Woman - - - - - -18 The Clan Call - - - - 20 Ballade of Devonport - - 23 The Old Love - - - - - 25 Lost - - - - 27 Adieu - 29 Discontent - - - - - 31 Ishmael - ... 33 'Twixt Briton and Boer - - - - 37 Ballade of Dreams - - - - 38 Spindrift - - - - 40 Ballade of Illusion - - - - - 42 To-night - - - - .44 Rejected - - - - - 45 Reveille - - - - 48 The Enslavement - - - - - 50 Evil - - - - 51 Ballade of Autumn - - - - - 52 June Roses - - 54 A Year Ago - - 56 The Destroyers - - 57 The Lost Fairies - - - 60 The Rebel - - 62 Watching - - 68 The Talisman - 69 The Heathen of To-day - ^ - 70 IV CONTENTS A Sea Song - 73 A Gallop of Fire - 74 Anathema - 76 Red Poppies White Roses - 77 At Evensong - - 78 Song of the Axe - -80 Ships - 82 Recompense - 84 Society - - 85 Bitter-Sweet - 86 The City of Sloth - 87 The Undersong - - 90 Disinherited - - - 92 Wy Yung - 94 A Fragment - 95 La Misere - - 96 Crooked River - 97 Soul Ferry . 100 Prescience ... 102 Ta-Mahinna - - - 103 Hamilton - - - 106 Phases - - - 108 Look Up 109 The Keening - - 110 City Hunger - - - - - 114 ACKNOWLEDGMENT N publishing this little book I must thank many people, among them the proprietors of the " Bulletin," (Sydney, Australia), the Melbourne "Herald," the "Southern Sphere " (Melbourne), "jHeart o' the Rose" (Melbourne), " Steele Rudd's Magazine," (Brisbane and Sydney), "Clarion" (Melbourne), "Socialist" (Melbourne), "Clipper" (Hobart), "Labour Call," (Melbourne), and "High Light," (Adelaide, S. Australia), for permission to reprint; also Messrs. Bernard O'Dowd, Arthur Long (President of Trades Hall Council), R. S. Ross (Editor of " Maoriland Worker") and the Hon. J. P. Jones, M.L.C., who, as a committee, successfully launched the publication; and last, but not least, the little group of Tasmanian editors and others who gave me my first encouragement, and helped to steady my stumbling footsteps on the slippery Inky Way. With something of an apology, and more than a regret for inequalities and inconsistencies, inevitable and inseparable from hasty execution amid a more than usually hostile environment, I send forth these songs of a wilding Australian harp. MARIE E. J. PITT. Melbourne, 20th May, 1911. Who finds the track, who follows the track, Must measure him steel for steel, With the sword of flame 'gainst the road he came, And the fang'd head under his heel. Who hears the song, who answers the song, Must fight for his faith afar, Where they tramp to the goal of the outlaw soul By the light of a vagrant star. THE HORSES OF THE HILLS. When cohorts of September Are marching down amain, We waken and remember Our fathers' fields again. Old Winter's ice-bonds slacken, His voice is waning low, And sunward peeps the bracken From winding sheets of snow. The dumb earth wakes and shivers, Young winds our heralds are, And mortals call us rivers Who know not what we are. Ere mastodon or urus Might dare the steamy rift, From Java to Honduras Our hoofs had scarred the drift. Honduras east to Java Our hieroglyphs were beat On prehistoric lava By old silurian sleet. And seaward still our course is When Spring's glad fanfare thrills And wakes the wild white horses, The horses of the hills. THE HORSES OF THE HILLS. Our dams came south and nor'ward, Our dams came east and west, Hard driven is from shoreward, And laid them down to rest. With whips of storm behind them They wheeled and whirled and broke, And fled by roads assigned them, Ere we in wonder woke. In Winter's cave we slumbered, Like sluggards in our chains, For days and nights unnumbered, Nor dreamed of our domains: But cohorts of September Are marching down amain; We waken and remember Our father's fields again. Off cape and fretted foreland Ten thousand hoofs a-drum, Our sires who hold the shoreland, The white sea stallions come. O'er drift and weed and spinney Inshore their leaders stamp And wheel and snort and whinny To call us to their camp. 'Neath dawn or noontide splendour Inborne on winds of dream, In vibrant tone and tender We hear the call supreme ; High o'er the locked land forces A clarion call it shrills "Come home! come home, white horses! White horses of the hills!" THE HORSES OF THE HILLS. 9 O ! vain on back and shoulder His harness Winter bound, And fenced with brake and boulder His mountain stockyard round; Disdaining bond or shackle, With plunge and swerve and shy, We break from bar and tackle And thunder in reply. Down thro' the gorge's shadows Our rolling squadrons burst, Forth from the white snow meadows Wherein our strength was nursed. By hut and homestead swinging Full speed and flanks afoam, We hear the land wind singing "Come home! white steeds, come home!" No rider sits astride us ; No fences bid us stay ; And none so bold as ride us Cross country to the bay. Who track our trampled courses Bear witness to our wills, We are the wild white horses, The horses of the hills. io VEILED. VEILED. Sojourner of the peaks divine No gusts of human folly sweep, Fenced from the shadow and the shine That dapple Life's disastrous deep ! Hushed is the world-heart's stormy beat, Earth's clanging discords faint and fail In holy silence round thy feet, O Sister of the sombre veil! To steadfast eyes undimmed of tears, And lips that have no boon to crave From largess of the laughing years That flit like shadows to the grave, Rise there no ghosts of " Used to be " To mock the quest of Holy Grail By guarded glance and suppliant knee? O Sister of the sombre veil ! Noon glooms to dusk the desert days Slip slow by prayer-enchanted leas Pale pilots of the parted ways, Wan warders of the Silent Keys ! In catacombs of twilit years, What fear-forms frighted Passion pale? Or Jesus' cross or Mary's tears? O Sister of the sombre veil ! VEILED. O Woman, is thy smile a mask? Life cries for more than bread to eat ; " The daily round, the common task," Are these beatitude complete? If faith be first I stand aghast In outer dark beyond the pale Of thine, the first faith and the last O Sister of the sombre veil ! 12 THE REIVER. THE REIVER. The floods are out on the flats to-night, Moaning and maddened and wild and red, Like a hooded serpent ready to smite, Old Mitchell rears in his straitened bed ; Quick ! Lords of the cattle and crops, your dole I The reiver river takes toll, takes toll ! Hope for no harvest of eager hands, The ripened ears and the swollen cribs! The sludge-bar, tossed on the hungry sands, That gapes like a skeleton's sundered ribs, The break and the blight and the far-flung shoal Of the reiver river take toll, take toll! The lean teams lagged at the furrow end, And the plumed green army stood brave anon, Now from mourning upland to river bend The whisper is hushed and the plumes are gone, Only the waters a death-dirge roll Where the reiver river takes toll, takes toll ! Plunder, full plunder of horn and hoof, Of torn green tresses and whitening bone, And a darker tribute, deep housed aloof Where the vespering pines on the hillside moan, Man, beast and bird, and the twisted bole So the reiver river takes toll, takes toll ! THE REIVER. 13 The floods are out on the flats to-night, Pray if you dare to and hold your breath ; For a craft rides seaward with never a light, And the man at her wheel is Pilot Death. Was it curlew or plover ? Or parting soul ? Hush ! the reiver river takes toll, takes toll ! I 4 GOLD AND GREY. GOLD AND GREY. O lightsome leaps the heart when the year is i' the gold! When the skies are big with promise that the years may not withhold, When we gather in full measure Where the Spring has spilt her treasure, O the world's a world of pleasure When the year is i' the gold! There's a love for every lover when the year is i' the gold, And for every bee a blossom its heart-sweetness doth unfold, O the fever of insistence In the pulsing, blue-veiled distance! O the glory of existence When the year is i' the gold! But listless lags the heart when the year is i' the grey, When the bee has quit the blossom, and bright Love has flown away, When the wind-swept leaves are heaping, Where the perished blooms are sleeping O the world's a world of weeping When the year is i' the grey! BALLADE OF THE ROAD. i$ BALLADE OF THE ROAD. Between the living and the dead, Our waking and our sleep between, A ribbon, dark with hues of dread, That links the hidden with the seen, The Road winds on through Might Have Been, By gladsome glades of Gone Before, Through dream and doom, by shade and sheen, For evermore for evermore! And, leaden heart or drooping head, By rolling dune, by runnelled dene, Still onward sweep the legions, led By Judas or by Nazarene; And Folly blears, with blots unclean, The rainbow raiment Beauty wore, And Fancy mourns her exiled queen For evermore for evermore! The spilt wine flashes rosy red; But pale, pale are their lips, I ween, Who break with Dearth her bitter bread, And drink with Loss her vintage lean; Their sighs are sadder than the keen Of night winds on a reedy shore, Where widowed Griefs grey children glean For evermore for evermore! Sahara stark, savanna green, Though life be cankered to the core, The Road winds on through Fate's demesne For evermore for evermore! 16 MOUNTAIN MYRTLE. MOUNTAIN MYRTLE. Myrtle by the mountain rills! Dark-plumed monarch stern and scowling, You that hear the thunder growling And the black sou'-wester howling 'Mong the wild Tasmanian hills. Myrtle by the western springs! Harp whose chords have ne'er been smitten, Land whose songs have ne'er been written, Where no tooth of scorn has bitten To the inner heart of things. Myrtle, myrtle, watching yet, Where old Montezuma races Down the waterworn rock-faces, Singing songs to lonely places Set in ways of wind and wet ! Myrtle, myrtle stern and stark, Where they turned them from the questing, When their sun of life was westing Still your dark boughs soothe their resting, Moaning, moaning in the dark. Myrtle, myrtle lying low, With the moss about you creeping, With the torrent round you leaping, And the grand old mountain keeping Vigil as the seasons go, MOUNTAIN MYRTLE. 17 Still to me your music comes Set in chords august, specific, When a storm-voice, weird, terrific, Beats across the waste Pacific Like the roll of muffled drums. Guardian of far peaks untrod By fierce cloven-hoofed excesses And Humanity's distresses, Where no clamour for redress is, And the hills look up to God, Pillars of a larger sky, Immemorial altars folden Deep in aisles of green and golden, Whose white taper-stars are holden By supernal hands on high! On the wings of evenfall Soft as clouds their sky-ways wending, Or white angel-hosts descending With the gift of peace unending When the dark is over all, Like the sough of Southern seas Comes to me the drowsy droning Of the wizard priests, intoning, When the Western wind is moaning Moaning in the myrtle trees. i8 WOMAN. WOMAN. A Reply. "God be sorry for women?" Nay, singer and sister woman, Sing the woman Triumphant! "the face turned from the clod" Wave of the mystical ocean, thro' season and chang- ing season, Intoning its grand Te Deum on cosmical bars of , God! Sing the Woman Triumphant! queen-sybil from morn primeval Lo! at her nod swung open the portals of Birth and Breath, Fear and the anguish of Fear 'neath her naked feet she has trodden As Over-mistress of Sorrow derider of dominant Death. Wherefore shall God be sorry? or hearts that arc wise in women Pity the shimmering splendour, the woman-waves of His sea, Pity the tremulous tides in the flood of their God- ward setting To the scintillant, white soul-beaches whose sands are Eternity? WOMAN. 19 God be sorry for woman? that men for their sport defile her? Lo ! to the dark she has flung them, pilotless, rud- derless, blind, For prey to the shark-toothed foes of their vanity's vile creations; To reap the wrath of the whirlwind where laugh- ing they sowed the wind. Dare man be sorry for God? As the sky to the hills thereunder, As the sea in its ebbing and flowing, Creation's image she stands Strength with a mask of softness, wisdom with meekness hidden, Serpent and dove commingled, with the torch of God in her hands. Yea! Sing the Woman Triumphant! no dirge but a march eternal, Tabor and clash of cymbals and homage of wav- ing palms! Diapason of life-tides throbbing! Look, weary one, doubting sister, 'Tis Mary of Nazareth passes with the infant Christ in her arms. THE CLAN CALL. THE CLAN CALL. I patted the head of a pony, By a Collins-street kerbstone tied, And my soul is sick for the old things And the feel of the world outside. I patted the head of a pony, My fingers are tingling yet; And I hear the call of the outlands Ring over the city's fret. He was low and little and weedy, But he bent his nose to my hand In the language that never was written, That the horse-lovers understand. And I feel the beck of the mountains, And the worn ways wandering white Thro' the ironbarks and the messmates Are calling to me to-night. And I ache in this city prison, In this desert of rolling roofs, For the lift of snaffle and stirrup, For the ring of galloping hoofs, 'Mong the hills where the circling eagle Sails dark on the rim o' the day, And the yang yangs' shrieking phalanx Heralds the stormy fray. THE CLAN CALL. 21 Flemington, Caulfield, Ascot? The Derby, the Melbourne Cup? The seethe of the surging thousands? The steeds with their riders up? They're tainted with craft of Commerce, By minions of Pelf they're ruled, With a fig for the game outsider, And a curse for the nag that's "pulled." 'Twas a merrier sport and cleaner Where the ironstone ranges rung To the race that never was written, To the steeds that never were sung. 'Twas a merrier sport and sweeter, The chestnut against the brown, With the weight on the Gippsland gelding And a win for the mare, hands down. On the open road we have won them, Close finish and hard-set teeth, With God's own breath on our faces And His levin of life beneath. On the open road we have lost them, Light-hearted and ridden away; For there's never a game worth playing, Where the stake is more than the play. aa THE CLAN CALL. Yes ! I'm sick to-night for the old things That grip me like living hands, In the dark of a world of shadows And I know, while the old faith stands, With the mate of my soul beside me, Light-hearted, without remorse, I would tackle The Styx to-morrow On a fretting Australian horse. BALLADE OF DEVONPORT. 93 BALLADE OF DEVONPORT. Jasmine and woodbine and rose o' red, And maybloom drifted on scented gales, O for the song of a season fled ! Devonport dales! Devonport dales! For the scent that flies and the song that fails, Like a windy sunset in golds and browns Where a lingering glamour of crimson trails, Devonport downs! Devonport downs! Summer and summer have sped and sped O'er green and gold of the gorsy vales, Where Mersey moans in his seaward bed, Devonport dales! Devonport dales! Winters have loitered like laggard snails Where the upland glooms and the headland frowns, And the white gull wheels and a wet wind wails, Devonport downs! Devonport downs! And its O ! to dream on the hazed hill head, And its O ! for the glint o' the warm brown sails, And the wakes inwoven like wizard's thread, Devonport dales! Devonport dales! For rock-pool revels and faery grails, For the seas that thresh and the surf that drowns, Where the white floor shakes to the emerald flails, Devonport downs! Devonport downs! a4 BALLADE OF DEVONPORT. Still the blue hills shimmer, the blown rose pales, Devonport dales! Devonport dales! Where kiss-me-quicks flaunted their garnet gowns, Devonport downs! Devonport downs! THE OLD LOVE. 25 THE OLD LOVE. O Melbourne Town's a lady, And her eyes are like the stars Shining white thro' heaven's bars, But I drift in dreams again To the lights of Hobart Harbour, Laughing lights of Hobart Harbour, From the head of The Domain. There are years o* days between us, There's a ghost for every hour That the laggard leagues devour; But the heart o' me grows fain For the lights of Hobart Harbour, Lilting lights of Hobart Harbour, From the head of The Domain. O'er the grim sea- walled horizon Old Ben Lomond watches yet O'er the graves of old regret, While I yearn in vain, in vain For the lights of Hobart Harbour, Laughing lights of Hobart Harbour, From the head of The Domain. a6 THE OLD LOVE. Yes! Melbourne Town's a lady, And the breath of her is wine; But for this old love o' mine Wakes the song of heart and brain- O the lights of Hobart Harbour! Lilting lights of Hobart Harbour, From the head of The Domain. LOST. 7 LOST. Once, when the pall of the dusk had folden The old world, haggard and brown, And veiled the purple and rose and golden Streets of the Sunset Town, And the queen moon came with her wan white maidens, Gathering stars for her crown, We watched them weave her a wondrous garland, Ingathered from far and nigh, Rubies and sapphires and pearls of starland, And you were a king and I Was queen of the islands, the white moon islands On the outer rim o' the sky. The wind sprites wove us a tented palace Of amethyst woofed with fawn, And the pale moon-lilies for plate and chalice We plucked from a peri's lawn, While the old star-sentinels marched beneath us To the camp of the blood-red dawn. Soul of my soul! in a wild red dawning, Long left in the years' dim wake, Each lost the other for ever and ever; But still for the old sake's sake, I seek you, aye, "mid the world-worn faces In mazes the earth folk make. a8 LOST. There are stars, bright stars, on the world-ways gleaming, White pilot stars kind and true ; But a soul-star beamed on the hills of dreaming That never the earth-skies knew. Ah, love! for the islands, the lost moon islands, Where the bitter-sweet garlands grew ! There were steps of gold to the isles up yonder, In a year that has passed away; Shall we ever find them again, I wonder? Gleaming in skies o' grey, Ever it seems that the stars are weeping, While the queen moon answers Nay ! But still in the dusk, when my heart is weeping The tears that mine eyes must keep, When the great white moon like a ghost comes creeping Out over the dreamland deep, I greet the islands, the pale moon islands, That whisper me in my sleep. And, aye, when a moonless wild night is falling On a blind world choking with fears, I hear your voice in the winds a-calling Like a song to my startled ears ; And I rise to follow. But where shall I follow, My star of the stormy years? ADIEU. 29 ADIEU. The day is dying ! The auspicious day That brought from human faith-fires of the North A living brand to flash from coast to coast And beacon Freedom in Australian skies A levin torch to light the splendid pyre Of old dishonours and the blind unfaith That bade man rend his brother Lo! to-day Leap high from altared Australasian hills The Freedom-fires no wrong shall quench again. The day is dying! The reluctant day That bids us yield to sharper need than ours! Because of hope and strength made ours to guard, Because of vanquished error, justice won, Because of slave-souls pent in bars of greed Unnumbered still, in Liberty's behest, Here in the red gold sunset of the day His message gladdened with diviner gold, We give him God-speed God-speed and farewell. As fared Ulysses forth, and in the dust Troy the accursed sank unto the plain Smoking to heaven Forth, strong soul, fare forth To victory of Right o'er Mammon-Might! Tho' proud Oppression's gates be Pole and Pole, Her boundaries cleave the Sunset and the Dawn, Her walls be Himalayahs shall it reck? A lesser conquest then were flaming Troy; And Liberty? Star-Helen lesser prize ! 30 ADIEU. Farewell! God-speed! And if perchance to eyes Unwonted spring grief's quick unbidden tears, And tightened heartstrings ache 'tis that the sense, The over-sense that caught some secret speech, Some song-snatch thro* the sunset's parted veil No sense interprets, strikes our laughter dumb, And hushed we stand ALONE and face the grey Of all the twilights leaden merged in one; And in some caverned dusk of wistful winds Inwoven with aeolian echoes hear A human song nor thrush notes swelled so sweet, Nor nightingale sang ever yet so clear In throbbing hush of an Italian night. O Swan song sailing sunward, tho* the dark Fold thee in silence, yet the dark doth drift Thro' deeps o' Dream toward Islands of the Dawn ! DISCONTENT. 31 DISCONTENT. Of Beauty one shall sing, Another Love shall praise, As Faith or Fancy wing, Or Fashion-flight essays. Among life's drabs and greys I strike the lyre she lent, My dame of wilful ways My Lady Discontent. Where Wagedom's lashes sting, And Debt's grim dolors craze, And Custom's usurers wring The red gold from the days, Their rapine creed to raze, To baffle "Cent, per Cent.," A psychic sword she sways My Lady Discontent. Where rites fallacious cling, And Anti-Christ betrays, She is the secret spring That from the dark doth raise Or ghosts of Pere la Chaise, Or Veil o' the Temple rent, A saviour, still she slays My Lady Discontent. DISCONTENT. Yea, Bards, with lights that daze Poor souls in bondage pent She sets the world ablaze My Lady Discontent. ISHMAEL. 33 ISHMAEL. Six off, and still unbroken No fretting bridle bar, No spur has left its token, No girth has left its scar. Free as the wind that follows Its own unfettered will; Free as the wheeling swallows, He rests or revels still. The Bush is stall and manger, His grooms are wind and sun ; Dusk chieftain, pallid stranger, He payeth toll to none. The Bush is stall and manger, He snorts and stands aloof, And flouts the face of danger With rout of ringing hoof. Heads low his comrades waddle In weary bonds of draught, Galled withers 'neath the saddle, Galled ribs against the shaft. 34 ISHMAEL. Where jocund kookaburras Make merry on the bough, Above the long brown furrows His playmates pull the plough. On dusty road and dreary, On broken bridle track, They wander far and weary, And weary wander back. Nor one demands his leisure From burden or from chain, But waits his master's pleasure To take the track again. And only he runs idle In pasture lands of Fate, Unvexed of bit or bridle Or reckless rider's weight. Runs idle who shall blame him? He flings the gauntlet down, The man that dares to tame him Shall take him back to town. Meet trophy he for vaunting As prize of errant knight, Where Fashion's flowers are flaunting And Beauty's eyes are bright. ISHMAEL. 35 What lord of lines shall quarrel With symmetry superb, Strong quarter, mighty barrel, Proud crest that shames the curb: Clean pastern, sinewy shoulder, Broad chest where boundeth hard A fiercer heart and bolder Than fear of men shall yard! Vaunt not your pampered stallions, The slaves of man's decree, Base helots they, and hallions, Nor peer for such as he. The sprites of earth and ocean, The war of wind and flood, Old Freedom's rebel potion, Run riot in his blood; Bold outlaw, reckless liver, But by that dainty tread And that red nostril's quiver Ye know him thoroughbred. Six off, and still unbroken, No saddle mark shall stain That satin coat for token Of masterdom's domain. ISHMAEL. Dream not, your bondage leaden That flashing eye shall blur, Nor dream those flanks shall redden And reek beneath the spur. A monarch of the ranges, A sultan of the plains, A spirit that estranges Fell Fear from his domains. Free as the wind that follows Its own unfettered will, Free as the wheeling swallows, He rests or revels still. 'TWIXT BRITON AND BOER. 37 'TWIXT BRITON AND BOER They made a war upon the land In Freedom's name, they said To overthrow the rebel band With Kruger at its head. They made a war upon the land And Britain's bravest bled. They drove the foeman from his field, They spoiled his tents afar, They saw his stubborn horsemen yield On reddened fields of war, Till like a worn-out meteor, reeled And sank his sullen star. Nor man, nor home, nor beast they spared, The flames before them sped, And wild and high the roof tree flared Above the homeless head, And cannon growled, and trumpets blared Above the Burgher dead. At last o'er barn, and byre, and street, Died down the flame of woe, The last resonant drum had beat, The last gun thundered low There sat on Freedom's lofty seat A Leper white as snow. BALLADE OF DREAMS. BALLADE OF DREAMS. Across the loom the shuttles fly, Like random, rippled lights at play Upon the road where you, where I, Drift down the Valley of To-day; White snowdrop stars beside the way Illume the flight of fancies fled, In some far Spring-time's snowdrop spray Our dreams shall live when we are dead. We quibble over how and why, Or vex our souls with "yea" and "nay ;" Turn all the golden years awry, And bid the wheel of pleasure stay; And still our webs of hodden grey Are shot with many a wizard thread That passes not with passing clay Our dreams shall live when we are dead. The proud, the strong, the brave shall die, All flesh shall perish e'en as they ; Nor love, nor life, nor duty's tie Shall hold the fateful hour at bay: But past restraining barriers, yea, On universal pinions spread, A phoenix phalanx o'er decay, Our dreams shall live when we are dead. BALLADE OF DREAMS. 39 With cypress gather blooms o' may, Beyond the dark the dawn is red ; Peace ! sad one, tho' the gods shall slay, Our dreams shall live when we are dead. 40 SPINDRIFT. SPINDRIFT. I dream of wet and where the surf is thrashing A long, low coastline, and, nerves astart, I lean for the whisper of wavelets washing The white-combed beaches and rock-pools swart In a world aflame with the raptures flashing From the rose and gold of the sunset's heart. I dream of the tramp of the leagued battalions, Where the grey gulls wheel over Mersey bar, When the Storm King loosens his swift white stal- lions, And cleaves the deep with his mighty car ; And through black flotillas of spumespun galleons, The lighthouse peers like a kindly star. A scent of white roses from blue hills sleeping, Where the sunset burns to a smouldering spark; A shimmer of foam where the surge is leaping On basalt bulwarks austere and stark; And beyond the hollow swells, shoreward sweeping, The brown sails beating into the dark. Brown sails! Brown sails! You have long since threaded The shadowy course where no helmsman steers, With warp wind-wasted, and woof salt-shredded But what of the best of your bold compeers, To burdens fettered, to sharp cares wedded, Strong soul-ships beating into the years? SPINDRIFT. 41 Soul-ships that follow an endless questing, By coasts uncharted, o'er seas sublime; White argos, ever the green swirls breasting Towards the magian isles in the sunset clime; While the sea-ghosts sob through the years unrest- ing 'Mong the weed- wound wrecks on the shores of Time! Soul-ships that fare where the white steeds thunder O'er the green arched domes of the echoing caves I Still the sea-kings revel in halls of wonder To a wizard music of winds and waves: But the drowned men dream not of power or plunder, Where the lost ships lie in their deep sea graves. And the grey years pass, and the drift is scudding Over Mersey bar as in years of old; And waves are lapping or swells are thudding On basalt bulwarks austere and bold, 'Neath the flame and fawn of the sunset flooding White Devonport beaches with rose and gold. 42 BALLADE OF ILLUSION. BALLADE OF ILLUSION. Glint of woodland, and glamour of dew, Reeling riot of sap in the tree, Lilt of lark-song aloft in the blue Or cicada's importunate glee! O to rest on a somnolent lea Where the gold of the buttercup glows And the winds bring us guerdon and fee From the heart of a mystical rose ! Tho' we winnow the false from the true To the sob of Adversity's sea For a vision that fired us and flew, For a choked inarticulate plea, From a valley of Never To Be Comes a wind of the morning that blows, Incense-laden for you and for me, From the heart of a mystical rose. Tho' a phantom of joy we pursue, Tho' it flash like a phantom and flee, Tho' life's roses be choked with its rue, And vain shadows of shadows are we, Tho' dark be the doom we must dree In our camps of the sands or the snows, Yet our dreams shall be passport and key To the heart of a mystical rose. BALLADE OF ILLUSION. 43 Sweetheart mine, tho' the gods may decree Never mortal may roam where it grows, Still earthward a rapture floats free From the heart of a mystical rose. 44 TO-NIGHT. TO-NIGHT. It is to-night 1 The tense strings sob no more : Close fast the doors, and draw the sheltering blinds Against the vampire broods that hover near, Shapeless similitudes of nameless fears. Here, love, upon the outmost beetling crag Of black oblivion, soft-winged Sleep shall guard From fierce, familiar terrors that pursue With scourges sharp as death and 'wildering cries Of red-fanged packs that hunt in paths of Day. It is to-night ! To-morrow's wolves are far ! Beloved, kind is Sleep but still more kind The cradling arms of Death. Here on the verge Of great forgetfulness, canst thou not hear Departing clangour of the 'leaguering hosts Swoon on the void, and like a wailing wind From some far shore the beat of Sorrow's wings Die down to peace ! Beloved, sleep, nor dream ! It is to-night ! To-morrow's wolves are far ! REJECTED. 45 REJECTED. Frost flecked his hair with many a winter's flight, And, etched with the sharp pencil of the years, His rugged features set in lines of stress Match well his knotted hands and toil-thwart form. But time that set the silver in his hair Steeled his gaunt frame to an endurance grim Of which it gives no promise save the tale Of each day's toil that wavers not, nor wanes In tithe or tittle; but by the unwritten law He stands convicted of the deadly crime, The thrice accursed crime of being old. To-morrow, ten will quarrel for his place, Thumbs down he has it ! let the grey-beard go ! No more in the arena of to-day His place shall know him, nor his strong arms wrest From youth-accoutred foes the piteous prize Of daily bread and wherefore shall he turn To learn new arts and wield new weapons, now That tower of manly strength, which stood the shock Of deadly combat, totters at its base, And reels before the dastard strategy That binds his chained limbs to the conqueror's wheel? For him no mercy stroke of swift, bright steel, 46 REJECTED. No lightning-pang that brings oblivion With cradling arms of peace to pillow him; Such barbarous modes, such rude arbitrament, Our modern school of ethics doth forbid! O Pharisees! O Christian code more black, more damnable Than heathen rage that spilt the futile blood ! O whited sepulchre of dead men's bones No holy spark shall quicken into life! Who wasted Sodom and yet spareth thee To taint the Universe with blasphemy? Thumbs down ! his fight is fought, his fate is set ! Quick ! cast him forth to the lean things of prey, The stealthy, gaunt things snuffing at the bars Of strength and courage that the ruthless years Have slow corrupted, and which soon shall fall And leave him naked and defenceless. And, mirrored in the terror of his eyes, Dim shadowy shapes start up from lairs of fear And creep from point to point, now swift advance, Now 'mazed retreat, to whipped submission cowed By some faint flicker of the man he was. The hunger-pack his steel thews kept at bay Snuff tardy death and scent the carnival, And horrid carrion pinions beat the air In loathsome expectation of his doom. Creep! Creep! the grisly circle closes in The ring of death, long cheated, claims its own. REJECTED. 47 There is no blood upon their hands, good sirs ! See here the legal bill of his decease And "Death from natural causes" thereon writ By our respected city Coroner, And lo ! for those that read, 'tis countersigned All in the grim sign manual of the three Dark sisters, Sorrow, Hunger, and Despair. Sic transit! in the game upon the board Tis dross kings count, a man is but a pawn! REVEILLE. REVEILLE. Up ! comrades, up ! the night has flown, The dawn breaks dim and grey! The bugle-call of strife has blown ! Arm ! arm you for the fray ! O'er hills which man's injustice smote, The People's hymn we'll raise, Shout! every throat, a major note, Australia's Marseillaise ! They call our creed a rebel creed, Our flag a rebel flag, Who scrawl the autograph of greed On every wave-worn crag: Who sow in furrows of their greed A heritage of scorn, And bind the bonds of bitter need On peoples yet unborn: Who ruthless weave the fateful coil That binds in bonds of hate Lean helotry of hopeless toil, Fat harlotry of State, Who sow in furrows of their hate Twin thorns that never fail, The gilded thieves in Church and State, The squalid thieves in gaol. REVEILLE. 49 They call our flag a rebel flag, Our creed a rebel creed, Who scrawl on every wave-worn crag The autograph of greed. O'er hills which man's injustice smote, The People's hymn we'll raise, Shout! every throat, a major note, Australia's Marseillaise ! 50 THE ENSLAVEMENT. THE ENSLAVEMENT. Rail not at Mammon, helots of to-day, Nor curse Bellona, goddess of the sword, Nor Tyranny, of Toil meet overlord: This is your covenant "You must obey!" Under its ban your helot-mothers lay; Your sires, slave-born to slave-born mothers, poured The gluttons' wine, or cringed for bed and board: Why murmur then? And whence your blank dismay? Not with red rite of sword on Strife's wan hill, 'Mid clash of arms and pomp of war's estate, Was Freedom slain, and her strong sons laid low, But in some wild red dawning long ago, When Man, the savage, took his savage mate, And beat, and bent, and broke her to his will. EVIL. 51 EVIL. Not Beelzebub, but white archangel, I Turn the dim glass and shift the sands again, And touch the eyelids of the sons of men Lest they forget forget and drowsy lie In Fate's unfurrowed fallow till they die As seed that quickens not for dawns that leap From out the dark of immemorial years, With kiss of wind and sun and wizard tears Of fugitive clouds to wake them from their sleep. With milestones I have set the crumbling sod Of human judgment that they stray not wide, Nor languish lost in labyrinths alway ; And smile in pity when I hear them pray That Wrong's rude whips from them be turned aside, Who call me Evil not discerning God. 53 BALLADE OF AUTUMN. BALLADE OF AUTUMN. Down harvest headlands the fairy host Of the poppy banners have flashed and fled, The lilies have faded like ghost and ghost, The ripe rose rots in the garden bed. The grain is garnered, the blooms are shed, Convolvulus springs on the snow-drop's bier, In her stranded gold is the silver thread Of the first grey hair i' the head o' the year. Like an arrant knave from a bootless boast, The fire-wind back to his North has sped To harry the manes of a haunted coast On a far sea-rim where the stars are dead. Wistful the welkin with wordless dread, Mournful the uplands, all ashen sere Sad for the snow on a beauteous head For the first grey hair i' the head o' the year. Time trysts with Death at the finger post, Where the broken issues of life are wed Intone no dirges, fill up the toast To the troops that trip it with silent tread, Merry we'll make it tho' skies be lead, And March-wind's moan be a minstrel drear A truce to trouble! we'll drink instead To the first grey hair i' the head o' the year. BALLADE OF AUTUMN. 53 South Esk sings on where the furze-fires spread But we'll mourn no more as of old, my dear, When gorse flames golden and briars flush red With the first grey hair i' the head o' the year. 54 JUNE ROSES. JUNE ROSES. O Red Rose of June, Like a lingering ember From fires of December Rekindled for boon, When a wild afternoon Like a grey ghost goes gliding And creeping and hiding From a sorrowful moon A reproachful white moon! O Red Rose of pain, Like the last spark that flashes From smouldering ashes Of love on the wane! Thro' the pitiless rain, And the wind's wistful sobbing A dead march is throbbing Again and again, And for ever again. O Red Rose new born, Like a scimitar flaming And flashing and shaming Life's fear and its scorn, Levin love-lilt new torn From storm-torrents sweeping From fountain heads leaping From lips of the morn Of Hope's evergreen morn! JUNE ROSES. 55 Rekindled for boon, When the genii of sorrows Of all the to-morrows Combine and commune In a wild rebel rune, Bright symbol and token ! Full foreword fain spoken!- O Red Rose of June ! Brave Red Rose of June! 5 6 A YEAR AGO. A YEAR AGO. You are dying! I hear them say Alack! and alas! that the young should die! But my heart beats back to a yesterday, Where the swallows wheeled in a lilac sky, And a song floats up from the far away, The heart's own music that lives for aye. There's a road that leads to the heart of the Spring, A winding pathway with many a turn, And ever the bells of the fairies ring, And ever the poppy-hearts blaze and burn ; Time sits a-dream where the roses cling By the road that leads to the heart of the Spring. There's a road that leads to the peace o' the grave, A strait, strait road where the nightshade clings, And the heart that withheld, or the hand that gave Shall soon be accounted as little things. You are dying! God! how the gray Chokes the red gold of the yesterday. There's a road that windeth from East to West, From North to South, as the earth roads go It is fevered with fires of the heart's unrest, It is sodden with tears you may never know. They say you are dying! Nay, whisper low! You died with the roses a year ago ! THE DESTROYERS. 57 THE DESTROYERS. We are the Arch-Destroyers! white-handed, soft and fair, We kneel at the shrine of Fashion, our watchword "Never Spare!" We are the Arch-Destroyers ! timid-souled, frail and slim, Who have ravaged earth's war-worn borders to their faintest, furthermost rim. Only the great dumb sorrow, that never was clothed in words, Only the unwrit anguish of an army of bright- winged birds, Measures our meed of triumph echoes it every- where We are the Arch-Destroyers, our watchword "Never Spare!" We are the Arch-Destroyers! for us have the ships gone forth And wrestled with dark and danger and the frost- fiend of the North! We are the Arch-Destroyers! for us the ice gleams red, Where, on the Arctic ice-floes, the seal-calf mourns her dead. 58 THE DESTROYERS. We, who have never shivered 'neath the shreds of a wretched clout, Send for a splendid caprice our toiling bond-slaves out! And never a sea so sullen, and never a sky so grey, That they flinch from the face of danger and nerve them to disobey. We are the Arch-Destroyers! woes of the world attest ! For us are the reeking altars of sacrifice daily drest ! From the poles to the burnt equator our minions have riven and torn From the shuddering brute creation the glories that we have worn. The jewels that blazon bravely on bosom and haughty head Flash forth with a baleful lustre grim messages from the dead! The gold that is girt about us in bracelet and brooch and stud, Is heavy with guilt of murder is tarnished with mire and blood. We are the Arch-Destroyers! timid-souled, soft, and fair Queens of the world of Fashion, whose queendoms are everywhere, Quick ! to your posts, ye hallions ! wielders of fire and steel, Ours is the right pre-emptive to harry, and not to heal! THE DESTROYERS. 59 There is treasure yet for the winning, where the bones of the lost men lie ! There is treasure yet for the buying, no ransom but blood will buy ! Spare not, an ye would serve us! Serve us not, an ye dare! For we are the Arch-Destroyers, our watchword "Never Spare." 60 THE LOST FAIRIES. THE LOST FAIRIES. They come no more with the dancing feet, Where the daffodil chorus rang sweet, so sweet ; Fairies o' mine, have ye fled for ever? Shall we meet no more as we used to meet? They come no more and the wheels run slow, And the laughter is hushed that I used to know; The white owl cries in the twilit meadow Where our revels rang in the long ago. a fairy came knocking one day, one day, At the meadowsweet gate where we used to play 1 heard him knock, but my heart was weary, And I sent him weeping away, away. And ever since then, tho' my heart be sore With waiting and watching, they come no more; And the lilies have stolen their golden sandals, And the poppies are flaunting the gowns they wore. Ah ! ever since then, in the noon o' the flowers, When the lights are soft in the fairy bowers, I sigh and sigh for the banished laughter, For the singing soul of the wasted hours. THE LOST FAIRIES. 61 Do they mourn me, I wonder, as one that passed While the sentinel snapdragons slumbered fast? Or is it they seek me, all loyal-hearted, And dream they shall find me at last, at last? I know not; ever the red suns rise And roll to their rest in the western skies, But the loved, lost voices are silent, silent, And leaps no light to the darkened eyes. Only when twilight lifteth her wand And turneth the glory to shadowland, I hear in the stillness a sound of weeping And know the meaning, and understand. They have passed the boundaries mortals know, Where the asphodel blooms and the dream-stars glow, Tho' I seek them, seek them till suns be ashes, I shall never find them wherever I go. They will come no more with the dancing feet, Where the daffodil chorus rang sweet, so sweet; Where the white owl cries in the haunted meadow, We shall meet no more as we used to meet. 62 THE REBEL. THE REBEL. Down the Mitchell Kylie bred him, where the rust- ling reedbeds shiver ; Kylie swore the devil fed him with ungodly wind and flame ; He was wild as mountain torrent, running riot to the river Never stockyard fence would hold him, never fear of man would tame. So he roamed a royal rebel, while the Springtime brought the wattle, And the Autumn came with wild geese and the whirring wing of quails; And the reedbeds rippled laughter, or they moaned like drums of battle, Still he snorted his defiance of the tackle and the rails. Rising six and never handled all the local boys contended That the chestnut was a waster with a curse upon his head, That he wasn't worth the trouble of the fences to be mended, And the chump that went to break him might be broken in his stead. THE REBEL. 63 That the outlaw colt would beat him, ten to one they betted Kylie, As he drank his " Jimmy Woodser " ; but he splut- tered like a squid. He'd a " stocking " planted somewhere and they loved to twit him slyly; "Think oim grane, do yez," he grumbled, "to be partin' up a quid?" But, jogging gently homeward, putting two and two together, " By the hokey !" muttered Kylie, " but oi've got thim in me hand ; Charlie Ferguson '11 roide him if th' baste '11 carry leather : An' to yard him German Joey an' the Flynns '11 give a hand." " New Year's Day we'll run the yearlin's from the paddick down the river, An' the chestnut sure '11 lead them till we come forninst the lane, Then he'll break an' wheel an' gallop faith we'll nab him thin or niver, He'll be tame as anny donkey whin we bring him out again !" Then Kylie raised discussion and the wildest specu- lation "Touch of sunstroke!" was the verdict when he took them ten to one. THE REBEL. But the joke was past the wisdom of the wily com- bination, So they settled down to waiting for the New Year's bill of fun. Rolled the sunfire o'er the ridges, till the dead-gold ears o' barley Shimmered back a sullen challenge to the lances of the day. By the stockyard gate they mustered German Joe, the Flynns, and Charlie: And Kylie looked as doleful as a bishop at a play. Then they made their calculations for the riding of The Rebel ; Paddy Kylie and the German, with the yearlings for a bait, Would stampede them up the river, straight as sling can throw a pebble, And the others would outflank them in the scrub at Murphy's gate. Up the river-flat like lightning to their hoofstrokes' muffled thunder Ran the yearlings, with the chestnut half a chain or so in front; At the scrub, he wheeled and snorted, Charlie's pony slipped a blunder: And The Rebel raced for freedom then McLaughlin joined the hunt. THE REBEL. 65 Up the flat again they brought them, Joe and Kylie hard behind them, And McLaughlin on the offside on his bay Monaro mare; With a rush upon the gateway and a crack of whips to blind them, And The Rebel missed his moment by the turn- ing of a hair ! "Aisy ! Aisy !" shouted Kylie. " Tis a two-chain road, remimber: An' th' finces, if he thried thim, sure they wouldn't stop a cow ; Up by Mac's we'll separate thim, where th' rails is stiff er timber 'Tis th' stockyard fince '11 hould him very shortly annyhow !" Up by Mac's they blocked the yearlings just a mo- ment stood The Rebel: Just a moment, like a statue scorn in every flash- ing curve; Then full tilt upon the four-rail but the rushing cords sang treble, And they scarred him with their stockwhips as they baulked him in his swerve. Close, and closer still, they pressed him, where the stockyard gaped to hold him, And Kylie's voice was broken and it rose in little squeals, 66 THE REBEL. "By the hokey ! Take him aisy ! Do you think the fince '11 hould him? Holy Moses! But the divil's moighty handy wid his heels!" " Yarded !" Just the hush, unbroken by a twitter or a rustle, 'Twixt the lightning's livid terror and the peal that shakes the ground ; Then a play of whipcord sinews and a launching heave of muscle, And a crash of splintered top-rail, as he landed, safe and sound. Kylie wept and swore together; Dan McLaughlin shouted, " Stop him!" And the others yelled like demons as they held the lane below ; " Four-rail fences capped with wattle," laughed the German, "dot will wop him, Mit dose wombat holes, to jump her he vould grazy be!" said Joe. Four-rail fences capped with wattle, and like tun- nels, dark and hollow, Crumbled take-off side and landing, ran the wom- bat holes beneath. For a breathing space he poised him then he flew, as flies the swallow : There was gripping hard of bridles, there was grit- ting hard of teeth. THE REBEL. 67 For we knew before he struck it, ere his terror-neigh had sunken To a pitiful low moaning, and the big sobs took his breath, Hot with fever-fire of conquest, with the lust of cap- ture drunken, He had weighed it in the balance he was leaping to his death. Kylie cursed the broken, bright thing lying huddled in the hollow, And the German said: " We beat him!" But we knew the beggar lied, For The Rebel raced for freedom by a track we dared not follow To the reedbeds and the rivers 'way beyond the Big Divide. 68 WATCHING. WATCHING. I prayed for the wind of the South, As I swung his cradle slow, And my heart was aye in my mouth, Lest the life of my babe should go On the feverish panting breath Of the sullen November noon, Out where the ships o' Death Sail 'neath a wan white moon. A bittern boomed in the dusk, And the winds of the night were wild; And, pent in its earthly husk, The soul of my restless child Beat 'gainst the bonds of breath; O God! must it journey soon With the crews of the ships o' Death, That steer by a wan white moon? Night paled to the dawn's eclipse, And the moon hung low in the sky ; Still I watched with my heart on my lips Lest the child that I loved should die, Should pass with the dawn's first breath O'er the bar where the ebb-tides croon, And the lights of the ships o' death Wane dim 'neath a wan white moon. THE TALISMAN. THE TALISMAN. A star above the stormy wrack Of all to-day's distresses; A glint of gold that threads the black Of thorny wildernesses! We build our castles of desire O'er fens of black disaster: And bind our souls in bonds of hire Unto an alien master. But o'er the dark horizon line That bounds our skies o' dreaming , Still, still we see the lodestar shine Where Faith's far hills are gleaming. To-morrow Hope will build again O'er shards of ancient sorrow, To-day we tread the vales of pain, We'll climb the hills to-morrow. 70 THE HEATHEN OF TO-DAY. THE HEATHEN OF TO-DAY. Haste not, pale zealots, cross in hand, To peoples far away; They rage within your native land, The Heathen of to-day. Their altars mock the sullen skies, They worship unafraid, With daily human sacrifice, The Juggernauts of Trade, Black Competition's altars smoke; The people's veins run dry; Mammon's accursed vultures choke The glory of the sky. Hyssop and rue and mandragore Fringe Fashion's fetid marge ; The helot sinks beside the oar On Luxury's gilded barge. The Heathen sunk in mire of creeds, And riot of excess, Hedged by historic wrong that pleads For all unrighteousness! THE HEATHEN OF TO-DAY. 71 Ecclesiastic lords that mock Humanity's poor need, And sacerdotal granaries lock With triple bars of greed ! Judicial murderers, whose hands Encompass misery ! Despots who hold or loose the bands Of human destiny, Who, born and bred within the bond Of Macchiavellian bars, Conceive no deity beyond Their piteous avatars, Who offer human sacrifice To idols made of dross, And spit upon the fearful price Of Christ upon the cross Yea ! in their blind idolatry Sloth-slackened sinews strain To lift the Lamb of Calvary Upon the Cross again ! For these! for these that break and bleed To glut their follies new, These for whose sake that Christ would plead " They know not what they do!" 72 THE HEATHEN OF TO-DAY. Meek zealots, let your lamps be lit! Haste ! win them while ye may ! In Earth's high places proudly sit The "Heathen" of to-day! A SEA SONG. 73 A SEA SONG. O softer than Slumber and sweeter than Mirth That is Sorrow's half-brother, Is thy call to the weary, the children of earth, Sea Mother! Sea Mother! The poor souls, the pent souls, the people that pine Where the church bells are pealing; O succour them, soothe them with largess divine Of thine exquisite healing! From the blinding white pathways that blistered their feet, From the fear-folk beside them, Close cradle them, Sea Mother, mother most sweet ! And hold them and hide them! From the Barmecide boons of Life's bitter-black wine, From the storm-stress and smother. Clasp them close in those soft arms, those strong arms of thine, Sea Mother! Sea Mother! 74 A GALLOP OF FIRE. A GALLOP OF FIRE. When the north wind moans thro' the blind creek courses And revels with harsh, hot sand, I loose the horses, the wild, red horses, I loose the horses, the mad, red horses, And terror is on the land. With prophetic murmur the hills are humming, The forest-kings bend and blow; With hoofs of brass on the baked earth drumming, brave red horses, they hear us coming, And the legions of Death lean low. O'er the wooded height, and the sandy hollow Where the boles to the axe have rung, Tho' they fly the foeman as flies the swallow, The fierce red horses, my horses, follow With flanks to the faint earth flung. Or with frenzied hieroglyphs, fear embossing Night's sable horizon bars, Thro' tangled mazes of death-darts crossing, 1 swing my leaders and watch them tossing Their red manes against the stars. A GALLOP OF FIRE. 75 But when South winds sob in the drowned creek courses And whisper to hard wet sand, I hold the horses, the spent red horses, I hold the horses, the tired red horses, And silence is on the land. Yea, the South wind sobs 'mong the drowned creek courses For sorrows no man shall bind Ah, God! for the horses, the black plumed horses, Dear God ! for the horses, Death's own pale horses, That raced in the tracks behind. 76 ANATHEMA. ANATHEMA. The earth is cursed! Grey sky and sullen sea And bitter wind like a half-stifled groan From some blind gulf of outer darkness blown, Where legioned wrong moaneth her broken plea Because of Faith that trusts unceasingly Thro' unavailing ages. Where is God? Hath He forgot? Or drowsy doth He nod On lonely hilltops of Infinity? Silent! all silent! To your tasks, ye boors And human clods that grovel in the dust, And serve Oppression for her bitter bread! Blind, bloodless worms with senses dull as lead ! Spawn of Starvation and the Spoiler's lust, The earth is cursed! and only Greed endures! RED POPPIES WHITE ROSES. 77 RED POPPIES WHITE ROSES. Red poppy blooms a-flaunting Bold lips to every bee, White roses' perfume haunting The very soul of me With touches light and taunting On chords of memory. Red poppies, death-o'ertaken, White roses turned to dust In larger lands unshaken By mould or moth or rust, Will life wake love-forsaken? Behold, the gods are just! Red sunrise, white moon-setting, The seasons wax and wane, Nor heed the torrents fretting To mingle with the main, Nor Sorrow's salt dews wetting Life's perished blooms in vain. Beside the stream's in-flowing, Betwixt twin-paths of fate One stands aghast at going And one sore-grieved to wait Recalls red poppies blowing White roses at the gate. 78 AT EVENSONG. AT EVENSONG. Grandmother sits, when the light is fading Behind the western horizon bars, When come the spirits of sleep invading The dreamy dusk of the world of stars. Grandmother looks, when the lights are failing, Failing, failing o'er field and lawn, Out through the dark where the ships are sailing To a haven of rest in a rose-red dawn. Trembles a song in the silence, linking The world-old past with the yet to be, Like harbour lights thro' the sea-mists blinking, The old, old music, "Abide with me." Grandmother sits where the veil is lifting, And life and death are the self-same bond Twin pilots now, when her barque is drifting Toward the silent bar of the Great Beyond. Soft shine the stars in the dreamland meadows, Where the gleaners whisper of ways that part, And sheaves that withered behind the shadows Where the hot life seethes in the old world's heart. AT EVENSONG. 79 Grandmother sits with her world behind her, Where the shadows tremble on life's worn way, Straining dim eyes through the mists that blind her, Where a lone star gleams in a world of gray. In the vale of the shadows the children, sobbing, Tell of lost treasures the years sweep o'er, And the hearts of men through the years are throb- bing With the old life-hunger for evermore. But Grandmother looks, when the lights are failing, Failing, failing o'er field and lawn, Out through the dark where the ships are sailing To a haven of rest in a rose-red dawn. 8o SONG OF THE AXE. SONG OF THE AXE. A song for the sword ! where the red blood poured An oblation to earthly glory; They have pledged its name to eternal fame, In the pages of song and story. A song for the pen! the cosmic pen, By honesty's clean hand wielded, It has set more stars on our 'scutcheon bars Than ever the lordly steel did. But stronger than these, and braver than these, With a music more meet for singing, Swell out from the trees, thro' the centuries, The echoes of axe strokes ringing. Wherever the beat of resolute feet Down the vale of the years is falling, From the war-worn flanks of their out-post ranks, The song of the axe is calling. O the song of the axe on the westward tracks, By the camp fire ruddily leaping 'Twas the Marseillaise of the roving days That wakened the land from sleeping. They heard it ring where the snow-streams spring, And the arrows of tempest hurtle, As it leaped with a flash and a quivering crash To the heart of a mountain myrtle. SONG OF THE AXE. 81 Where the carriages swerve round the clean-railed curve That clings to the mountain's shoulder, You can read its signs in the ranks of the pines Where the prostrate monarchs moulder. O music and mirth of the cities of earth, O levin of light and laughter! From the forests ye sprang where the ax.es sang Their lyrics of ridge and rafter. It has poured no tears on the restless years, Its march is no march of terror, In the skies that are 'tis a steadfast star, Set high o'er the ways of error When the last bright blade that a proud part played In the pageants of power and plunder, Doth plough the plain for the fertile grain, Still the conquering axe-tones shall thunder, 82 SHIPS. SHIPS. The tide sweeps out across the roaring bar, The wild and ravening bar, (Ah, well that such things be!) The tide sweeps out by sun or moon or star, And bears the ships to sea. The ships o' Fate that steer by stranger stars, By wan and wistful stars, O'er seas of Circumstance, Argos that dare unknown horizon bars To cast the nets of Chance. The wrecks creep in across the moaning bar, The sad and sobbing bar, (Ah, God ! that such things be !) The wrecks creep in by sun or moon or star, Lean largess of the sea. The cliffs are flecked with flakes of flying foam, Of bitter, blinding foam: The fear-blind albatross Wheels shrieking by the harbour lights of home A liturgy of loss. I sent a ship across the sea lang syne (I see the white sails shine Thro' moony mists that flood the far seaways) And all my life went with this ship o' mine Thro' days and nights o' days. SHIPS. 83 I sent a ship across the sea of years The hungry, hurrying years The cruel years that pass and give no sign Of drifting hull or livid tempest spears That brake this barque of mine. And still I wait and watch beside the sea The lilting, laughing sea That bore me back nor plank nor broken spar- And see in dreams this ship that went from me Creep in across the bar. RECOMPENSE. RECOMPENSE. Let misers keep their gold, kings keep their power, And petty princelings hug the chains of pride, Place-hunters flaunt the triumph of an hour, Which Time's myrmidons swiftly shall divide ! I claim no part or place within the train Of pageantry, or aught that pageant gives Nor join in vain Te Deums o'er the slain, Or hope that dies, or recreant faith that lives ! But in the larger life which circles all, From lowest unto highest, brake nor bound Shall keep mine own from me, or steal withal, Or rival claimants baffle or confound! My right to live, not to myself alone; My right to toil for that which others share ; My right to bring to Truth's white altar stone Heart's incense of high thought, and lay it there; My right to oneness with the souls that dare For Right's dear sake the Tyrant's beck and nod, To lead the listless legions of despair By paths of nobler fellowship to God; Life's wine, heart's treasure these mine own shall be, Gift of the years, all other gifts above ! Live pulsing hearts, warm human sympathy ! Let misers keep their gold my gold is Love. SOCIETY. 85 SOCIETY. O bubble blown on rotting seas of Crime! Wan iridescence 'gendered of Decay, Ignis fatuus whose fallacious ray Dances a dance of death above the slime Beneath you lie the promises of Time, The power, the pride, the hope of yesterday Magnificence of nations passed away Like phantom puppets of forgotten mime. What legioned valour beating bars of breath Has stifled in your dungeons of Dismay ! What love shall sit in darkness for your sake Till Hate no seas of sophistry shall slake Shall sweep your tainted loveliness away, O bubble blown from bloated lips of Death! 86 BITTER-SWEET. BITTER-SWEET. The sacred fires are cold, O Love! O Heart of Gold! Beyond the sobbing of the sundering sea A spectre sits and waits By Memory's bolted gates, And calls, and calls across the years to me. Nor wreath of rose or rue Fate wove for me or you : The sands run out, the blackening brands expire Where passion sits and moans With eyes as dry as stones Beside the ashes of her lost desire. Nor spark shall warm the clay, Nor gold shall gild the grey, The harvest ripes for other hands to win; No more for Love's dear sake Shall the old sweet music wake Where the " glory-sky" leaned low on Ta Mahinna. The sacred fires are cold, O Love! O Heart of Gold! Life's red wine dyes the desert at our feet, But aye from years behind, A restless, homeless wind Comes laden with hearts' incense, bitter-sweet. THE CITY OF SLOTH. 87 THE CITY OF SLOTH. The city of a thousand gates That ope on all the seas, A thousand fleets that bear the freights Of opulence and ease ! The city of a thousand gates That ope on all the lands, Whose fruitage falls, whose fullness waits To fill her high commands! Boast not her pride, ye aldermen, Ye pharisaic few! Who know not that dread moment when Nemesis sups with you. Her legions, pitiless and stark, Have slipped oppression's chain, To surge, death-drifted thro' the dark, And claim their own again. Reckless ye dare the unseen odds, Take heed, ye hooded owls! And turn ye, turn ye to your gods, Or e'er the man-pack howls! 88 THE CITY OF SLOTH. Your pride is false,, your boasting lies, Your feasting tragedy; Your triumphs peer thro' haunting eyes Of human misery! Around your boards the vampire brood Which veils its traitor face In patriot domino and hood Claims its dishonoured place! Power and more power, your captains strive For victories of an hour! Blindfold, but desperate ye drive The blindfold steeds of power! Wealth and more wealth, the pigmy power That holds your helots tame, Shall turn to ashes in the hour That sees your skies aflame! Wealth and more wealth, the petty pride, Slow compassed, swift undone Nineveh in the dust doth hide! And where is Babylon? Quick ! to your gates ! the pent flame leaps, To whelm your brittle dross; Too late! the red wing'd terror sweeps Your tottering towers across! THE CITY OF SLOTH. 80 Wolf and grey wolf Nemesis nods Take heed, ye hooded owls! And turn ye, turn ye to your gods, Or e'er the man-pack howls ! Wolf and grey wolf the balance turns To-morrow's winds at play Shall whistle o'er unhonoured urns Of immemorial clay! go THE UNDERSONG. THE UNDERSONG. (Fleet Welcome.) O the bannered sea is gay, and the shores keep holiday, And the hot life-tide leaps high To the fluttering flags adip, to the pride of ship and ship, As the glittering hulls go by. Is it tribute meet for Power, for the bubble of an hour? Is it homage for the brave in fight To Might, the overlord of the red and ruthless sword ; To the bright blade bared to smite? O the World-call thrilling thro'! O the watch- word ringing true O'er the petty paths we dare ! Where the glimmering grey hull glides to the sob of sundering tides And the pulses of the World beat, bare. THE UNDERSONG. 91 Tis the undersong that rings thro' the inner soul of things ! From the Tropics to the Poles it runs; Waking, waking souls from sleep with a resonance more deep Than the thunder of your twelve inch guns. List! 'tis throbbing, throbbing now from the Leeu- win to Cape Howe, From Otway to the lone Gulf shore! 'Tis the call of race to race that shall quicken Time and Place, Till war shall be no more no more! 'Tis the call of man to man, cleaving bars of creed and clan As your steel bows cleave the foam ; 'Tis a beacon burning bright for the homeless hosts of Right, Ever beckoning, Come home! Come home! So it's true, brother! true to the solemn star and new That burns in the skies above; Ship and sister ship we speak, and the ensign at the peak Is the star the steadfast star of Love. 92 DISINHERITED. DISINHERITED. (Here and there, a little apart from the laughing crowd that surged in the traffic-ways of Melbourne streets during Fleet Week, little groups of Abori- gines in gaudy second-hand apparel, stood and watched the illuminations.) 'Mid her radiant raiment of laughter and light, Of her splendour the pity, You are drifting like ghosts of the carnival night Of the beautiful city. As a wan wind of March when the forest is stirred With Autumnal foretoken, You pass, and the lights and the laughter are blurred With a sorrow unspoken. Sere Autumn leaves whirled on the eddying stream Of the conquering races, Sad elves from a wistful, wild glamour of Dream, O faces, brown faces! High over the mirth and the merriment, hark O'er the gay saturnalia The cry of a spirit that moans in the dark " Australia, Australia !" DISINHERITED. 93 The croon of a mother fast clutched by despair That shall never know healing, A Hagar's lament for the child that she bare Thro' the music is stealing. But deep in the dark of your slumbering eyes Burn no Sibylline traces, Where the lost Alcheringa fire smoulders and dies, O faces, brown faces! Deaf, deaf are your ears to the passion and pain Of a grief unavailing, Dumb syllables set to the sobbing refrain Of swans sunward sailing. Wild children, sad children, deep whelmed by the roar Of the tide that effaces, You shall pass and your forest shall know you no more, Brown faces! Brown faces! 'Mid her radiant raiment of laughter and light, Of her splendour the pity, You are drifting like ghosts of the carnival night Of the beautiful city. 94 WY YUNG. WY YUNG. Beyond the ridge of Never Forget Is a grey ghost land where no glad gleam flashes, Where run the rivers of Old Regret, And the red fruit withers to dust and ashes. Over the edge of the World it lies Where curlews call and the reed beds shiver, And Time is a sorrow that never dies In old Wy Yung by the Mitchell river. There youth came tripping with lightsome feet, Brave youth with the clog of a curse upon it, Where poppies flamed in the whispering wheat, And young winds tilted the blue bell's bonnet : Sad youth came sighing with heart athirst, And a passionate prayer to the Cosmic Giver : Ah, God! for the faith that was fairest, first, In old Wy Yung by the Mitchell river. Change on the grey land has worked his will Nor softened a line on its face abhorred, Gapped are the gum trees on Calvert's hill Like time-thinned hairs on an old man's forehead ; And a spectre stalks thro' the dappled maize Where dead flags rustle and tassels quiver, A spectre dark as the bygone days In old Wy Yung by the Mitchell river. A FRAGMENT. 95 A FRAGMENT. The dark day dies ! Be still my heart, nor sorrow For God's aloofness or for man's dismay! Haply to usward sets some radiant morrow Behind the dark To-day! Haply doth shine, beyond these eyes' discerning, Serenely steadfast thro' estranging fears, The patient star of our divinest yearning Above the stormy years. The false, the true, the shadow and the real, That mock our souls with finite "Yea" and "Nay"- Haply from these shall rise our White Ideal And bide with us alway. 96 LA MISERE. LA MISERE. O black Sargasso ! choked lagoon where rot The human wrecks by Fortune's backwash hurled From out the pulsing man-seas of the World To hide as things that are and yet are not. Grim stagnant pool wherein the craft of Greed Trawl 'mid the slime and clutch for guerdon fair, Here warm gold of a drowned woman's hair, Here youth's lost sunshine and its careless creed, And here a heart's hushed music ! "Nets o' lies, What treasure bring ye from the depths to-night, Or pearl or shell-trove?" "Nay! but laughing light That once made morning in the children's eyes." CROOKED RIVER. 97 CROOKED RIVER. A league o' brown with lights o' gold, And, 'gainst blue sky's resistance, Far hilltops gleaming white and cold Across the purple distance ! Beyond the hum of city streets, Their strife and stress and scorning, Again through worn world-pulses beats The magic of the morning. I see the lone hawk wheeling high, The blown, brown reed-beds shiver, And faint and far the hills that lie Beyond the Crooked River. O haunted hills! O holy hills! Where wizard lights are streaming O'er Youth's enchanted window sills From hinter-skies of dreaming; g8 CROOKED RIVER. Whereon we heard in hushed respite Of Echo's elfin laughter Faint footsteps of the Infinite On floors of His Hereafter. O hills behind the hollow dark Where human wisdom falters, And Hate keeps vigil, stern and stark, By Custom's petty altars! It seems so long since life was love From God's heart brimming over, The lark-song in the blue above, The brown bee 'mong the clover : So long, by drifting dawns and darks Since (Christ ! Thy creed grows colder !) God lived among the ironbarks On Lookout's ragged shoulder. What tho* since then (Ah, ruthless change !) On charts of land Australian, They've writ my hills a mountain range With title cold and alien ! CROOKED RIVER. 99 "Australian Alps?" No pulses leap To greet that title olden, Where hushed in memoried twilight sleep Life's glamoured things and golden. "Australian Alps?" Nay, nay, there thrills Through Memory skies a-quiver The glory of my hills " the hills Beyond the Crooked River." zoo SOUL FERRY. SOUL FERRY. There's a mist upon the river Where it runs by Peopletown (O the ferry by the river O the swiftly-running sands!) O the ghostly winds a-shiver Where the life-lights flicker down And the strangers take the ferry where the stream is ribbed and brown, In the boats not made with hands. There's a boat beside the ferry, And a silent boatman steers (O the lilt of lipping water as he dips his muffled oar!) For they drown beside the ferry, Where the ribbed brown current veers And an eerie chant comes floating floating back to mortal ears On the winds of Evermore. And never day rolls westward, And never night comes east (O the rustle of their garments, and the wan wind sobbing low!) But riotward or restward, SOUL FERRY. 101 From the fast or to the feast They must journey by Soul Ferry Yea, the greatest and the least Where the ribbed brown waters flow. Still they dream beside the ferry Where the silent boatman waits (O the whisp'ring of the waters, where the soul- ships settle down!) Ay, they dream beside Soul Ferry With its motley, mystic freights, Creeping outward, creeping inward by the veiled and silent gates By the gates of Peopletown. ica PRESCIENCE. PRESCIENCE. One red rose bud upon Life's thorny tree, Like a closed gate unto dominions bright, Which Time shall open with his Key of light, Beside that gate I kneel, a devotee, And hear the hidden priests their chants intone, Within the mystic inner temple where The heart of all the Universe beats, bare, Thro' parting portals, O red rose half blown! To-morrow pirate winds will spread their wings, Their soft sail-wings of faery gossamer, And, jealous, I shall hear thro' drone and whirr, The slumbrous serenade the brown bee sings, One last, last, hot red sunset, beauteous close Of cycled song, that sinks into a sob Of funeral zephyrs, wailing as they rob, Petal by petal, my red, full blown rose. Shall it be so, bright talisman? Shall I, Soul-sickened, see thy full-orbed bloom decline? Nay! With thy rich heart brimmed with Nature's wine, I pluck thee now ! I cannot watch thee die ! TA-MAHINNA. 103 TA-MAHINNA. Moon islands out in the shimmering splendour Of the moon's white pathway of silver fire; Moon shadows touching a dream-world tender O Ta-Mahinna! O heart's desire! Were you only a dream with a dream's surrender, A moon-spun glory that must expire? A fate-flung phantom out in the distance, A rose in the greyness of life's grey chart, Shall I wrestle with fiends in a fool's resistance? O Ta-Mahinna! my restless heart Craves thee again with a fierce insistence, And we are drifting apart! apart! O Ta-Mahinna! Shall Time's dividing Quench the white lustre of moons gone by? Is there no land of a great abiding For the beacons that beckoned from lip and eye, Love's lost stars out in the darkness hiding Beyond the gates of the grave's good-bye? No lotus land where the gods are tending The lone lost stars of our exile drear? No glad green twilight of peace descending 104 TA-MAHINNA. From Love's own land of the Always Near, Where we'll gather the blossoms of joy unending, With the faith of the children that know not fear? In the radiant lap of a land unsmitten By death and darkness and dreams that die, Where no soul walks in the darkness, bitten With the listless langour that makes no cry, Shall they live in the essence of things unwritten, When the hills are dust and the seas are dry? Who shall say while the dead are sleeping, And fettered souls in their prisons fret If this be the end of our time of weeping? We dream it may be, and yet! and yet- If one should waken with pulses leaping For glad remembrance and one forget? Ever the hunter of lives is calling Calling for sacrifice fair and fresh, Where the strong souls wrestle their bondage galling, And the weaklings languish in bond and mesh; Shall he ever have ruth for life's red rain falling For the strong soul cleaving the quivering flesh? Nay ! It is written ! the pale years, fleeing Like a train of ghosts to the far away, Bear all our treasures beyond our seeing, TA-MAHINNA 105 And the earth-heart yawns for the senseless clay That has lived and laboured and spent its being Like the swift, sweet breath of a summer day. Ah Ta-Mahinna ! My heart is yearning For life's full measure and life is o'er, And I am hungered and sick with learning The weary wisdom of world-old lore. This is the end ! God ! the slow sands turning And then the darkness for evermore. 106 HAMILTON. HAMILTON. Wild and wet, and windy wet falls the night on Hamilton, Hamilton that seaward looks unto the setting sun, Lady of the patient face, lifted everlastingly, Veiled and hushed and mystical as a cloistered nun. O the days, the cruel days creeping over Hamilton Like a train of haggard ghosts, homeless and ac- cursed, Moaning for a fleet o' dream silver-sailed and won- derful, Moaning for a sorrow's sake, the fairest and the first. O the moon, the lonely moon, leaning low on Hamilton, Thro' the years that sunder us the dead come back, come back, Scent of white eucrephia stars blown on winds of Memory, Glint and gleam of fagus gold adown the torrent's track. Half my heart is buried there, buried high on Hamil- ton, Lonely is the sepulchre with never stone for sign, Where the nodding myrtle plumes stand like sable sentinels And the ruddy rimony wreathes the hooded pine. HAMILTON. 107 Half my heart is yearning yet, yearning yet for Hamilton, Hamilton beyond the surge of sobbing Southern main, O the croon of wistful winds calling, calling, calling me, Where the mottled mountain thrush is singing in the rain. We shall ne'er go back again, back again to Hamil- ton, Heart o' me, our track is toward the heart of burning day, Hills beyond the call of hills beaconing and beckon- ing Westward, westward winds the track, a thread of dusky grey. io8 PHASES. PHASES. Just a flush of pleasure And a flash of pain For a half-guessed treasure Found and lost again: Faery fancies flocking, Hopes and fears astart, That's when Love comes knocking- Knocking at the heart. Just the glad surrender To a power that rings Earthward from the tender Godward heart of things: God's own hands a-swinging Heaven's gates apart, That's when Love is singing Singing in the heart. Gold of lost Septembers Blown across the grey, Hope's dead camp-fires' embers, Ghosts beside the way : Mute the lyre, unlifted, Sad the skies athwart, That's when love has drifted Drifted from the heart. LOOK UP. 109 LOOK UP. O phantom bars and futile bands ! O fettered feet of clay ! O blind unfaith and folded hands ! The East is growing grey. Look up! Hope's rainbow hangs athwart More joys than life can hold! O loving heart, O longing heart, The skies are dropping gold! O heavy heart, O laggard trust, O lips too faint to pray! Tho' dauntless dust go down to dust Yet each shall have his day. From alien seas no man may chart, From stress of wind and foam, O weary heart, O waiting heart, Your ships are beating home! no THE KEENING. THE KEENING. We are the women and children Of the men that mined for gold: Heavy are we with sorrow, Heavy as heart can hold; Galled are we with injustice, Sick to the soul of loss Husbands and sons and brothers Slain for the yellow dross ! We are the women and children Of the men that died like sheep, "Stoping" the stubborn matrix, Piling the mullock heap, Stifling in torrid "rises," Stumbling with stupid tread Along the Vale of the Shadow To the thud of the stamper-head 1 We are the women and children Of the miners that delved below Main-shaft and winze and crosscut- Opening the silly " show." THE KEENING. in Look at us! Yea, in our faces! God! Are ye not ashamed In the sight of your godless fellows Of the men ye have killed and maimed? They moiled like gnomes in the "faces," They choked in the " 'fracteur" fumes, And your dividends paved the pathways That led to their early tombs. With Death in the sleepless night-shifts They diced for the prize ye drew; And the Devil loaded the pieces But the stakes were held by you ! Ye were the lords of Labor ; They were the slaves of Need. Homes had they for the keeping, Children to clothe and feed ! Ye paid them currency wages Shall it stand to your souls for shrift That ye bought them in open market For " seven-and-six a shift?" Wise in your generation, Cunning are ye in your day! But 'ware of the stealthy vengeance That never your wealth shall stay ! H ua THE KEENING. They won it yea, with their life-blood; Ye laughed at the sacrifice; But by every drop of your spilling We shall hold you to pay the price ! Ye have sown the wind, to your sorrow ; Ye have sown by the coward's code, Where the glimmering candles gutter, And the rock-drill bites on the lode ! Ye have sown to the jangle of stampers, To the brawl of the Stock Exchange, And your children shall reap the whirlwind On the terms that the gods arrange. And ye, who counsel the nation, Statesmen who rule the State! Foolish are ye in your weakness, Wise are we in our hate! Traitors and false that pander To the spillers of human life, Slaying with swords of silence Who dared not slay with the knife! And ye of the House of Pilate, Ye who gibber of Christ At the foot of the golden crosses Where the sons of men are triced! THE KEENING. 113 Ye who whimper of patience, Who slay with a loose-lipped lie At the word of the fat blasphemers Whose poppet-heads mock the sky! We are the women and children Of the men that ye mowed like wheat ; Some of us slave for a pittance Some of us walk the street; Bodies and souls, ye have scourged us ; Ye have winnowed us flesh from bone: But, by the God ye have flouted, We will come again for our own! H4 CITY HUNGER. CITY HUNGER. A tent 'neath the gum trees? O No! No! Give me the stream of which I am part The red stream filling the old world's heart With life and laughter, with rapture and glow. Give me the battle the strivers ken With comrades beside and the goal before. tears and laughter and strife to the core 1 love you! love you, cities of men! Fair are the halls where the white stars peer Thro' green arched casements from kindly skies! But the cities of men have a thousand eyes That beacon and beckon the distant near. With Life on the march and Time on the wing To a wild world measure, what matter the odds? Or roses strewn by the hands of the gods? Or hyssop and rue that the seasons bring? Sing not of far-folden hills agleam, Of sun-kissed valleys where Strife is not, The sylvan Nirvanas where ripe to rot The fruits of Toil and the flowers of Dream. CITY HUNGER. 115 A leaf among leaves I had rather be tossed 'Mong the soul-ships cleaving a treacherous tide Or freighted for ports of the Barmecide, Or bound for the deep sea docks o' the lost. A tent 'neath the gum trees? No! not I! I'll march with the rabble, clean and unclean, Judas, Barrabas or Nazarene And die as I lived when it's time to die. Till from the banquet that mortals ken The lights wane low and the guests depart tears and laughter and strife to the heart, 1 love you ! love you, cities of men ! UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-Series4939 UC SOUTHERN REGIONA .UB^MJjffl A 000 557 820 8 Hi-