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AN    AUSTRALIAN   BURIAL. 


K'W'!':^>'-<>*^-   '.•■    ■    ■■-■■■ 

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THE  LIBRARY 


OF 


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UNIVERSITY 
CALIFORNIA 
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A    CENTURY 


OF 


AUSTRALIAN    SONG 


EDITED    BY 

DOUGLAS  B.  W.  SLADEN,  B.A,  OxoN. 
B.A.,  LL.B.,  Melbourne,  Australia 


CENTENARY    EDITION 


LONDON 

WALTER    SCOTT 

24  WARWICK  LANE,  PATERNOSTER  ROW 
1S88 


[This    Volume    is   an    enlarged    Edition    of 
"  Australian  Ballads  and  Rhymes."] 


PR 

IxspiRED  BY  Life  in  tue  Greater  Britain 
Under  the  Southern  Cross, 

TO   THE    ENGLISH    OF   THREE    CONTINENTS. 


QU/S  SEPARABIT? 

Why  separate  ?    I  would  that  we  zuere  o/ie— 

A'ot  we,  and  she,  and  Canada  alone. 

But  our  lost  brothers  of  the  Union. 

Union  is  strength — Union  is  statecraft  too  ; 

And  what  are  we  if  England  be  not  with  us, 

But  a  few  traders  fringing  the  sea  coast 

Of  a  huge  lialf  discovered  Continent — 

A  fezu  backzcoodsmen  pushing  out  our  bounds 

A  forced  march  further  in  t/ie  'cuilderness. 

Through  peril  and  starvation,  year  by  year. 

We  have  a  noble  future,  but  not  yet 

Have  we  emerged  from  childhood,  and  our  bones 

And  sinews  are  not  set  to  manhood's  mould  ; 

We  are  not  old  enough  to  leave  our  home 
And  launch  out  into  life  like groxvn-up  men  ; 

We  could  not  by  ourselves  maintain  the  strife 

In  war  zvitli  a  great  nation,  disciplined. 
And  hardened  by  a  thousand  years  of  battles. 

We  are  the  picquets  of  an  army  sent 

To  pioneer  and  keep  a  steady  watch 

Against  advancing  foes — a  vanguard  sent 

To  carry  a  position  and  hold  out 

Until  the  reinforcement  can  come  up. 


r^A  cr 


15967 


DEDICA  TION. 

We  have  done  yeoman  s  service  for  the  State  ; 
But  is  it  ivise  to  call  for  separation 
From  the  main  force,  and  const  ittitc  ourselves 
An  indepctideiit  corps,  because  no  foe 
Has  fronted  us,  no  lurid  cloud  of  war 
Darkened  our  fair  horizon  f 

While  we  cling 
To  our  great  mother  we  are  sons  and  heirs 
To  all  the  heroes  iti  her  Abbey  laid  ; 
Our  fathers  fought  at  Crecy,  Agincourt, 
Blenheim,  Quebec,  Trafalgar,   Waterloo; 
Bacon's  and  Sliakspere's  countrymen  are  we  ; 
Nnut07is  disciples,  friends  of  Walter  Scott  : 
Fellow-i?iventors  of  Watt,  Stephenson, 
Arkwright,  Sir  Humphrey  Davy,  and  Wheatstonc, 
Felloic-discoverers  of  Drake  and  Cook  : 
Brothers-in-arms  of  Wellington-  and  Nelson  ; 
Successors  to  the  Lords  of  Runnymede, 
Assigns  of  the  Petitioners  of  Right, 
Executors  of  Englatid's  Constitution, 
Joint-tenants  of  the  cotnjnerce  of  the  world, 
Joint-owners  of  the  Empire  upon  which 
The  sun  sets  never,  co-heirs  of  the  Fame 
Built  up  by  valour,  learning,  statesi?tanship, 
Integrity,  etidurance,  and  devotion. 
O'er  land  and  sea,  in  fierce  and  frozen  climes, 
Through  eight  bloodstained  and  glorious  centuries. 
Divide  us,  and  loe  sink  at  once  to  botirgeois. 
Received  in  the  society  of  Jiations 
Just  for  our  wealth,  and  laughed  at  secretly 
By  the  proud  Goveriiments  of  ancient  blood 
Who  ever  zuear  tlieir  rapiers  at  their  sides 
To  draw  for  fancied  insults — while  poor  we, 
Like  good  plaiji  ij-adesmen,  have  to  ptit  our  pride 
Into  our  pocket,  and  when  one  check's  struck 
Present  the  other  meekly  to  the  smiter. 
But  while  we  Uveas  children  in  the  household 
Of  the  great  Empire,  let  them  but  instill 
Her  honour  in  the  poorest  artisan 
Who  labours  in  our  streets,  and  there  tuill follow 
Swift  vengeance  borne  along  in  serried  ranks 
Of  veterans,  or  wafted  over  seas. 
In  her  triumphant  Navy's  iron  fleets. 


DEDICA  TION. 

Dear  land  of  my  adoption,  snxr  not 

The  right  hand  from  tliy  parent,  nor  despoil 

Thy  motlier  of  her  youngest,  fairest  child  I 

But  rather  be  united  in  thyself 

With  all  thy  members  knit  in  close  communion. 

And  strive  to  draw  thy  sisters  east  and  west 

More  closely  }-ound  her,  till  in  after  years 

The  children — older,  wiser,  mightier — 

Shall  be  found  -cvorthy  to  assert  their  voice 

Beside  their  mother  in  a  Parliament 

Replete  from  every  corner  of  the  realm. 


Douglas  B.  IV.  Sladen, 

In  "A  Poetry  of  Exiles.* 


CONTENTS. 


I'ACK 

THE    DEDICATiOX  ,  .  .  .  .  iii 


TABLE   OF    COXIEXI. 


IXTRODUCTION  ,....! 

FRANCIS  \v.  L.  ADAMS,  Queensland — 

The  Sheep-shearers,     roctical  Works  (Brisbane  Kd.).  .  35 

Spring  Morning.      Po:lical  Works  (Brisl)ane  Etl.).  .  t^^ 

The  Kangaroo  Hunt.     Pcc'ical  Works  (Brisbane  Ed.).        .         37 

ALPHA  CRUCLs,  New  South  Wales — 

Trucanini's  Dirge.     Soii^s  of  ilic  Stars,  and  olhcr  Pociits      .         39 

EMMA  FRANCE.S  ANDERSON,  South  Australia  ( 1 842-1 868) — 

Evening  :  a  Fragment.     Colonial  Poems      .  .  .44 

An  Australian  Curl's  Farewell.     Colonial  Poems      .  .         46 

ANONYMOUS,  Soutli  Australia — 

A  Voice  from  the  Diish.     Soitl/i  Australian  I^cgisicr  .         48 

AUSTRAL    (Mrs.    J.    G.    Wilson),   \'ictorin    and    Ncv/ 
Zealand  — 

Fairyland.      IVw  Aiis/ralasian  ,  .  .  -53 

A  Spring  Afternoon,  New  Zealand.      T/':c  Aiislra'asian       .         55 


CONTENTS. 


AUSTRALiE  (Mrs.  Hubert  Heron),  New  South  Wales — 

From  the  Clyde  to  Braidwood.      The  Balance  of  Pain  .         57 

The  Explorer's  iMessage.      The  Balance  of  Fain       .  .         62 

AUSTRALis  (Dr.  Patrick  Moloney).  Victoria — 

Melbourne    (in    "  Sonnets   Ad    Innuptani ").      An   Easter 

Omelette  .  .  .  .  .  -69 

L.  AVIS  (Mrs.  C.  Watkins),  New  Zealand — 

The  Tui.     New  Zealand  Paper        .  .  .  -70 

GEORGE  BARRiNGTON,  New  South  Wales  — 

Prologue   to  "The  Revenge."     Recited  at  the   tcnipo)-ary 

Theatre,  Sydney,  1796  .  .  .  .  .71 

ALEXANDER  w.  BATHGATE,  New  Zealand — ■ 

Our  Heritage.     New  Zealand  Paper  .  .  -73 

To  the  Moko-Moko  (Bell-Bird).     Ne-w  Zealand  Paper         .         75 
The  Clematis.     New  Zealand  Paper  .  .  -77 

H.  H.  BLACKHAM,  South  Australia— 

Forsaken  Homes  and  Graves.     Manuscript  .  .         jS 

THOMAS  BRACKEN,  Victoria  and  New  Zealand  (1843) — 

To  Sir  George  Grey,  K.C.B.     Lays  of  the  Land  of  the  Maori 

and  the  ALoa       ......         80 

Orakau.     Lays  of  the  Land  of  the  Maoi  i  and  the  J/oa  .         81 

McGillviray's  Dream.     LMys  of  the  Land  of  the  Maori  and 

the  Moa  ......         84 

JOHN  BRIGHT,  Victoria — 

When  I  am  Dead.      Wattle  Blossoms  and  Wild  Flowers      .         94 

(sir)  i'rkuerick  NAPiKR  nROOMic,  Ncw  Zealand  and 
West  Australia  (1842) — ■ 
On  my  Twenty-fourth  Birthday.     Poems  from  iVew  Zealand        96 


CONTENTS.  ix 

PAGE 

JENNINGS  CARMiCHAEL,  Victoria — 

Tomboy  Madge.     The  Weekly  Times,  McUotirrii:   .  .         98 

ETHEL  CASTiLLA,  Victoria — 

An  Australian  Girl.     iMelboumc  Paper         .  .  .        loi 

ALFRED  T.  CHANDLER,  South  Australia  (1852) — 

Bess.     J  Bush  Idyll  .  .  .  .  .102 

Catching  the  Coach.     ^  Bitsh  IJyll  .  .  .106 

A  Bush  Iilyll.     A  Bush  Idyll  .  .  .  .Ill 

.AL\RCUS  CLARKE,  Victoria  (1847-1S81)  — 

"  In  a  Lady's  Album."     Sent  by  Patchctt  Martin    .  .116 

NELLIE  s.  CLERK,  Victoria — • 

Gippsland  Spring  Song.     Songs  from  the  Gippsland  Forest .       118 

J.    F.    DANIELL,  VictoHa 

The  Jubilee  of  Melbourne.     Rhymes  for  the  Times  .       121 

ERASMUS    DARWIN 

A  Fulfilled  Prophecy.     A  Broadside  of  i']S>()  .  .       124 


ALFRED  DOMETT,  Ncw  Zealand  (1811-1887) — 

The  Prelude  to  Ranolf  and  Amohia.     Ranolf  and  Amohia 
The  Legend  of  Tawhaki.     Ranolf  and  Amohia 
Miroa's  Story.     Ranolf  and  Amohia 
Tane,  the  Tree  God.     Ranolf  and  Amohia 
The  Pink  Terraces,  N.Z.     Ranolf  and  Amohia 
The  Haunted  Mountain.     Ranolf  and  Amohia 


125 

127 

134 
136 
143 
148 


LINDSAY  DUNCAN   (Mrs.   T,   C.    Cloud),    South  Aus- 
tralia— 
Christmas  Guests.     Adelaide  Paper  .  .  .       150 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

DUGALD    FERGUSON,    New    South   Wales   and    New 

Zealand  (1840) — 

The  Upper  Darling  (in  "The  Lambs").     Castle  Gay,  and 

other  Poems        .  .  .  .  .  .154 

RARRON    FIELD,  NCVV  SoUth  WalcS — ■ 

Sonnet.  (On  visiting  the  spot  where  Captain  Cook  and  Sir 
Joseph  Banks  first  landed  in  Botany  Bay).  Fic/cf  s  IVi.ii< 
South  IVaks  ■      .  .  .  .  .  •       I55 

ALEXANDER  FORBES,  Queensland — 

The  Shepherd's  New  Year's  Day.     A  J'oi'ce  fivw  the  Bush       156 

wiLLL\M   FORSTER,  Ncw  Soulh  Wales  (18 1 8-1  88-) — 

From  Midas.     MiJas  .  .  ,  ,  .       15S 

FRANCES  TYRRELL  GILL,  Victoria— 

Tlie  \Vind  in  the  .She-oak  Tree.      The  Australasian  .       163 

Beneath  the  Wattle  Boughs.      The  Australasian      .  .        166 

Love's  Loyalty.      'I'he  Australasian  .  .  .167 

KEiGHLEV  GOODCHiLi),  Victoria — 

While  the  Billy  Boils.     Who  are  You?        .  .  .        170 

H.  NEWTON  GOODRICH,  Victoria — 

Angel-Beckoned.     Poetical  ]Vorks  (Melbourne  EJ.).  .       173 

ADAM    LINDSAY    GORDON,    Victoria  and    South   Aus- 
tralia (1833-1870) — 

The  Sick  Stockrider.      Volume  fmblished  by  Jl/assina  ^-- Co.        177 
An  Exile's  Farewell.      Temple  Bar  .  .  ,       iSl 

HENRY  HALLORAN,  C.M.Cr.,  Ncw  South  Walcs  (1811) — 

Extract  from  "  Queen's  I'.irlhday  Ode,"  1SS7.    foei/is,  Odes, 

and  Sollies  .  .  .  ,  .  .        1S4 


CONTEATS. 


CHARLES  HARPUR,  New  South  Wales  (i 812- 1868) — 

The  Cloud.  Volume  publislicd  by  George  Roherlson  ^  Co.  1S7 
Tlie  Creek  of  the  Four  Graves.    Volume  published  by  George 

Robertson  ^  Co.  .  .  -.  .  .190 

A  Storm  on  the  Mountain-;.      Vohinie  published  by  George 

Robertson  &=  Co.  .  .  .  .  .199 

An   Aboriginal   Mother's    Lament.      Volume  published  by 

George  Robertson  ct^  Co.  .  .  .  .       20< 


EiJiiXHZER  STORRY  HAY  (Flcta),  Ncw  Zealand — 

Isabel.      Some  Cliaracteristics  of  Wordsworth'' s  Poetry,  and 
their  Lessons  for  us.     An  Essay,  and  some  Poems  by 
Fleta       .  .  .  .  .  .  .       207 

A  Song  ,,  ,,  ,,  .       209 

Ideal  iJeauty  ,,  ,,  ,,  .       210 


THOMAS  HENEY,  New  South  Walcs 

The  Hut  on  the  Flat.     P'ortiinale  Days       .  .  .212 

The  Flower  Everlasting.     Fortunate  Days  .  ,  .       222 


PHILIP  J.  HOLDSWORTH,  New  South  Wales — 

My  Queen  of  Dreams.     Station  Hunting  on  the  JFarrego    .       224 
Station  Hunting  on  the  Warrcgo.     Station  Hunting  on  the 

IVarrego  .  .  .  .  .  .225 


R.  H.  HORXE,  Victoria — 

Aboriginal  Song  and  Choruses.      7V/e  South  Sea  Sisters — .-/ 

Lyric  Masque     .  .  .  .  .  .242 

JOHN  HOWELL,  South  Australia — 

.Selection  from  the  Cantata.      Rose-Lcai'cs  from  an  Anstia- 

lian  Garden       ......       244. 

JOHN  LiDDELL  KELLY,  New  Zealand  ( 1850) — 

Tuhotu's  \'ision.     Taraicera;  or,  The  Curse  of  TuJiotu       .       245 


COXTENTS. 


HENRY  KENDALL,  Ncw  South  Wales  (1842-1882) — 

The  Muse  of  Australia.     Poons  and  Songs,  1^62 
Mountains.     Foenis  and  Songs,  1862 

The  Rain  comes  Sobbing  to  the  Door.  Poems  and  Songs,  1S62 
Prefatory  Sonnets.     Leaves  from  Australian  Forests 
Sitting  by  the  Fire.     Leaves  from  Atistralian  Forests 
"The  Warrigal "  (Wild   Dog).     Leaves  from   AttstraVian 
Forests    ...... 

Bell-Birds.     Leaves  from  Australian  Forests 

At  Euroma.     Leaves  from  Australian  Forests 

September  in  Australia.     Leaves  from  Australian  Forests 

Mooni.     Songs  from  the  Jl/ountains  . 

Cooranbean.     Songs  from  the  Mountains 

Orara.     Songs  f/om  the  Mountains    . 

Leichhardt.     Songs  from  the  J\/ountains 

"  After  Many  Years."     Songs  fro///  the  Mountains  . 


251 
252 
256 
258 
260 

262 
264 
266 
268 
271 
276 
280 
283 
287 


JANE  DE  w.  KNOX,  Victoria  and  Norfolk  Island — ■ 
The  Old  Love  ..... 


290 


THE    REV.    JOHN    DUNMORE    LANG,    NeW  South  WaleS 

(1799-1878)- 

D'Entrecasteax'  Channel,  Van  Dieman's  Land.  Aurora 
Australis ;  or,  Specin/ens  of  Sacred  Poetry  for  the 
Colo/lists  of  Australia     ..... 


292 


CAROLINE  LEAKEY,  Tasmania — 

English   Wild  Howers.     Ly>-a  Australis ;   or,  Atte///pts  to 
Sims  in  a  Strans^e  Land  .... 


294 


FRANCES  SESCADAROWNA  LEwiN,  South  Australia — 
The  Story  of  Abel  Tasman.     Songs  of  the  So/ifh 


296 


E.  B.  LOUGHRAN,  Victoria — 

Dead  Leaves.     The  Aust/-alasia/i 

The  Abandoned  Shaft.      The  Aust/-alasian 


299 

;!oi 


GEORGE  GORDON  MCCRAE,  Victoria — 

Balladcadro.     Balladead/'o    . 


305 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

I'AGE 

GEORGE  MCHEXRV,  South  Australia — ■ 

The  Australian  Emigrant's  Song.     South  Australian  Paper      325 

ANNE  PATCHETT  MARTIN,  Queensland  — 

The  Old  World  and  the  New  .  .  .  .327 


ARTHUR    PATCHETT    MARTIX,    \'ictOria  {1851) — 

The  Cynic  of  the  Woods.     Fernsha^ve 

A  Romance  in  the  Rough.     Fernshawe 

A  Bush  Study,  a  la  IVatteaii.     Fernsliaxue    . 

The  Storm.     Fernshawe  and  An  Easter  Omelette 

My  Cousin  from  Pall  Mall.     Fernshawe 


O. 


329 
332 
334 

338 
339 


JAMES  L,  MICHAEL,  Ncw  South  Wales 

A  Selection  from  .  .     yohn  Cumberland  .       344 

EDWARD    G.    MILLARD,    NeW  SoUth  WalCS 

How  we  ran  in  the  Black  Warrigal  Horse.     The  Sydney 

Mail       .......       347 

CAROLINE     AGNES     LEANE     (Mrs.    Ahcrne),     South 
Australia — 
Australia.     Adelaide  Paper  .        '     .  .  .  .       350 

The  Blue  Lake — Mount  Gambler.     Adelaide  Paper  .       353 


The  Prospector.     Manuscript  ....       357 


JOHN  BOYLE  o'reillv,  West  Australia — 

The  Dukite  Snake     ......       359 

(sir)    HENRY   PARKEs,  G.C.M.G.,  Ncw  South  Wales 

(I8I5)- 

Solitude.      The  Beauteous  Terrorist  ....  366 

Seventy.     The  Beauteous  'Terrorist  ....  368 

The  Mountain  Grave.     The  Beauteous  Terrorist      .  .  370 

On  the  Mountains.     The  Beauteous  Terrorist  .  .  372 

A    QUEENSLANDER 

Dead  in  the  Queensland  Bush  ....       375 

N.    R. — 

The  Grave  of  the  Last  King  of  Wallerawang.     ManuscHpt      377 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

ROBERT    RICHARDSON,   NcW  SoUth  WalcS 

On  the  River.     Sydney  Eclio  .... 

J.  STEELE  ROBERTSON,  Victoria — ■ 

^lusk  Gully,  Dromana.     JMclbournc  Univcisi/y  Revieiu 

J.   HOWLETT  ROSS,  Victoria — 

In    Memoriam  :    Henry   Kendall.     Melbourne    University 
Review   ....... 


379 


3S2 


PERCY    RUSSELL 

The  Birth  of  Australia.      Tasmanian  Paper 

J.  SADLER,  South  Australia — 

The  Proclamation  Tree.     Adelaide  Paper    . 


385 
3S6 


WILLL\M    SHARP 

The  Bell-Birds.      T/ie  Htuiian  Inlieri/ance 
The  Stock  Driver's  Ride.     Ear(]i''s  Voiees 
In  the  Ranges.     Earth's  Voices 
Australian  Transcripts.     Eartli's  Voices 
Shea-oaks  (near  the  Sea) 


"THE  SINGING  SHEPHERD"  (Eleauor  Elizabeth  Mont- 
gomery), New  Zealand — 
To  One  in  England.     Songs  of  the  Singing  Shepherd 
"  Wentwood's  Farm."     Songs  of  the  Singing  Shepherd 

CHARLES  ALLAN  SHERARD,  Victoria 

Solaced.     The  Australasian  .... 

Lost  in  the  Mallee.     Tlie  Australasian 
Satan's  Ganymede.     The  Australasian 

DOUGLAS  BROOKE  WHEELTON  SLADEN,  Victoria  (1856)— 
The  Squire's  Brother.    Frithjofand  Ingebjorg,  and  Austra- 
lian Lyrics  ..... 
The  Orange  Tree.     Australian  Lyrics  (and  Ed.)     . 
To  a  Fair  Australian.     Australian  L.yrics    . 
The  Two  Birthdays.     A  Poetry  of  Exiles  (2nd  Ed.) 
Advance,  Australia  !     Ln  Cornivall  and  Across  the  Sea 
To  the    Blue    Mountains    (N.S.W.)     A    Poetry  of  Exiles 
(2nd  Ed.).     Second  Series  .... 


389 
391 
394 
396 
401 


402 
404 


411 
414 
418 


423 
433 

435 
437 
440 

443 


CONTENTS.  XV 

I'AGE 

A.  c,  SMITH,  Mctoria  and  Queensland — 

The  Bushman.     Australian  Paper  ....       450 

WAi/iKR  SMITH  (Old  Saltbush),  New  South  "Wales  — 

Drought.      The  Death  of  Oswald     .  .  .  -453 


T3RUNT0N  STEPHENS,  Queensland — 

The  Midnight  Axe.      Qiicenslander  . 
To  a  Black  Gin.     Convict  Once,  and  other  Poems    . 
My  Other  Chinee  Cook.     Convict  Once,  and  other  Poems 
Drought  and  Doctrine.     Convict  Once.,  and  other  Poems 
A  Lost  Chance.     Convict  Once,  and  other  Poems     . 
Quart  Pot  Creek.     Convict  Once,  and  otJicr  Poems  . 


456 
472 
476 
479 
483 


GERALD  H.  SUPPLE,  Victoria — 

The  Dream  of  Dampier.     I\[elboiirne  Review  .  .491 

JAMES  THOMAS,  New  South  Wales  (1S61) — 

To  a  Water  Wagtail.     Australian  Paper     .  .  .       494 

MARGARET  THOMAS,  Victoria — 

Adam  Lindsay  Gordon  .....       497 

Wilt  thou  wait  for  me?         .....       498 
Death  in  the  Bush    .  .....        500 

MARY  coLBORNE  VEEL,  New  Zealand — 

The  Poet's  Lament.   The  ]Veekly  News,  Christchurch,  N.Z.       501 

GARNET  WALCH,  Tasmania  and  Victoria  (1843) — 

A  Little  Tin  Plate.     A  Little  Tin  Plate       .  .  .501. 

Woolis  Up.     A  Little  Tin  Plate    .  .  .  .512 

Wool  is  Down.     A  IJttle  Tin  Plate  .  .  -515 

A  Drug  in  the  iNLirket.     A  Little  Tin  Plate  .  .518 

WILLIAM  CHARLES  WENTWORTH,  Norfolk  Island  and 
New  South  Wales  (1791-1872) — 

Australasia.     Bartoii's   Poets   and  Prose    ]Vritcrs  of  New 

South  IVales       .  .  ■  ■  ■  •       5^3 


CONTENTS. 


w.  R.  WILLS,  New  Zealand  (1837) — 

A  Wandering  Heart.     Netv  Zealand  Paper .  .             .       527 

A  Christmas  Carol.     A  Bunch  of  Wild  Pausics  .              .       534 

FREDERICK  .SYDNEY  WILSON,  New  South  Wales — 

Waiting  for  the  Mail.     Australian  Paper    .  ■             •       53^ 

THOMAS  L.  WORK,  Victoria — 

Envoi.      Viilorian  Printer  s  Keepsake           .  .             ■       54^ 


APPENDIX  I. 

BUSH   SONGS. 

The  Stockman's  Last  Bed  .....  543 

The    Bushman's    Lullaby. — Rolf    Bolderwood    (Tom    Brown), 

Victoria  .......  545 

Careless  Jim  .......  547 

APPENDIX  II. 
The  Athenccuin  Review  of  Kendall's  Manuscript  Poems  .       550 

APPENDIX  III. 
"  First  Fruits  of  Australian  Poetry  "         ....       5^1 

APPENDIX  IV. 
Materials  for  a  Bibliography  of  Australasian  Poetry        .  .       569 


Notes      .....•••      577 


INTRODUCTION. 


AUSTRALIA  is  the  country  of  the  future.  Separated 
by  oceans  from  every  considerable  land  except  im- 
penetrable and  equatorial  New  Guinea,  blessed  with  an 
unmalarious  climate  more  brilliant  and  equable  than  that  of 
Italy,  and  peopled  from  the  most  adventurous  of  the  colo- 
nizing Anglo-Saxon  stock,  this  round  world  in  the  far  south- 
eastern seas  gives  race  development  its  amplest  scope. 

The  vigorous  man  must  be  strangely  constituted  who 
does  not  love  Australia,  with  its  glittering  air,  its  vast  space, 
its  infinite  possibilities  ;  and  strangely  constituted  the  light- 
hearted  girl  who  does  not  revel  in  its  pleasure-days  unspoiled 
by  rain,  its  lustrous  nights  secure  from  chill. 

Those  who  have  contributed  to  this  volume  are  for  the 
most  part  people  who  love  the  free  air  of  the  mountain-top 
and  the  mysteriousncss  of  the  forest,  the  fierce  excitement 
of  race  and  chase,  the  honest  thrill  of  manly  sports,  and  the 
glory  of  nature — from  the  magnificent  Australian  sky  down 
to  the  Fringed  Violet  or  the  Azure  Wren.  Not  a  few  of  them 
have,  in  what  Gordon  calls  the  "  old  colonial  days,"  had 
their  lives  hanging  on  a  thread  in  the  perilous  march  of  ex- 
ploration or  guerilla  warfare  with  bushrangers  and  aborigines. 
This  volume  is  essentially  the  work  of  people  who  have 
meditated  in  the  open  air,  and  not  under  the  lamp  ;  and  if 
its  contents  oftentimes  want  the  polish  that  comes  only  with 

2 


2  INTRODUCTION. 

much  midnight  oil,  they  are  mostly  a  transcript  from  earth 
and  sea  and  sky,  and  not  from  books. 

Not  that  Australia  has  lacked  poets  like  her  own  child 
Kendall,  as  smooth  as  a  pebble  polished  with  the  tireless 
patience  of  the  waves.  But  these  are  the  exceptions,  and 
we  confess  that  for  the  most  part  we  hope  to  please  the 
reader  with  what  our  poets  have  to  say,  rather  than  the  way 
in  which  they  say  it. 

What  is  the  raison  d'etre  of  this  book?  A  Scotch  paper, 
well  known  for  the  soundness  of  its  criticisms,  in  referring 
to  it,  laid  down  that  to  be  of  any  value  it  must  be  confined 
to  the  productions  of  Australian  natives.  This,  then,  would 
be  an  anthology  of  Australian  verse  into  which  admission 
was  denied  to  Adam  Lindsay '  Gordon,  the  poet  par  excel- 
lence of  the  "  old  colonial  days,"  to  Alfred  Domett,  the  im- 
mortalizer  of  the  lost  Pink  Terraces  of  New  Zealand,  to 
Brunton  Stephens,  to  Marcus  Clarke,  to  William  Wentworth 
(born  in  Norfolk  Island),  and  half  a  dozen  others  whose 
names  are  household  words  in  Australia.  Indeed,  the  only 
two  poets  popular  beyond  the  borders  of  their  own  particular 
colony,  who  were  born  in  Australia,  are  Charles  Harpurand 
Henry  Kendall. 

What,  then,  is  its  raison  d'etre  1     To  lay  before  the  English 

'  In  the  first  edition  we  wrote,  "  It  has  been  customary  to  spell  Gordon's 
name  Lindsay  ;  but  in  the  Register  of  Cheltenham  College,  presumably 
filled  in  by  his  father,  who  was  a  master,  his  name  is  given  as  Adam 
Lindsay  Gordon."  Still  since  the  poet  himself  wrote  it  Lindsay,  rather 
than  raise  a  controversy,  we  have  decided  to  resume  the  familiar  spell- 
ing. Not  that  we  consider  the  poet's  evidence  infallible,  since  another 
poet  quoted  in  this  volume,  a  man  of  university  education,  Alexander 
Forbes,  signed  even  his  cheques  indifferently,  "Alexander  Forbes," 
"  William  Forbes,"  and  "Alexander  Forres,"  not  to  mention  the  im- 
mortal Shakspere,  who  has  left  us  as  many  spellings  of  his  name  as  he 
has  signatures. 


INTRODUCTION.  3 

public  A  SELECTION  OF  POEMS  INSPIRED  BY  LIFE  AND  SCENERY 
IN  AUSTRALIA. 

Such  being  the  case,  no  further  answer  is  necessary  to 
the  clever  New  Zealand  writer  in  the  Weekly  Press,  who 
urged  that  by  this  limitation  much  of  the  best  work  of  many 
colonial  writers  would  be  excluded,  and  indeed,  by  implica- 
tion, that  all  local  poetry  is  a  mistake.  This  volume  is  a 
collection  of  local  poetry.  Poems  by  Australasian  colonists 
on  non- Australasian  subjects  will  find  their  fitting  place  in 
the  Australian  anthology  without  limitation  of  subject,  about 
to  be  pubhshed  by  another  firm. 

There  are,  however,  a  very  few  poems  in  the  volume  in 
which  our  limitation  has  not  been  enforced  :  they  have  only 
been  admitted  where  some  one  who  was  a  pillar  of  literature 
in  Australia  yet  wrote  nothing  at  once  Australian  in  colour- 
ing and  sufficiently  poetical.  Such  a  man  was  William 
Forster,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  Australian  writers. 
His  "  Devil  and  the  Governor,"  almost  his  only  Australian 
piece,  is  of  historical  success,  but  not  as  a  poem,  and  he 
had  therefore  to  be  represented  from  "  Midas  " — his  post- 
humous work,  finished  in  the  rough  only,  but  a  great  poem, 
rivalling  in  parts  the  facility  and  felicity  of  the  "  Ranolf  and 
Amohia"  of  the  New  Zealand  Lucretius. 

The  next  question  that  may  occur  to  the  reader  will  per- 
haps be,  Why  have  we  so  little  of  Gordon  ?  Surely  he  is 
the  poet  of  whom  we  hear  most  from  Australians. 

Messrs.  Massina  &  Co.  are  responsible.  The  real  author 
of  a  poem  which  has  brought  Gordon  much  popularity,  "  A 
Voice  from  the  Bush," '  not  only  freely  gave  his  permission 

'  In  the  first  edition  an  over-careful  printer  assigned  this  poem  to  the 
editor.  After  the  proofs  had  been  sent  back,  finally  corrected,  in  de- 
spair at  finding  it  without  an  author's  name,  he  copied  the  one  above, 
which  happened  to  be  the  editor's.  As  the  editor  was  a  child  at  the 
time  it  was  written,  any  disclaimer  is  unnecessary. 


4  INTRODUCTION. 

for  it  to  be  used,  but  has  given  the  correct  version  of  the 
poem,  which  has  suffered  much  at  the  hands  of  printers. 
His  name  is  an  open  secret  to  all  students  of  Australian 
poetry,  but  he  desires  that  it  should  not  be  given  in  this 
volume.  Messrs.  Bentley,  the  well-known  publishers,  also 
freely  gave  their  permission  to  reprint  "An  Exile's  Fare- 
well," sent  to  them  by  Patchett  Martin.  But  Messrs. 
Massina,  a  Melbourne  firm  of  printers,  who  have  acquired 
the  copyright  of  the  bulk  of  Gordon's  poems,  thought  it 
would  be  prejudicial  to  their  interests  to  give  leave  for  more 
than  one  of  these  poems  to  be  used.  For  this  permission 
the  publisher  and  editor  of  this  volume  tender  their 
best  thanks.  The  public  must  judge  if  Messrs.  Massina 
acted  in  their  own  and  Gordon's  interest  in  sending  him 
forth  equipped  with  only  one  poem  to  contest  the  place  of 
honour  with  poets  like  Domett,  Kendall,  and  Stephens, 
whose  representatives  had  given  carte  blanche.  Every  one 
who  knows  anything  of  the  man  would  like  to  pay  Gordon 
his  tribute  in  full,  and  the  editor  is  more  than  most  men 
bound  to  Gordon  by  coming  from  the  same  great  school, 
Cheltenham  College,  and  the  same  great  colony,  Victoria, 
and  having  a  special  love  for  all  verse  breathing  the  spirit  of 
Anglo-Saxon  manfulness.  But  he  cannot  gainsay  the  wishes 
of  the  owners  of  copyrights,  and  therefore  he  must  content 
himself  with  giving  as  good  an  estimate  of  Gordon  as  he 
can  without  quotations.  Gordon  has  one  supreme  merit, 
he  is  interesting  to  everybody — as  much  to  the  stableboy 
and  stockman  as  to  the  scholar,  as  much  to  the  schoolboy 
as  to  the  sentimentalist ;  his  poems  are  "  ringing " ;  he 
carries  one  away  like  Lord  Macaulay  or  Professor  Aytoun  in 
their  stirring  battle-pictures.  He  is  generally  rhythmical, 
musical,  sonorous.  Some  of  his  Swinburnian  verses,  we  feel 
sure,  Swinburne  would  be  proud  to  father.     He  is  full  of 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  5 

homely  sayings,  that  could  not  be  put  better  if  they  had 
been  rounded  into  proverbs  in  the  mouths  of  millions, 
in  the  course  of  centuries — to  speak  of  proverbs,  he 
is  a  very  Burns  at  begetting  them — indeed,  one  can  give 
strangers  no  better  idea  of  his  power  in  Victoria,  than 
by  calling  him  the  Australian  Burns  ;  not  that  his  poems 
bear  the  least  resemblance  to  those  of  the  immortal  plough- 
man, but  because  he  is  essentially  the  national  poet,  he  who 
dwells  on  the  tongues  of  the  people.  He  is  a  very  manful 
poet — the  man  ready  to  fight  any  one  for  two  straws,  or  to 
jump  a  horse  at  anything  that  mortal  horse  could  jump,  is 
reflected  in  his  poems — but  there  was  one  element  lacking 
in  his  manfulness.  Accomplishment  did  not  enter  much 
into  his  life  or  writings.  Leading  a  "  forlorn  hope,"  selling 
one's  life  dearly,  succumbing  desperately  to  hopeless  odds, 
were  familiar  ideas  with  him,  but  not  "  enduring  to  the  end 
and  winning  a  crown  of  life  "  in  their  plain  earthly  sense. 
Gordon  could  understand  a  blind  King  of  Bohemia  riding 
forward  to  be  killed  at  Cregy,  but  not  a  Horatius  thinking 
that  he  might  guard  the  bridge  and  yet  survive  the  day. 

He  could  write  at  least  four  kinds  of  poems  excellently. 
His  ballads,  such  as  "  Fauconshawe,"  are  distinguished  by 
unusual  ring,  and  lilt,  and  go.  His  Swinburnian  poems, 
besides  their  metrical  merits,  are  often,  as  in  "  Podas  Okus  " 
and  "  Doubtful  Dreams,"  full  of  solemn,  dignified  manful- 
ness, and,  once  read,  can  never  be  wholly  forgotten.  His 
few  Bush  poems  arc  written  as  only  one  who  knew  the 
"  Bush  "  so  intimately,  and  had  such  brilliant  poetical  gifts, 
could  have  written  them ;  and  his  horse-poems  are  un- 
equalled in  the  English  language.  No  other  Anglo-Saxon 
poet  of  anything  like  Gordon's  gifts  has  approached  him  in 
knowledge  of  the  horse ;  and  it  is  as  a  horse-poet  that 
Gordon  will  principally  be  remembered.     Indeed,  riding  and 


^  INTRODUCTION. 

swimming  are  the  only  branches  of  sport  which  his  poems 
show  him  to  have  known  much  about.  Shooting,  fishing, 
cricket,  &c.,  receive  hardly  more  than  bare  mention;  but 
in  horse-pieces  he  stands  alone — not,  we  think,  good  as 
they  are,  for  pieces  like  "  How  we  beat  the  Favourite," 
the  best  description  of  a  race  ever  written,  but  for  pieces 
like  "The  Sick  Stockrider  "  and  "  From  the  Wreck."  "  The 
Sick  Stockrider  "  is  a  poem  that  deserves  a  place  in  any 
selection  in  the  English  language,  a  masterpiece,  and  a 
masterpiece  that  no  poet  whom  we  know  of  but  Gordon  could 
have  written.  It  was  necessary  that  poetical  genius,  ringing, 
spirited,  rhythmical  writing,  manfulness,  experience  of  the 
"  old  colonial  days,"  and  intimate  loving  acquaintance  with 
the  "  Bush,"  should  unite  in  one  man  before  a  poem  like 
"  The  Sick  Stockrider  "  could  be  born.  Gordon's  faults  are 
want  of  culture  and  knowledge,  narrowness  of  scope  and 
sympathy,  and  perhaps  a  little  carelessness,  though  very 
likely  much  that  passes  for  the  last  is  due  to  faulty  printing. 
But  wnthin  his  scope  and  sympathies,  to  find  his  rival  we 
must  look  among  the  masters  of  song,  as  his  laurels  in 
Australia  and  his  increasing  popularity  in  England  would 
show.  Compared  with  Australian  poets  he  is  not  so  musical, 
nothing  like  so  poetical,  as  Kendall,  but  is  very  strong  in 
Kendall's  weakest  point- — awaking  interest  in  the  semi- 
cultivated.  With  Brunton  Stephens  it  is  difficult  to  compare 
him.  Stephens's  genius  revels  in  the  light  and  delicate,  or 
light  and  humorous,  while  Gordon's  strikes  strongly  and 
vibratingly  ;  but  in  their  long  poems,  the  exquisitely-finished, 
highly-cultured,  rich,  passionate,  poetic  "  Convict  Once  "  is 
far  ahead  of  "  Ashtaroth,"  as  is  Harpur's  "  Witch  of  Hebron," 
though  Harpur  has  written  very  few  other  poems  that  could 
be  mentioned  with  Gordon's.  The  one  man  who  towers 
above  liim  is  Alfred  Domett,  a  writer  whom  it  is  as  impos- 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

sil)le  to  represent  fairly  in  selections  as  it  would  be  to  repre- 
sent the  Iliad  or  the  De  rerum  Natura.  By  far  the  principal 
achievement  of  Australasia  in  poetry  is  Domett's  great 
"  Ranolf  and  Amohia."  Through  six  or  seven  hundred 
octavo  pages  it  never  drags.  It  is  as  full  of  close  reasoning 
as  Mr.  Browning's  masterpieces,  while  it  is  written  in  rhymed, 
rhythmical,  ever-varying  metres.  The  knowledge  of  books, 
the  knowledge  of  human  nature  displayed  in  it  is  stupendous. 
It  has  embalmed  the  mythologies,  customs,  and  tribe  wars 
of  the  Maoris — and  with  a  crowning  piece  of  good  fortune 
has  immortalized,  in  a  passage  of  the  most  delicate  beauty, 
the  fomous  Pink  Terraces,  geysers,  and  mountain  marvels, 
overwhelmed  in  the  recent  earthquake.  A  charming  love- 
story  runs  through  it,  and  has  its  surprises  to  the  end  of  the 
book  ;  and  the  language  of  the  poem  is  a  model  for  de- 
scribing colloquial  subjects  in  suitable,  unstilted,  but 
thoroughly  poetical  expression.  "  Waring,"  ^  as  Mr.  Brown- 
ing fondly  calls  him  in  his  poem,  has  many  years  ere  this 
been  offered  his  laurels  at  the  hands  of  Longfellow, 
Browning,  and  other  great  fellow-poets.  Marcus  Clarke,  it 
must  be  borne  in  mind,  though  he  has  written  a  few  poems 
that  will  always  be  remembered,  made  his  fame  as  a  novelist 
(author  of  the  famous  "  His  Natural  Life  "),  a  journalist, 
and  a  critic. 

A  page  back  a  comparison  between  Gordon  and  Kendall 
was  given  in  the  briefest  terms — purposely — because  it  was 
necessary  to  make  a  few  more  comparisons ;  and  they  would 

'  "  What's  become  of  Waring 
Since  he  gave  us  all  the  slip, 
Chose  land  travel  or  seafaring, 
Boots  and  chest  or  staff  and  scrip, 
Rather  than  pace  up  and  down 
Any  longer  London  town  ?  " 


S  INTR  on  UCTION. 

otherwise  have  been  too  far  separated  from  the  opening  of 
the  subject.  Kendall  is,  in  our  opinion,  unquestionably  a 
poet  of  a  higher  order  than  Gordon,  if  being  "  of  a  higher 
order  "  may  be  taken  to  mean  approaching  more  nearly  to 
the  level  of  the  masters  of  song.  It  is  our  honest  opinion 
that  since  Shelley  and  Keats  died  no  one  has  so  nearly  ap- 
proached them.  He  touched  the  lyre  with  something  of  the 
lyric  musicality  which  made  Shelley  the  father  of  the  dactylic 
modern  measures.  He  had  somewhat  of  the  marvellous 
Shelleian  gift  of  detecting  the  Protean  spirit  of  Nature  in  its 
myriad  changes  of  form ;  and,  like  poor  Keats,  he  could 
steal  the  loveliness  of  a  southern  summer  and  coin  phrases 
whose  "  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever." 

If  one  were  reading  Keats's  sonnets  and  one  suddenly 
came  upon  these  two,  given  in  no  previous  edition — 

I. 

I  purposed  once  to  take  my  pen  and  write, 

Not  songs,  like  some,  tormented  and  awry 

With  passion,  but  a  cunning  harmony 
Of  words  and  music  caught  from  glen  and  height, 
And  lucid  colours  born  of  woodland  light, 

And  shining  places  where  the  sea-streams  lie  ; 
But  this  was  when  the  heat  of  youth  glowed  white, 

And  since  I've  put  the  faded  purpose  by. 
I  have  no  faultless  fruits  to  offer  you 

Who  read  this  book  ;  but  certain  syllables 

Herein  are  borrowed  from  unfooted  dells 
And  secret  hollows  dear  to  noontide  dew  ; 
And  these  at  least,  though  far  between  and  few, 

May  catch  the  sense  like  subtle  forest  spells. 

II. 
So  take  these  kindly,  even  though  there  be 

Some  notes  that  unto  other  lyres  belong, — 

Stray  echoes  from  the  elder  sons  of  song  ; 
And  think  how  from  its  neighbouring  native  sea 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  9 

The  pensive  shell  doth  borrow  melody. 

I  would  not  do  the  lordly  masters  wrong 

By  filching  fair  words  from  the  shining  throng 
Whose  music  haunts  me  as  the  wind  a  tree  ! 
Lo  !  when  a  stranger,  in  soft  Syrian  glooms 

Shot  through  with  sunset,  treads  the  cedar  dells. 

And  hears  the  breezy  ring  of  elfin  bells 
Far  down  by  where  the  white-haired  cataract  booms, 

lie,  faint  with  sweetness  caught  from  forest  smells, 
Bears  thence,  unwitting,  plunder  of  perfumes. 

would  one  reject  them  as  unwortliy  ?     Can  we  not  imagine 

Keats — 

"  Longing  for  power  and  the  sweetness  to  fashion 
Lyrics  with  beats  like  the  heart-beats  of  passion  ; 
Songs  interwoven  of  lights  and  of  laughters 
Borrowed  from  bell-birds  in  far  forest  rafters," 

and  longing — 

"  To  steal  the  beauty  of  that  brook 
And  put  it  in  a  song  ;  " 

or  lost  in  rapture  over  the  Australian  October  with  her 
yellow  tresses  of  wattle-blossom,  as  she  appears  in  the 
haunts  of  the  bell-birds  by  forest  streams,  and — 

"  Loiters  for  love  in  these  cool  wildernesses  ; 
Loiters  knee-deep  in  the  grasses  to  listen, 
Where  dripping  rocks  gleam  and  the  leafy  pools  glisten  ;  " 

and  might  not  Shelley  have  been  proud  of  having  written — 

"  The  soft  white  feet  of  afternoon 
Are  on  the  shining  meads  ; 
The  breeze  is  as  a  pleasant  tune 
Amongst  the  happy  reeds  ;  " 


and- 


One  word  for  her  beauty,  and  one  for  the  grace 

She  gave  to  the  hours  ; 
And  then  we  may  kiss  her,  and  suffer  her  face 

To  sleep  with  the  flowers  ;  " 


■lo  INTRODUCTION. 

and  those  sad  verses  written  "  After  Many  Years  " — 

"  The  song  that  once  I  dreamed  about, 

The  tender,  touching  thing, 
As  radiant  as  the  rose  without — 

The  love  of  wind  and  wing  ; 
The  perfect  verses  to  the  tunc 

Of  woodland  music  set, 
As  beautiful  as  afternoon, 

Remain  unwritten  yet." 

And  are  not  these  Knes  pathetic  enough  for  Tom  Hood  ? — 

"  All  !  in  his  life  had  he  mother  or  wife 

To  wait  for  his  step  on  the  floor  ? 
Did  beauty  wax  dim  while  watching  for  him 

Who  passed  through  the  threshold  no  more  ? 
Doth  it  trouble  his  head  ?     He  is  one  with  the  dead  ; 

He  lies  by  the  alien  streams  ; 
And  sweeter  than  sleep  is  death  that  is  deep 

And  unvexed  by  the  lordship  of  dreams." 

Kendall's  most  notable  critic  in  the  colonies  gives  the 
palm  among  his  works  to  his  solemn  dedication  "  To  a  Moun- 
tain," which  we  quote  here  rather  than  in  the  text,  because, 
like  the  two  prefatory  sonnets  quoted  a  little  back,  it  is  a 
preface  as  well  as  a  poem  of  the  very  first  order. 

TO  A  MOUNTAIN. 

To  thee,  O  father  of  the  stately  peaks. 

Above  me  in  the  loftier  light — to  thee, 

Imperial  brother  of  those  awful  hills 

Whose  feet  are  set  in  splendid  spheres  of  flame. 

Whose  heads  are  where  the  gods  are,  and  whose  sides 

Of  strength  are  belted  round  with  all  the  zones 

Off  all  the  world,  I  dedicate  these  songs. 

And  if,  within  the  compass  of  this  book, 

There  lives  and  glows  one  verse  in  which  there  beats 


INTR  on  UCTION.  1 1 

The  pulse  of  wind  and  torrent — if  one  line 

Is  here  that  like  a  running  water  sounds, 

And  seems  an  echo  from  the  lands  of  leaf, 

Be  sure  that  line  is  thine.     Here,  in  this  home, 

jVway  from  men  and  books  and  all  the  schools, 

I  take  thee  for  my  Teacher.     In  thy  voice 

Of  deathless  majesty,  I,  kneeling,  hear 

God's  grand  authentic  gospel !     Year  by  year,     • 

The  great  sublime  cantata  of  thy  storm 

Strikes  through  my  spirit — fills  it  with  a  life 

Of  startling  beauty  !     Thou  my  Bible  art 

With  holy  leaves  of  rock,  and  flower,  and  tree, 

And  moss,  and  shining  runnel.     From  each  page 

That  helps  to  make  thy  awful  volume,  I 

Have  learned  a  noble  lesson.     In  the  psalm 

Of  thy  grave  winds,  and  in  the  liturgy 

Of  singing  waters,  lo  !  my  soul  has  heard 

The  higher  worship  ;  and  from  thee,  indeed, 

The  broad  foundations  of  a  finer  hope 

Were  gathered  in  ;  and  thou  hast  lifted  up 

The  blind  horizon  for  a  larger  faith  ! 

Moreover,  walking  in  exalted  woods 

Of  naked  glory,  in  the  green  and  gold 

Of  forest  sunshine,  I  have  paused  like  one 

With  all  the  life  transfigured  ;  and  a  flood 

Of  light  ineffable  has  made  me  feel 

^Vs  felt  the  grand  old  prophets  caught  away 

By  flames  of  inspiration  ;  but  the  words 

Sufficient  for  the  story  of  my  Dream 

Are  far  too  splendid  for  j^oor  human  lips  ! 

But  thou,  to  whom  I  turn  with  reverent  eyes, — 

O, stately  father,  whose  majestic  face 

Shines  far  above  the  zone  of  wind  and  cloud. 

Where  high  dominion  of  the  morning  is — 

Thou  hast  the  Song  complete  of  which  my  song 

Are  pallid  adumbrations  !     Certain  sounds 

Of  strong  authentic  sorrow  in  this  book 

May  have  the  sob  of  upland  torrents — these, 

And  only  these,  may  touch  the  great  World's  heax 

For  lo  !  they  are  the  issues  of  that  grief 


1 2  JNTROD  UCTION. 

Which  make  a  man  more  human  and  his  life 

More  Hke  that  frank  exalted  life  of  thine. 

But  in  these  pages  there  are  other  tones 

In  which  thy  large,  su]3erior  voice  is  not — 

Through  which  no  beauty  that  resembles  thine 

Has  ever  shone.      These  are  the  broken  words 

Of  blind  occasions,  when  the  world  has  come 

Between  me  and  my  dream.     No  song  is  here 

Of  mighty  compass  ;  for  my  singing  robes 

I've  worn  in  stolen  moments.     All  my  days 

Have  been  the  days  of  a  laborious  life, 

And  ever  on  my  struggling  soul  has  burned 

The  fierce  heat  of  this  hurried  sphere.     But  thou 

To  whose  fair  majesty  I  dedicate 

My  book  of  shyness — thou  hast  the  perfect  rest 

Which  makes  the  heaven  of  the  highest  gods  ! 

To  thee  the  noises  of  this  violent  time 

Are  far,  faint  whispers  ;  and,  from  age  to  age, 

Within  the  world  and  yet  apart  from  it, 

Thou  standest !     Round  thy  lordly  capes  the  sea 

Rolls  on  with  a  superb  indifference 

For  ever  :  in  thy  deep,  green,  gracious  glens 

The  silver  fountains  sing  for  ever.     Far 

Above  dim  ghosts  of  waters  in  the  caves, 

The  royal  robe  of  morning  on  thy  head 

Abides  for  ever  !  evermore  the  wind 

Is  thy  august  companion  ;  and  thy  peers 

Are  cloud,  and  thunder,  and  the  face  sublime 

Of  blue  mid-heaven  !     On  thy  awful  brow 

Is  Deity ;  and  in  that  voice  of  thine 

There  is  the  great  imperial  utterance 

Of  God  for  ever  ;  and  thy  feet  are  set 

Where  evermore,  through  all  the  days  and  years. 

There  rolls  the  grand  hymn  of  the  deathless  wave. 

These   prefatory  sonnets  and  this  dedication  set   forth 

Kendall's  purpose — achieved,  it  must  be  conceded,  more 

than  is  the  common  lot  of  such  purposes.     They  describe 

accurately  Kendall's  inspiration.  For  Kendall  is  essentially 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

a  Bush  poet — an  Australian  Bush  poet — not  as  Gordon  was, 
but  (excluding  from  our  consideration  the  white  intruder 
into  the  primeval  forests)  more  essentially  than  Gordon  was. 
For  he  was  a  much  closer  and  more  reverent  observer  of 
animal  and  vegetable  life.  He  was  the  friend  of  nature — 
with  man  he  was  less  intimate.  In  depicting  the  robust, 
muscular,  dare-devil  bushman — stockman  or  trooper — Ken- 
dall cannot  be  compared  with  Gordon,  who  only  had  to 
reflect  his  own  life,  as  the  great  Italian  painters  painted 
their  own  portraits  from  mirrors.  Gordon  wrote,  as  he  lived, 
like  a  man  who  would  "  put  his  horse  "  at  anything  or 
"  square  up  "  to  anybody.  But  as  a  Bush-landscape-painter 
Kendall  has  no  equal  in  Australia. 

In  his  admirable  "  Poets  and  Prosewriters  of  New  South 
Wales,"  published  one-and-twenty  years  ago,  Mr.  G.  P. 
Barton,  reviewing  Kendall's  first  book  (published  when  he 
was  twenty  years  of  age)  made  some  remarks  which  have 
received  a  substantial  endorsement  from  the  Poet's  later 
writings.     He  says  : — 

"  One  striking  merit  in  Mr.  Kendall's  poetry  is,  that  its 
colouring  is  strictly  local,  and  that  he  has  endeavoured  to 
give  voice  to  the  majestic  scenery  of  his  native  land.  What- 
ever opinion  may  be  formed  of  his  poetry,  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  it  is  distinctly  Australian  poetry.  This  is  a 
hopeful  saying,  inasmuch  as  it  speaks  of  a  mind  naturally 
original  and  averse  to  imitation.  He  has  not  commenced 
the  study  of  his  art  by  studying  Tennyson,  but  by  studying 
the  wild  and  splendid  scenery  that  surrounded  him  at  his 
birth.  His  capacity  in  descriptive  poetry  is  very  great ;  in 
fact,  it  appears  to  be  the  distinctive  mark  of  his  genius.  He 
has  an  artist's  eye  for  landscape,  and  if  his  shading  is  rather 
too  dark,  his  outlines  are  none  the  less  true.  No  local 
writer  has  reproduced   the  scenes  familiar  to  us  with  so 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

much  effect;  and  again  he  has  sought  inspiration  in  the 
characters  and  events  of  this  country — endeavouring  to 
paint  the  wild  society  of  the  interior  as  well  as  its  peculiar 
scenery.  He  has  chaunted  the  savage  melodies  of  the 
aboriginals — painted  the  sufferings  of  the  explorers — and 
given  a  poetic  interest  even  to  the  life  of  the  stockmen. 
These  are  facts  which  mark  him  out  as  an  Australian  poet 
and  an  original  poet ;  for  there  is  no  writer  in  this  field 
whom  he  could  imitate.  This  portion  at  least  of  his  writings 
may  be  pronounced  perfect." 

Mr.  Barton's  remarks  have  in  the  main  been  borne  out, 
but  he  claims  too  much.  Kendall  could  paint  loneliness 
admirably  well.  No  one  has  drawn  finer  pictures  of  that 
aspect  of  Bush  life  which  is  peace  or  dreariness  according 
as  one  pines  for  solitude  or  pines  for  society.  He  has 
written  the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  terrible  scenes  we 
have  of  existence  in  the  depths  of  the  Bush — of  the  utter 
forsakenness  of  the  explorer's  fate.  But  for  poems  of  what 
Mr.  Barton  calls  the  "  wild  society  of  the  interior,"  we  should 
not  go  to  Kendall.  He  could  put  himself  on  the  standpoint 
of  the  lonely  bushman,  as  we  have  said,  admirably  well ; 
but  he  had  little  sympathy  with  the  roistering  side  of  the 
bushman's  nature.  His  own  nature  was  too  delicate,  too 
poetic,  too  beautiful.  This  side  of  Bush  life  was  reserved 
for  men  of  rougher  fibre,  more  robust  and  dashing  in  their 
genius.  In  Gordon  the  man  overshadowed  the  poet,  in 
Kendall  the  poet  the  man.  Gordon  was  a  thorough  bush- 
man,  though,  like  Kendall,  by  nature  sad.  He  could  appre- 
ciate the  bushman's  idea  of  "having  out  a  spree,"  utterly 
reckless  of  costs  or  consequences.  Consequently,  Gordon, 
in  writing  on  such  themes,  used  the  "  Bret  Harte  "  method 
of  looking  at  the  debauch,  the  escapade,  the  "  row,"  from 
the  point  of  view  of  the  actors,  while  Kendall,  like  Calverley, 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

wrote  from  the  standpoint  of  the  amused  looker-on,  laughing 
in  his  sleeve.  This  makes  his  "  Jim  the  Splitter,"  "  Billy 
Vickers,"  and  the  like,  unsatisfactory.  Even  in  his  own 
particular  line  of  "  Australianized  Calverley,"  he  is  distinctly 
inferior  to  Brunton  Stephens,  a  humorous  poet  of  a  very 
high  order.  But  to  catch  the  zest  of  the  wild  life  of  the 
Bush,  one  may  read  through  all  that  Kendall  ever  wrote, 
and  never  find  a  page  that  is  worthy  to  be  mentioned  beside 
the  glorious  "Sick  Stockrider,"  or  "Wolf  and  Hound."  If 
one  wants  to  see  the  difference  between  the  two  writers  in 
this  line,  one  should  read  the  ride  "  From  the  Wreck  "  in 
conjunction  with  "The  Song  of  the  Cattle-Hunters"  and 
"  After  the  Hunt."  Kendall  wrote  them  because  he  was 
able,  as  well  as  he  was  able ;  Gordon  wrote  his  as  one  bush- 
man  giving  an  account  of  the  ride  to  another  bushman,  and 
with  all  the  embellishment  of  his  ringing,  glowing  poetry. 
It  is  the  same  in  their  racing  pieces.  Kendall  wrote  like  a 
poet  who  had  been  to  the  races ;  Gordon  like  a  poet  who 
had  raced.  But  we  have  no  wish  to  decry  Kendall  because 
he  could  not  rival  Gordon  in  bushman's  ballads  and  never 
wrote  an  Australian  Hiawatha  like  George  Gordon  McCrae. 
He  could  unmistakably  throw  himself  into  the  feelings 
of  a  dying  explorer.  Take,  for  instance,  his  description  of 
the  death  of  the  two  explorers  immortalized  in  Melbourne — 
Burke  and  Wills — published  when  the  poet  was  only  twenty, 
which  brings  out  the  main  idea  much  more  forcibly  than  two 
far  more  beautiful  pieces,  "At  Euroma"  and  "  Leichhardt," 
in  which  the  beauty  of  the  poems  rather  cloaks  the  action. 
"  The  Explorers  "  was  in  that  bundle  of  manuscripts  sent  by 
the  lawyer's  boy  far  away  on  the  Clarence  to  the  formidable 
AtJmicRum^'-  which  wrote  of  them,  "The  spirit  of  nearly  all 
the  writings  under  our  hand  is  dark  and  sorrowful,  but  of 
their  energy  and  vigour  there  can  be  little  doubt.' 
'    Vide  Appendix. 


1 6  INTR  OD  UCTION. 

So  far  we  have  not  been  quite  in  accord  with  Mr.  Barton. 
We  know  now,  though  he  did  not  then,  that  while  he  was 
writing  in  New  South  Wales  to  laud  Kendall  as  the  first 
Station-life  poet,  poems  that  have  now  a  world-wide  celebrity 
were  being  written  on  the  same  subject  in  Victoria,  and  no 
one  would  claim  that  Kendall  had  competed  with  Longfellow 
by  producing  an  aboriginal  poem  to  compare  with  Hiawatha. 
Nor  do  we  think  that  in  his  poems  on  exploration  he  throws 
up  the  stern  realities  like  Gordon,  whose  poem  on  Burke 
and  Wills  our  promise  to  his  publishers  precludes  us  from 
quoting,  or  P.  J.  Holdsworth  and  others.  In  his  poem  on 
Leichhardt  especially  it  will  be  seen  that  his  poetical  soul 
loved  to  dwell  more  on  the  so-called  poetical  aspects  than 
on  the  grim  practical  ones.  For  few  poets  have  had  such  a 
delicate,  tender,  poetical  soul  as  this  native-born  New  South 
Welshman — who  might  justly  be  called  the  Australian 
Shelley.  Indeed,  as  we  pointed  out  above,  in  his  brilliant 
appreciation  of  colour,  his  swift  recognition  of  that  Proteus, 
the  spirit  of  Nature  in  all  her  changes  of  form,  in  the  delicate 
music  of  his  verse,  his  marvellous  ease,  his  felicity  and 
fecundity  of  expression,  and  his  courageous  assertion  of 
opinions  which  men  are  generally  unwilling  to  proclaim,  he 
had  much  to  make  him  remind  us  of  the  immortal  author  of 
"  Queen  Mab." 

Kendall  was  as  bold  in  bringing  into  prominence  his 
adherence  to  Romanism  in  a  secular,  or  at  best  an  un- 
denominational, community,  as  Shelley  was  in  letting  his 
peculiar  views  be  known  in  a  community  which  persecuted 
the  unorthodox.  But  though  he  had  so  much  in  common 
with  Shelley,  the  influence  of  Swinburne  is  much  more 
apparent  in  this  Australian  poet's  writings,  than  the  influence 
of  Swinburne's  master.  But  the  genius  of  the  man  is  shown 
most,  perhaps,   by  his  handling  of  the  language  and  the 


INTR  on  UCriON.  1 7 

metres  which  the  polished  rapier-thrusting  buffoonery  of  Mr. 
Gilbert's  opera-libretti  has  overwhelmed  with  ridicule,  except 
when  they  are  handled  by  true  poets.  Kendall  can  write 
long  poems  with  the  antepenultimate  rhyme,  put  an  utterly 
bald  expression  like  "  two-and-thirty  years  ago  "  into  a  posi- 
.  tion  of  emphasis  and  solemnity,  and  yet  not  fall  from  the 
sublime.  Some  of  his  most  serious  "  In  Memoriam  "  poems 
would  be  quite  comic,  if  one  did  not  feel  the  restraining  power 
of  the  man's  genius.  He  could  solemnify.  There  is  such 
a  true  breath  of  religiousness  about  his  poems,  though  they 
never  preach,  that  scoffs  are  disarmed ;  and  his  genius  is 
further  demonstrated  by  the  fact  that  he  has  written  one  of 
the  two  or  three  prize  poems  that  are  worth  reading  after 
the  event  with  which  they  are  connected  has  passed.  His 
poem  for  the  opening  of  the  Sydney  Exhibition  is  magnificent 
— we  should  say,  perhaps  the  finest  prize  poem  written  ia 
the  English  language.  The  rest  of  Mr.  Barton's  claims  we 
most  cordially  endorse,  for,  as  a  Bush  landscape  painter, 
Kendall  has  never  had  an  equal,  especially  in  the  gloomier 
tints. 

What  a  power  of  word-painting  he  had  may  be  seen  from 
his  poems,  "  The  Hut  by  the  Black  Swamp,"  "  Cooranbean," 
and  "The  Curse  of  Mother  Flood,"  especially  the  first  of 
them,  because  it  shows  in  contrast  the  quiet  beauty  of  his 
landscape  painting  and  the  intenseness  of  his  lurid  composi- 
tions. "  Cooranbean "  is,  to  our  mind,  the  weirdest  and 
most  blood-curdling,  at  the  same  time  as  it  is  the  most 
beautiful  and  powerful  of  Kendall's  lurid  pieces.  In  fierce- 
ness of  curses  it  is  surpassed  by  "  The  Curse  of  Mother 
Flood  "  ;  but  that  poem  always  strikes  us  as  less  natural  and 
more  of  a  rhetorical  exercise. 

But  Kendall  is  seen  at  his  very  best,  not  in  these  lurid 
colours,  but  in  the  delicate  tints  of  light  and  shadow,  the 


1 8  IN  TROD  UCTION. 

lovely  contrasts  of  moss  and  stream,  the  languorous  shade, 
the  sleepy  perfumed  air,  the  luxuriance  and  the  untrodden- 
ness  of  his  native  forests.  In  fact,  he  is  essentially  a  forest- 
poet  :  his  genius  did  not  exult  upon  the  mountain-top,  it 
luxuriated  in  the  dells,  as  the  reader  will  see  while  he  him- 
self luxuriates  in  those  delicious  pieces  of  the  mountain- 
forest—"  Bell-Birds,"  "  Mooni,"  and  "  Orara  "—the  last- 
named  a  mint  of  beautiful  thoughts  and  expressions. 

Hitherto,  Gordon  has  had  very  much  the  start  of  Kendall 
in  England  ;  and  so  far  as  the  semi-cultivated  portion  of 
poetry-readers  are  concerned,  we  doubt  not  will  continue  to 
have.  But  with  that  cultivated  class  of  intellect  that  delights 
to  be  made  the  confidante  of  Nature,  as  Gilbert  White, 
Richard  Jefferies,  and  John  Burroughes,  have  made  it,  and 
revels  in  all  that  is  genuinely  redolent  of  a  forest-life  that  is 
fresh  to  it,  we  venture  to  prophesy  that  Kendall  will  become 
a  supreme  favourite  as  soon  as  he  is  recognized.  He  was  a 
child  of  the  Australian  forest,  and  continued  such  all  his 
life.  No  one  who  did  not  love  the  forest  as  a  mother  could 
have  written  his  Shelleian  "  September  in  Australia  "  ;  and 
the  little  poem  entitled  "  The  Wanigal  "  ("Wild  Dog")  will 
prove  that  he  observed  animal  life  as  faithfully  as  still  life 
and  landscape.  And  we  venture  to  think  that  there  is 
nothing  more  Landseer-like  in  the  whole  range  of  Australian 
poetry  than  this  brilliant  lyric.  We  ourselves  give  the  palm 
among  Kendall's  poems  to  "After  Many  Years."  It  is  as 
pathetic  as  a  masterpiece  of  Tom  Hood — something  to  be 
remembered  with  "Fair  Inez"  and  "The  House  where  I 
was  Born  "  for  music  and  tenderness. 

There  are  poems  of  Kendall's  not  quoted  in  this  volume, 
such  as  "  Coogee,"  which,  in  our  opinion,  are  worthy  to 
appear  in  any  selection  from  Antipodean  poets,  but  we  were 
reluctantly  compelled  to  omit  them  because  we  had  already 


INTROD  UCTION,  1 9 

given  Kendall,  excelling  as  he  does,  fully  as  much  space  as 
could  be  spared  to  one  poet. 

We  wrote  in  the  first  edition,  and  we  still  adhere  to  our 
opinion,  that  Wentworth's  "Australasia,"  published  in  1823, 
was  the  first  Australian  poein  of  note.  There  has  been  some 
controversy  in  the  columns  of  one  of  the  great  literary 
weeklies  (the  Academy)  upon  the  subject,  and  it  has  been 
proved  beyond  doubt  that  George  Barrington's  witty  "  Pro- 
logue to  '  The  Revenge,' "  recited  in  the  temporary  theatre 
at  Sydney  in  1796;  Michael  Robinson's  "King's  Birthday 
Odes,  1810-1821;"  Mr.  Justice  Field's  "First  Fruits  ot 
Australian  Poetry,"  and  other  poems  preceded  it  in  point  of 
date.  But  none  of  them  are  of  any  real  note.  Field's 
tolerable  sonnet,  quoted  in  this  volume,  was  published  in  his 
"  New  South  Wales,"  which  did  not  appear  till  1825.  Mr. 
Dykes  Campbell's  letter  which  opened  the  discussion  is 
printed  in  Appendix  III.  with  the  two  poems  constituting 
Barron  Field's  "  First  Fruits,"  that  the  reader  may  judge  for 
himself  of  their  claim  to  being  poems  of  note.  Was  it  a  flash 
of  Charles  Lamb's  delicious,  sly  humour,  which  made  him 
detect  some  "  relish  of  the  graceful  hyperboles  of  our  elder 
writers"  in  "The  Kangaroo"?  "Who,"  asks  "Eildon 
Douglas,"  in  a  subsequent  issue,  "  that  is  interested  in  the 
history  of  Australian  verse  will  not  blush  to  read  the  first 
few  lines — 

' Kangaroo  !  kangaroo  ! 
Thou  Spirit  of  Australia, 
That  redeems  from  utter  faihire, 
From  perfect  desolation, 
And  warrants  the  creation 
Of  this  fifth  part  of  the  earth  '  ?  " 

Now  Wentworth's  "  Australasia  "  was  not  a  poem  of  the 
calibre  of  Kendall's  Sydney  Exhibition  ode,  but  it  was  as 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

different  from  "  The  Kangaroo "  as  Pope's  heroics  from 
"Piers  the  Plowman." 

However,  Austraha  did  not  begin  to  have  a  poetic  hter- 
atiire  with  Barrington  and  Barron  Field,  or  even  with  Went- 
worth.  Charles  Harpur,  who  did  not  publish  his  first 
volume  until  a  good  many  years  afterwards,  is  generally 
regarded  as  the  grey  forefather  of  Australian  poets.  And 
he  may  fairly  claim  to  be,  for  he  was  the  most  prominent 
among  a  group  of  writers,  all  of  whom  have  merit,  and 
most  of  whom  were  men  of  mark  in  the  State.  To  the 
honour  of  New  South  Wales  be  it  known  that  in  addition  to 
that  famous  politician,  John  Dunmore  Lang,  no  fewer  than 
three  of  her  premiers — William  Wentworth,  Sir  Henry 
Parkes,  and  William  Forster,  and  one  of  the  most  important 
of  her  permanent  civil  servants,  Henry  Halloran,  are  among 
her  foremost  poets  ;  while  others  of  her  leading  politicians, 
like  her  late  acting-premier,  William  Bede  Dalley  and 
Deniehy,  have  written  conspicuously  well  in  prose. 

The  "  sixties "  saw  the  rise  of  both  Gordon  and  Kendall, 
the  former  dying  by  his  own  hand  in  1870,  and  the  latter 
just  living  into  the  "eighties";  and  it  was  only  on  the  3rd 
of  November  last  that  Alfred  Domett  died,  while  Brunton 
Stephens  is  still  alive,  and  holds  a  government  appointment 
in  Queensland.  Alfred  Domett,  Kendall,  and  George 
Gordon  McCraeare  all  represented  in  Longfellow's  "  Poems 
of  Places  "  in  the  Oceania  volume. 

It  would  not  be  right  to  proceed  further  without  saying 
something  of  "  Orion  "  Home,  for  many  years  as  great  an 
authority  among  the  litterateurs  who  met  at  Dwight's,  in 
Bourke  Street,  as  Dr.  Johnson  was  among  the  frequenters 
of  the  Cock  Tavern.  The  author  of  "  Orion  "  (the  poem 
which  its  author  thought  so  unacceptable  to  the  public  that  he 
published  the  first  three  editions  at  one  farthing,  and  which 


INTRODUCTION.  21 

proved  so  acceptable  that  ten  editions  of  it  have  been  sold 
already)  wrote  very  little  inspired  by  Australia,  and  that  little 
not  conspicuously  good.  We  have  quoted  one  or  two  pieces, 
but  let  no  one  who  reads  them  and  has  not  read  "  Orion  " 
pass  a  judgment  on  their  author.  Among  the  blank  verse 
poems  of  the  century,  Hyperion  is  finer,  much  of  Tennyson 
is  finer,  some  of  Bryant  perhaps  finer.  But  what  else  may 
we  feel  any  certainty  in  preferring  ?  Keats's  sympathetic 
handling  ^of  Greek  myths  was  almost  rivalled  by  the  little 
warden  of  the  Australian  gold-fields.  -He  who  loves  "  Endy- 
mion  "  will  also  love  "  Orion,"  a  poem  less  brilliantly  and 
exquisitely  dressed,  but  with  its  goddesses  and  heroes  as 
heroesque  as  Keats's. 

Having  mentioned  the  most  widely-known  Australian 
poets  and  their  chronological  order,  before  proceeding  to 
individualize  further  we  should  wish  to  discuss  some  of  the 
characteristics  of  Australian  poetry. 

The  character  of  Australian  poetry  is  now  determined  a 
good  deal  by  the  taste  of  the  editors  of  the  great  weekly 
papers.  These  in  Australia  are  the  substitutes  for  magazines, 
and  consequently,  until  pieces  are  collected  into  a  volume, 
their  columns  afford  the  only  medium  for  publicity,  except 
the  capital  literary  clubs  like  the  Yorick.  This  must  influ- 
ence authors,  and  the  editors,  patriotically,  have  shown  a 
desire  to  encourage  an  Australian  School  of  Poetry.  Most 
young  colonial  poets,  therefore,  except  the  few  who  have  an 
original  genius,  draw  their  inspiration  from  English  poets 
through  the  medium  of  either  Gordon  or  Kendall,  who  are 
considered  the  two  most  standard  poets  of  Australia.  They, 
in  turn,  seem  to  owe  most  to  Swinburne,  Bret  Harte,  Edgar 
Allan  Poe,  and,  perhaps.  Hood.  But  Tennyson,  Shelley, 
Longfellow,  and  ^Vordsworth  have  exercised  a  large  influ- 
ence, and  Kendall  andBrunton  Stephens  have  written  much 


2  2  INTRODUCTION. 

in  the  vein  of  tlie  late  C.  S.  Calverley,  Kendall  also  writing 
a  good  deal  that  was  thoroughly  original.  Consequently 
the  commonest  types  of  the  Australian  poems  are  Bush- 
man's Ballads  a  la  Gordon,  often  very  spirited,  but  often 
also  very  rugged  ;  Bush  landscape-painting  a  la  Kendall,  in 
which  much  polish  is  lavished  on  workmanship ;  Swinburne 
Australianized  a  la  Gordon,  and  acclimatized  "  Bret  Harte." 
And  from  these  types,  notably  the  first  and  third  of  them, 
many  beautiful  poems  have  been  produced.  Gordon  him- 
self, for  instance,  and  C.  A.  Sherard  have  written  in  these 
styles  noble  pieces  that  must  command  appreciation  wherever 
they  are  read. 

Blank  ^  verse  has  found  little  favour  in  Australia,  which  is 
not  surprising,  as  to  a  great  extent  it  is  the  offspring  of  a 
classical  education.  William  Morris,  quite  the  founder  of  a 
school  in  Oxford,  has  exercised  hardly  any  influence  in 
Australia,  and  Browning  has  only  two  prominent  disciples, 
though  it  is  to  be  owned  that  one  of  them^  "Waring,"  wrote 
the  greatest  of  Antipodean  poems,  and  the  other  was  the 
author  of  "  Midas."  And  only  one  considerable  poem  has 
been  inspired  by  Walt  Whitman,  "The  Hut  on  the  Flat." 
"  Australian  Lyrics  "  and  "A  Poetry  of  Exiles  "  are  lyrics  of 
Australian  society,  and  Arthur  Patchett  Martin,  Garnet 
\Valch,  and  others  among  the  younger  generation  of  poets 
whose  writings  have  been  inspired  by  Australia,  had  pre- 
viously written  several  poems  of  this  kind.  A.  P.  Martin 
and  Garnet  Walch  are  busy  and  successful  journalists,  which 
prevents  their  having  more  to  display  in  the  way  of  poetry. 
But  both  have  shown  brilliant  capacity,  and  turned  out  work  so 
good  as,  in  spite  of  its  small  quantity,  puts  them  in  the  front 
rank  of  Australian  poets,     A.  P.  Martin  is  a  literary  essayist 

'  "Orion  "is  not  in  any  sense  an  Australian  poen-f,  though  IJorne 
was.  so  long  in  AustraUa. 


INTRO  D  UCTION.  2  3 

^vith  a  beautiful  style,  and  Garnet  Walch,  who  has  almost  regu- 
larly supplied  the  theatres  with  an  extravaganza  at  Christmas, 
writes  both  poems  and  plays  with  a  most  contagious  and 
exuberant  wit  and  much  facility.  George  Gordon  McCrae, 
a  poet  of  first-class  reputation  and  achievements,  is  difificult 
to  classify  ;  but  in  his  most  valuable  "  Bush  "  work,  his  two 
great  lays  of  the  Aborigines,  he  has  followed  in  the  footsteps 
of  Scott,  and  has  gone  into  his  subject  with  the  conscientious 
care  and  research  of  that  poet.  Henry  Halloran,  a  poet  of 
great  culture,  may  be  judged  fairly  from  the  extracts  given 
in  the  text.  He  has  written  much,  and  been  long  before 
the  world.  In  fact,  though  still  alive,  like  Sir  Henry  Parkes, 
he  belongs  to  an  earlier  generation — the  generation  of  which 
Harpur  was  the  best.  We  have  seen  poems  of  Halloran's 
in  a  manuscript  selection  made  fifty-four  years  ago. 

James  L.  Michael,  the  solicitor  on  the  Clarence  River, 
N.S.W.,  from  whose  office  Kendall,  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
sent  home  his  historic  bundle  of  manuscripts  to  the 
Athemeum,  is  of  some  importance.  He  may  fairly  be 
called  Kendall's  literary  father,  for  he  treated  Kendall 
almost  like  a  son,  was  his  first  instructor  in  the  "  Ars 
Poetica,"  and  allowed  him  the  run  of  his  fine  library.  And 
Kendall  has  adapted  some  of  his  metres  from  Michael's 
poems — the  poem  quoted  in  this  volume  for  instance.  We 
have  Kendall's  authority,  given  when  he  himself  was  famous, 
for  the  fact  that  Michael  was  the  most  accomplished  man 
and  talker  of  his  day  in  New  South  Wales,  and  his  poem, 
"  John  Cumberland,"  has  passages  of  great  power  and 
beauty,  though  at  times  the  bathos  is  marked  and  the 
language  not  chosen  with  sufficient  care.  All  who  enjoy 
Coventry  Patmore's  delightful  '■  Angel  in  the  House  "  will 
do  well  to  read  "  John  Cumberland,"  which  a  more  rigid 
standard  in  art  would  have  made  a  formidable  rival.   Michael 


24  INTRODUCTION. 

is  a  poet  who  really  had  something  in  him^  and  has  suffered 
undeserved  neglect  in  Australia  of  late  years.  So  has  John 
Dunmore  Lang,  who,  though  not  a  writer  of  striking  origin- 
ality, wrote  some  poems  worthy  of  himself;  and  he  was 
once  a  power  in  the  land,  a  man  to  whom  Australia  is  under 
a  heavy  debt  of  gratitude.  So  has  Sir  Henry  Parkes,  now, 
and  often  before.  Premier  of  New  South  Wales,  been  much 
underrated  as  a  poet.  His  critics  have  some  of  them  been 
his  political  enemies,  and  have  concentrated  attention  on 
the  obviously  weak  points  of  his  writing.  But  Parkes  is,  in 
his  inspiration,  a  true  poet,  with  the  deep  voice  of  humanity  in 
him  ;  he  has  something  to  say  worth  the  hearing,  and  can  say 
it  emphatically.  Only  two  of  Gerald  H.  Supple's  poems  have 
come  into  our  hands.  The  opening  ballad  in  "  The  Dream 
of  Dampier  "  has  something  of  the  spiritedness  of  Tennyson's 
"Revenge,"  and  the  ballad-pieces  in  "Ranolf  and  Amohia," 
but  Supple  lacks  the  ease  of  the  Laureate,  and  Domett. 
There  is  an  inevitableness  in  the  rhythm  of  the  great  New 
Zealand  poem.  Domett  had  such  an  instinct  for  the  fit 
word,  the  fit  metrical  effect ;  as,  for  instance,  in  "  The  Legend 
of  Tawhaki"  or  "The  Haunted  Mountain."  Francis  W. 
L.  Adams,  a  journalist  well  known  in  Australia,  is  also  a 
real  poet,  though  we  cannot  agree  with  his  new  methods  of 
versification,  which  however  we  do  not,  with  some  of  his 
critics,  regard  as  slipshodness  so  much  as  a  deliberate 
attempt  to  strike  out  a  new  metrical  system  between  the 
ordinarily  received  one  and  that  of  Walt  Whitman.  We 
wonder  what  the  good-natured  critic  in  the  Glohe^  who 
regretted  that  Australia  had  struck  out  no  new  style  of  ex- 
pression, would  have  to  say  to  Francis  Adams.  His  book 
is  fascinating^eminently  interesting.  One  always  feels  in- 
clined to  read  just  one  more  poem  before  one  lays  it  down. 
We  have  purposely  selected  poems  with  less  than  his  usual 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  2  5 

mannerism  about  them.  Alexander  Forbes,  a  brother  of 
the  famous  war  correspondent,  was  a  wild  fellow,  who  ran 
away  to  sea  from  college  ;  and  at  last  coming  to  Queensland, 
became  a  "  swagman,''  of  every  trade  by  turns — stockman, 
drover,  butcher,  miner,  and  what  not.  In  all  these  capaci- 
ties he  seems  to  have  been  a  prime  favourite  with  his  mates, 
and  really  was  a  man  of  very  considerable  powers.  His 
rhymes  have  a  value,  because  he  wrote  from  his  own  expe- 
riences, and  his  experiences  were  such  as  do  not  ordinarily 
befall  writers,  so  that  there  is  very  little  first-hand  writing 
about  them.  Here,  for  instance,  is  "No.  2  Reef,''  a  rhyme, 
which  was  not  poetical  enough  to  be  worth  considering  in 
the  text,  but  which  yet  is  a  characteristic  piece  of  miners' 
humour,  and  gives  a  fair  idea  of  his  powers  in  this  line, 
though  it  is  only  just  to  say  that  he  has  written  pieces  much 
more  graphic,  such  as  "After  Crushing"  and  "  For  Alcohol," 
which  are  too  realistic  to  be  pleasing  here. 

No.  2  REEF,  BEFORE   CRUSHING. 

Now,  if  this  claim  turns  out  an  ounce, 

Right  joyful  I  shall  be  ; 
I'll  walk  into  the  Morinish, 

And  have  a  jolly  spree. 

And  if  two  ounces  it  should  run, 

By  Jove  !  that  would  be  glorious  ; 
Rockhampton  I'd  turn  upside  down, 

And  spend  a  month  uproarious. 

And  if  three  ounces  we  should  get, 

That  just  would  suit  my  kidney  ; 
I'd  take  my  passage  in  the  boat, 

And  have  a  trip  to  Sydney. 

I  f  we  four  ounces  should  obtain, 

No  longer  here  I'd  tarry  ; 
The  steamer  which  takes  home  the  mails, 

This  male  should  also  carry. 


26  INTRODUCTION. 

And  if  a  duffer  it  should  prove- 
But,  Lord  !  I'll  say  no  more  now  ; 

I  have  a  guardian  angel, 
And  he's  stuck  to  me  before  now. 

We  are  glad  to  be  able,  in  this  edition,  to  place  before  our 
readers  poems  by  E.  B.  Loughran,  the  contributor  of  some 
of  the  most  beautiful  pieces  which  have  appeared  in  the 
Australasian^  (Miss)  Margaret  Thomas,  the  first  Australian- 
bred  sculptor  of  eminence,  and  others.  Those  of  Farrell  and 
Victor  Dale,  which  have  lately  been  spoken  of  so  highly  by 
the  Australian  Press,  we  have  unfortunately  been  unable  to 
procure;  and  the  poems  which  have  reached  us  from  the 
Havilands  have  not  come  within  our  limitations.  But  the 
author  whose  absence  we  regret  above  all  others  is  (Mrs.) 
Mary  Hannay  Foott,  who  wrote  "  Where  the  Pelican 
Builds,"  and  who  seems,  from  the  only  scrap  of  her  poetry 
which  we  have  to  hand,  to  have  more  of  the  mantle  of 
Gordon  than  any  one : — 

"  The  horses  were  ready,  the  rails  were  down, 

But  the  riders  lingered  still — 
One  had  a  parting  word  to  say, 

And  one  had  a  pipe  to  fill. 
Then  they  mounted,  one  with  a  granted  prayer, 

And  one  with  a  grief  unguessed  : 
'  We  are  going,'  they  said,  as  they  rode  away, 

'  Where  the  pelican  builds  her  nest.'  " 

We  should   rejoice  to  have  this  volume   for  selection  on 
future  occasions. 

James  Thomas,  of  whose  pieces  we  have,  to  our  regret,  in 
our  limited  space  only  been  able  to  quote  one,  has  written 
many  fine  poems,  reminding  one,  in  their  delicate  appreci- 
ation of  Nature,  of  Emerson's  "Humble  Bee,"  or  Bryant's 
bird-life  poems.  Of  AVilliam  Sharp,  a  visitor  "out  from 
home,"  whose  photographic  "Transcripts  from  Nature  "in 


JNTR  OD  UCTION.  2  7 

Australia  we  have  quoted,  it  befits  us  to  say  nothing,  since 
he  is  general  editor  of  the  series  in  which  this  book  appears. 
We  have  purposely  deferred  our  remarks  on  Philip  J.  Holds- 
worth  and  Alfred  T.  Chandler,  the  two  young  native-born 
Australians  whose  poems  have  attracted  most  notice  in 
England.  They  are  thoroughly  Australian,  and  their 
volumes  are  a  distinct  contribution  towards  a  National 
literature,  a  remark  which  applies  equally  to  a  little  volume 
by  Keighley  Goodchild,  and  to  the  poems  of  Charles  Allan 
Sherard,  which,  as  far  as  we  know,  have  not  yet  been  col- 
lected into  a  volume.  (We  believe  him  also  to  be  an 
Australian  by  birth.)  Holdsworth  has  written  some  poems, 
notably,  "  My  Queen  of  Dreams,"  which  most  conclusively 
show  where  the  mantle  of  Kendall  has  fallen  ;  and  Chandler's 
volume  proves  him  to  be  a  genuine  poet  of  wide  sympathies, 
with  (what  is  sometimes  forgotten  in  philanthropists)  a  good 
backbone  of  manhood  in  him. 

The  poem  which  has  been  cliosen  as  an  enz'oi  to  the 
volume  comes  from  a  Printers'  Keepsake,  the  joint  effort 
of  some  brilliant  Victorian  compositors,  full  of  good  things, 
but  unfortunately  with  none  of  the  others,  except  the  one 
quoted,  within  our  limits. 

Australian  poetesses  we  have  not  yet  mentioned,  because 
one  of  them  is  the  link  between  Australia  and  New  Zealand- 
Judging  from  the  very  serious  tenor  of  their  poems,  few  of 
them  can  be  like  the  typical  Victorian  young  lady,  hit  off  to 
the  life  in  these  spirited  lines  : — 

"  Iler  frank,  clear  eyes  bespeak  a  mind 
Old-world  traditions  fail  to  bind. 

She  is  not  shy 
Or  bold,  but  simply  self-possessed  ; 
Jlcr  independence  adds  a  zest 
Unto  her  speech,  her  piquant  jest. 

Her  quaint  reply. 


28  INTRODUCTION. 

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.'' 
(Miss)  Ethel  Castilla,  Melbourne. 


Though  (Mrs.)  Mary  Hannay  Foott,  judging  from  the 
single  verse  of  her  poems  with  which  we  are  acquainted, 
seems  full  of  spirit,  and  (Miss)  Nellie  S.  Clerk,  who  sends 
us  some  poems  from  the  very  depth  of  the  Gippsland  Forest, 
may  possibly  answer  to  the  description.  She  writes  from  an 
altogether  original  point  of  view — the  oppressiveness  of  the 
forest ;  to  her  the  forest  means  ennui — and  a  prison.  She 
hails  with  welcome  the  fall  of  every  tree  as  opening  a  new 
window  to  sun  and  sky  and  air,  and  writes  with  considerable 
grace.     Here  are  some  verses  from  her  poem  : — 

TO  MY  FIRST  GARDEN  FLOWER. 

Short  a  monarch's  life  was  dipt. 

Where  you  reign.  Geranium  ! 
There  once  a  mighty  Eucalypt 
High  plumes  in  heaven's  azure  dipped. 
And  cumbrous  bark  robes  yearly  stripped, 

Revealing  hidden  beauty. 

Great  the  fall  that  left  a  throne 

For  you,  royal  Geranium  ! 
The  cruel  axe  cleft  through  the  bone 
Witlr  rattling  crash  and  thunderous  groan, 
He  fell  !  a  cairn  of  soft  sandstone 

I  built  to  mourn  his  beauty. 


INTROD  UCTION.  2  9 

'Twas  then  you  came  to  glad  my  eyes, 

A  welcome  gift,  Geranium  ! 
This  wilderness  of  foliaged  skies 
You  brightened  with  your  scarlet  dyes  ; 
You  were  my  first  flower — you  I  prize 

Above  all  rival  beauty. 

So  slight  I  thought,  three  3'ears  ago, 

This  slip  of  a  Geranium  ; 
Above,  around  trees  restless  blow, 
Thick  tangled  bushes  crowd  below, 
Oh  !  where  can  it  in  safety  grow 

And  best  display  its  beauty  ? 

Tramped  the  grass-ulot  on  the  mouml, 

No  place  for  my  Geranium  ! 
Wiih  long  bark  hut  the  summit's  crowned, 
A  lazy  packhorse  feeds  around. 
And  ringing  axes  ceaseless  sound  : — 
No  pleasure  here,  but  duty. 


ERR  A  TUM. 

Page  29. — Agnes  Neale's  real  name  is  not  Mrs.  Aherne, 
but  Miss  Caroline  Agnes  Leane. 


Those  who  enjoy  the  greatest  reputation  in  Austraha  are 
— "Austrahe"  (Mrs.  Hubert  Heron),  (Miss)  Frances  Tyrrell 
Gill,  Agnes  Neale  (Mrs.  Aherne),  Lindsay  Duncan  (Mrs.  T. 
C.  Cloud),  (Miss)  Frances  Sescadarowna  Lewin,  and  Philip 


2  8  INTR  OD  UCTION. 

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." 
(Miss)  Ethel  Castilla,  Melbourne. 


Though  (Mrs.)  Mary  Hannay  Foott,  judging  from  the 
single  verse  of  her  poems  with  which  we  are  acquainted, 
seems  full  of  spirit,  and  (Miss)  Nellie  S.  Clerk,  who  sends 
us  some  poems  from  the  very  depth  of  the  Gippsland  Forest, 
may  possibly  answer  to  the  description.  She  writes  from  an 
altogether  original  point  of  view — the  oppressiveness  of  the 
forest ;  to  her  the  forest  means  ennui — and  a  prison.  She 
hails  with  welcome  the  fall  of  every  tree  as  opening  a  new 


Great  the  fall  that  left  a  throne 

For  you,  royal  Geranium  ! 
The  cruel  axe  cleft  through  the  bone 
With  rattling  crash  and  thunderous  groan, 
He  fell  !  a  cairn  of  soft  sandstone 

I  built  to  mourn  his  beauty. 


INTRODUCTION.  29 

'Twas  then  you  came  to  glad  my  eyes, 

A  welcome  gift,  Geranium  ! 
This  wilderness  of  foliagcd  skies 
You  brightened  with  your  scarlet  dyes  ; 
You  were  my  first  flower — you  I  prize 

Above  all  rival  beauty. 

So  slight  I  thought,  three  years  ago, 

This  slip  of  a  Geranium  ; 
Above,  around  trees  restless  blow, 
Thick  tangled  bushes  crowd  below. 
Oh  !  where  can  it  in  safety  grow 

And  best  display  its  beauty  ? 

Tramped  the  grass-plot  uw  the  mound, 

No  place  for  my  Geranium  ! 
With  long  bark  hut  the  summit's  crowned, 
A  lazy  packhorse  feeds  around, 
And  ringing  axes  ceaseless  sound  : — 
No  pleasure  here,  but  duty. 

Ah  !  that  headless  trunk  will  hold 

You  safely,  sweet  Geranium  ! 
On  his  broad  breast  some  pliant  mould 
Shall,  'mid  the  cairn,  your  roots  enfold. 
No  more  I'll  mourn  his  grandeur  bold. 

His  scars  hid  by  your  beauty. 

You  have  watched  our  homestead  rise. 

Shining-eyed  Geranium, 
Felt  the  falling  forest's  sighs, 
Blessed  each  widening  glimpse  of  skies, 
Heard  the  first  flock's  bleating  cries, 

And  traced  all  growth  of  beauty  ! 

:;:  :;;  :|<  * 

Those  who  enjoy  the  greatest  reputation  in  Austraha  are 
— "Austrahe"  (Mrs.  Hubert  Heron),  (Miss)  Frances  Tyrrell 
Gill,  Agnes  Neale  (Mrs.  Aherne),  Lindsay  Duncan  (Mrs.  T. 
C.  Cloud),  (Miss)  Trances  Sescadarowna  Lewin,  and  Philip 


so  INTRODUCTION. 

Dale  (Mrs.  C.  Haviland) ;  but  Mrs.  George  Knox  {nee  Miss 
Price,  a  Victorian),  who  has  pubUshed  but  few  of  her  poems, 
and  those  under  pseudonyms,  is  one  of  the  most,  if  not  the 
most,  rhythmical  and  pathetic  of  all.  And  Mrs.  W.  J. 
Anderson,  who  left  Australia  to  die,  when  hardly  out  of  her 
honeymoon,  away  in  the  Mauritius,  has  written  very  patheti- 
cally, though  now,  most  unjustly,  almost  forgotten.  Nearly  all 
Antipodean  poetesses  are  native-born.  Most  of  them  exhibit 
the  influence  of  Adelaide  Procter  strongly.  One  of  them, 
Agnes  Neale,  might  almost  be  called  the  Australian  Adelaide 
Procter.  She  is  not  seen  to  advantage  in  this  volume,  our 
limitation  of  subject  excluding  her  best  pieces.  Frances 
Gill  is  a  beautiful  writer  of  what  one  may  perhaps  call  the 
Victorian  school^if  one  may  mean  thereby  C.  A.  Sherard, 
E.  B.  Loughran,  Jennings  Carmichael,  Thorpe  Talbot,  and 
a  few  other  charming  writers  who  have  sprung  up  in  the 
footsteps  of  Gordon,  and  developed  that  kind  of  style  of 
their  own,  modelled  originally  on  Swinburne,  to  which  we 
referred  above  in  such  high  terms.  To  this  school  in  a  way 
also  belongs  "Austral"  (Mrs.  J.  G.  Wilson),  a  Victorian  by 
birth,  but  resident  in  New  Zealand,  who  has  written  some  of 
the  most  beautiful  things  which  have  appeared  in  the 
Australasian.  New  Zealand  scenery,  the  most  glorious 
blending  under  heaven  of  the  sub-tropical  and  the  Alpine, 
a  perfect  fairyland  of  palmy  foliage  and  mountain  waters, 
has  not,  so  far,  inspired  many  writers  of  more  than  local 
fame,  but  besides  "Austral,"  several  of  them  are  very  high- 
class.  Alfred  Domett,  as  we  have  expressed  an  opinion 
above,  towers  over  Antipodean  poets  in  his  achievements, 
and  Thomas  Bracken  is  a  poet  whose  established  reputation 
is  well  deserved.  His  poems  are  imbued  with  the  senti- 
ment and  colouring  of  the  land  in  which  he  lives,  and  the 
"  voice  of  humanity  "  speaks  in  his  poems  with  no  uncertain 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  3 1 

utterance.  He  is  distinctly  a  poet  \vith  something  to  say, 
and  in  his  shorter  pieces  especially  he  has  a  fine  gift  of  ex- 
pression. We  have,  unfortunately,  had  only  one  of  his 
three  volumes  before  us,  but  in  that  volume,  in  addition  to 
the  pieces  quoted  in  our  text,  there  are  to  be  found  such 
good  poems  as  "  Old  Bendigo,"  "The  Waterfall,"  "  In  the 
Temple,"  "  Misunderstood,"  and  "  ISIother's  Grave."  He  is, 
moreover,  a  typical  colonist  of  the  "old  colonial  days";  one 
who  faced  the  rough  world  of  the  diggings  when  a  mere  boy, 
and  who  has  been  everything  in  his  time  from  a  working  miner 
to  a  member  of  Parliament,  and  from  the  bottom  to  the  top 
of  the  tree  in  journalism.  Alexander  W.  Bathgate  has  written 
poems  of  mature  excellence — all  the  poems  that  he  sent  us 
being  at  an  unusually  high  level  in  taste  and  workmanship. 
Ebenezer  Storry  Hay  is,  unhappily,  dead.  He  had  perhaps 
the  makings  of  a  New  Zealand  Shelley,  and  has  left  us 
some  of  the  most  exquisite  little  pieces  in  Australian  litera- 
ture. 

The  list  of  the  front  rank  of  New  Zealand  poets  would 
not  be  complete  without  the  names  of  J.  L.  Kelly,  a  poet 
with  plenty  of  imagination,  who  has  made  a  study  of  the 
customs  and  traditions  of  the  natives,  resulting  in  his  noble 
poem,  "  Tarawera,  or  the  Curse  of  Tuhotu,"  the  most  im- 
portant New  Zealand  poem  after  "  Ranolf  and  Amohia." 
Great  things  may  be  expected  of  him  in  the  future,  as  he 
has  something  of  Domett's  wonderful  facility  of  rhythm  and 
metre,  and  has  a  fine  taste  in  his  choice  of  subject  and  ap- 
preciation of  the  picturesque.  Two  other  New  Zealand 
poets  deserve  mention,  Sir  Frederick  Napier  Broome,  now 
Governor  of  West  Australia,  who,  in  his  poems  from  New 
Zealand,  published  one,  entitled  "  A  Temple  Service,"  which 
was  astonishing  for  a  man  who  could  not  have  been  more 
than  nve-and-twenty  when  he  wrote  it ;  and  AV.  R.  Wills^ 


3  2  INTRO  D  UCTION. 

who  has  pubUshed  three  volumes  of  poems  with  much 
genuine  poetry  in  them. 

Among  poetesses,  besides  "Austral,"  New  Zealand  has 
IMary  Colborne  Veel,  a  promising  writer,  with  a  dry 
humour  in  some  of  her  work  ;  and  "  The  Singing  Shep- 
herd," whose  little  lyric  of  dedication,  "  To  One  in  England," 
we  believe  to  be  one  of  the  gems  of  the  volume,  and  whose 
"Good  night,  good  rest"  and  "Adieu,"  ineligible  from  sub- 
ject, are  not  much  inferior.  She  is,  however,  a  very  unequal 
writer,  who  spoils  some  of  her  best  poems  by  lapsing  from 
the  metre.  From  her  work  we  should  imagine  her  to  be 
quite  young.  If  our  surmise  be  correct,  and  a  friendly 
critic  helps  her  to  notice  her  faults  of  style,  we  augur  a 
bright  future  for  her. 

Tasmania  is  here  represented  by  Garnet  Walch,  born  in 
the  island,  but  long  resident  in  the  other  colonies ;  and 
Caroline  Leakey.  Like  Mrs.  Hemans,  her  popularity  has 
waned,  but  the  time  will  come  when  the  musical  measures, 
picturesqueness,  and  bright  motherly  piety  of  these  depre- 
ciated singers  will  be  held  once  more  at  their  true  value. 

We  have  received  a  good  many  poems  from  drovers,  stock- 
men, miners,  and  others  engaged  "up  the  country" — the  very 
men  from  whom  one  would  have  expected  the  kind  of  pieces 
desired  for  this  volume — -but,  with  a  very  few  exceptions, 
they  were  not  eligible,  most  of  them  because  they  were  not 
upon  the  "  Bush"  subjects  on  which  the  writers  were  so  well 
qualified  to  write,  and  others  because,  though  they  did  relate 
to  the  "Bush,"  they  were  upon  subjects  already  appropriated 
in  the  most  famous  Australian  poems.  For  it  has  been  the 
aim  of  the  editor  to  give  as  much  variety  of  subject,  as  many 
different  aspects  of  Australian  life,  as  he  found  possible. 
He  could  have  formed  one  whole  volume  of  the  exploration- 
poems,  another  of  the  wild-horse  and  other  hunts,  another 


INTRODUCTION.  33 

of  the  Bush-landscape-poems  a  la  Kendall,  which  have 
been  submitted  to  him ;  but  he  has  endeavoured  to  make 
the  volume  representative  of  Bush-life  as  well  as  Bush- 
poems. 

The  editor  is  glad  to  have  been  able  to  give  in  Appendix  I. 
a  few  of  the  songs  sung  in  the  Bush.  Poor  Jack  was  a  well- 
known  stockman  in  the  Monaro  Mountains,  and  the  song  is 
variously  ascribed  to  a  station-overseer,  named  Townsend, 
and  an  Adelaide  lady.  The  author  of  "  The  Bushman's 
Lullaby ''  is  Tom  Brown,  under  his  synonym  of  Rolf 
Bolderwood,  a  "  household  word  "  in  Victoria.  The  author 
of  "  Careless  Jim  "  was  a  South  Australian. 

By  the  kindness  of  the  editors  of  the  great  weekly  papers 
of  Australasia,  the  editor  of  this  volume  was  able  to  give 
his  invitation  for  contributions  the  widest  publicity  in  the 
colonies.  Those  who  did  not  contribute,  therefore,  he  has 
judged  to  be  unwilling  for  their  poems  to  appear.  With  very 
few  exceptions  the  volume  is  selected  entirely  from  the  con- 
tributions sent,  every  one  of  which,  except  those  which  were 
in  undecipherable  manuscript,  has  been  read.  These  few 
exceptions  consist  almost  entirely  of  writers  dead  and  gone, 
or  writers  whose  absence  from  the  book,  for  literary  or 
personal  reasons,  would  have  left  a  gap,  such  as  William 
Wentworth,  Michael,  Sir  Henry  Parkes,  Marcus  Clarke, 
John  Dunmore  Lang,  and  Sir  Frederick  Broome — the  last, 
we  believe,  almost  the  only  colonist  who  has  risen  to  be  the 
Queen's  Representative  in  an  Australian  colony. 

The  publisher  and  editor  wish  to  tender  their  best  thanks 
to  the  authors  who  sent  contributions,  the  publishers  who 
allowed  their  copyrights  to  be  used,  and  to  the  editors  of  the 
great  Australian  papers  for  generously  giving  in  their  columns 
publicity  to  the  scheme  ;  also  to  Edward  A.  Petherick,  the 
first  authority  on  Australian  Bibliography,  who  gave  evjr/ 

4 


3  4  INTROD  UCTION. 

information  in  his  power,  and  lent  any  book  required  from  his 
unique  Colonial  library  ;  to  J.  Hovvlett  Ross  and  the  Hon, 
Mrs.  W.  E.  Cavendish,  who  placed  their  collections  of  Austra- 
lian cuttings  at  the  editor's  disposal ;  and  to  Patchett  Martin, 
Francis  Adams,  Philip  J.  Holdsworth,  Herbert  Tinker, 
Gleeson  White,  and  the  managers  of  Griffith,  Farran  &  Co., 
in  Sydney  (Mr.  Empson),  and  George  Robertson  &  Co.,  in 
Melbourne  (Mr.  R.  P.  Raymond),  for  sending  or  procuring 
by  personal  application  some  of  the  most  important  contri- 
butions in  the  volume.  Eastly,  the  editor  wishes  to  say  how 
much  he  personally  is  indebted  to  the  admirable  library  of 
the  Royal  Colonial  Institute,  where  he  had  special  facilities 
extended  to  him  by  Mr.  O'Halloran  and  Mr.  Boose. 


The  book  could  not  hope  to  be  thoroughly  representative 
when  its  component  parts  were  scattered  over  a  whole  con- 
tinent. So  there  must  infallibly  be  many  omissions,  which, 
however,  the  editor  did  his  best  to  obviate  by  applying 
through  the  most  widely  circulating  newspapers  for  material 
from  every  one  who  had  anything  to  send.  He  hopes, 
therefore,  that  those  wlio  did  not  send  what  they  knew 
ought  to  be  inserted  will  lay  the  blame  at  their  own  doors. 
He  has  endeavoured  to  be  strictly  impartial,  and  has  never 
laid  aside  a  poem  about  which  there  was  a  doubt  without 
reading  it  over  two  or  three  times  carefully. 

He  will  be  glad  to  receive  any  Australian  poems  or 
volumes  as  they  come  out,  and  also  any  that  are  already  out 
but  have  been  missed  in  the  compilation  of  this  volume, 
especially  "  Where  the  Pelican  Builds."  For  he  hopes  from 
time  to  time  to  publish  appendices  to  keep  up  with  the  ever 
growing  literature  of  Australia,  and  also  to  contribute  annually 
to  one  or  other  of  the  London  journals  an  account  of  the 
Australian  publications  of  the  year. 


A  CENTURY  OF  AUSTRALIAN  SONG. 


R    JP.  L.  ADAMS. 

THE  SHEEP-SHEARERS. 

Here's  work  for  men  to  do  and  sweat, 

Sweet  sweat  that  makes  them  lean  and  strong ; 

And  for  such  work  at  night  they  get 
A  sleep  as  deep  as  a  river's  song. 


SPRING  MORNING. 

What  clearer  than  this  earth  and  air? 
The  birds  go  flying  everywhere 

As  I  ride. 
See  the  black  swans,  white-vanned  pair. 
Soaring  from  the  pale  swamp  there 

Up  the  wide 
Lower  heaven,  so  sweet  and  foir. 


36  F.   W.  L.  ADAMS. 

Hark,  the  pulsing  magpie  calls 
His  melodious  intervals 

As  I  ride  : 
So  my  soul  beyond  the  walls, 
Where  her  last  low  fetter  falls 

Glorified, 
Sings  to  God  glad  madrigals. 


F.    W.  L.  ADAMS.  37 


THE  KANGAROO  HUNT. 

Up  and  away  by  the  break  of  the  day, 

Over  the  silvery  plain  ; 
'Squito  and  Wheels  atrot  at  our  heels, 

Our  horses  all  flash  and  fain. 


Up  soars  the  sun.     Hoop  !  yonder  is  one ; 

An  "  old  man,"  too  !     Set  on  the  dogs. 
Off,  off  we  go,  bent  down  to  the  bow. 

As  we  crash  through  the  scrub-trees  and  logs. 


Now  we  are  clear.     We  have  got  him,  no  fear. 

Dear  horse  of  me,  spare  you  no  breath  ; 
My  life's  in  my  knees,  and  you  bound  as  they  squeeze. 

We  mean  to  be  in  at  the  death  ! 


O  the  wild  rush  past  grass,  tree,  and  bush, 
The  whistling  wind  and  the  sun  ! 

Where  it  is,  if  you'll  tell,  we'll  ride  into  hell 
And  out  again  ere  we  have  done ! 


Over  the  ground,  fourteen  feet  at  each  bound. 
The  kangaroo  strikes  wild  ahead. 

O  swift  she  sails  up,  the  grey  lightning  pup  ! 
She's  turned  him  ;  his  feet  are  like  lead. 


38  R    IP.  Z.  ADAMS. 

He's  round  ;  he's  at  bay.     Now,  'Squito  girl,  stay ; 

You're  too  pretty  a  damsel  for  him. 
In  she  goes  !  at  her  heels  to  his  throat  leaps  old  Wheels. 

They're  down.     He's  done.  Seraphim  !  .  .  . 


Quite  dead  ...  on  the  plain  he'll  browse  never  again. 

His  mate,  will  she  pine  ?     Can  I  know  ? 
I've  been  glad,  I've  been  mad,  and  now  I  am  sad. 

"Have  you  done?"     I  say,  "Let  us  go." 


ALPHA   CRVCIS.  39 


TRUCANINI'S  DIRGE. 


"  And  the  place  thereof  shall  know  them  no  more." — Psalm  ciii.  i6. 
"They  make  a  solitude,  and  call  it  peace." — Byron. 


Through  the  forests  deep  the  slow  rains  weep, 
And  the  leaves  fall  thick  beneath, 

As  the  last  lone  child  of  Tasmania's  wild 
Lies  passing  away  in  death. 

The  she-oaks  wail  in  the  autumn  gale, 

And  the  sad  mists  shadowy  rise 
O'er  the  wild  swamp  streatns,  where  the  curlew 
screams, 

As  the  queen  of  the  dead  tribe  dies  ! 


The  dark  tribe's  queen  !  she  has  suffered,  and  seen 

Her  race  perish  one  by  one 
In  the  terrible  past,  till  lonely  and  last 

The  sands  of  her  life  are  run. 


Ere  the  last  ones  sink  on  the  silent  brink 

Of  Eternity's  shrouded  wave, 
As  her  dark  cheek  pales,  she  mournfully  wails 

Her  dirge  o'er  her  people's  grave. 


40  ALPHA  CRUCIS. 

Oh,  God  of  our  race  !  hast  Thou  never  a  place 
For  the  one  we  were  spoiled  of  on  earth  ? 

Or  shall  we  be  left  of  a  heaven  bereft, 

And  our  death  be  as  doomed  as  our  birth  ? 


Oh,  God  of  our  tribes  !  we  bore  the  gibes 
And  scourge  of  our  tyrants  long — 

Were  hunted  and  slain,  from  forest  and  plain, 
With  never  a  righted  wrong  ! 


With  hatchet  and  flame  they  drove  the  game 
From  our  happy  hunting  grounds, 

And  ravished  and  slew,  and  merciless  threw 
Our  babes  to  their  savage  hounds. 


Thou  sawest  our  woes,  O  God  of  our  foes  ! 

And  heard'st  the  awful  wails 
Of  our  slaughtered  ones,  as  the  lightning  guns 

Swept  thundering  through  our  vales. 

Oh,  pitiless  race  of  the  fierce  pale  face  ! 

Had'st  thou  a  warrant  from  God, 
In  the  cold  grey  north,  to  come  south  and  drive  forth 

The  peaceable  people  who  trod. 

By  right  of  their  birth,  their  own  spot  of  earth  ? 

Was  there  not  room  under  heaven 
For  thy  people  and  mine,  that  my  people  by  thine 

To  death  and  destruction  were  given  ? 


ALPHA  CRUCIS.  41 

You  came  unsought,  and  the  gifts  you  brought 

As  Christians  from  over  the  wave, 
Were  greed  for  land  and  a  merciless  hand, 

And  the  fire-drink  that  digs  the  grave  ! 


Ere  came  the  White,  time's  peaceful  fliglit 

Was  measured  by  happy  years. 
And  we  lived  our  life — with  scarcely  a  strife- 

'Midst  friendship  which  knew  no  fears  ! 


With  never  a  foe,  and  scarcely  a  woe, 
Except  for  some  loved  one's  death. 

We  lived  by  the  chase — a  harmless  race — 
And  gladsome  with  freedom's  breath. 

Oh,  the  happy  days  !  'midst  the  pleasant  ways 

Of  the  wild  woods  and  the  hills. 
Where  the  echoes  rang,  whilst  the  wild  birds  sang 

To  the  music  of  rippling  rills  ! 


Ah  !  never  again,  o'er  hill  and  plain. 

Shall  Trucanini  rove 
With  the  swift  firm  tread  of  the  wilderness  bred, 

Whose  home  is  the  forest  grove. 


By  Tamar's  banks,  where  the  bearded  ranks 
Of  the  bright  green  rushes  bend. 

Shall  her  bark  canoe  the  swan  pursue. 
Or  her  arm  the  swift  spear  send. 


42  ALPHA  CRUCIS. 

No  more,  no  more — ah  !  never  once  more, 

Shall  the  feet  of  my  people  skim 
O'er  the  tufted  grass  up  the  mountain  pass, 

Or  the  bush  tracks  greenly  dim. 

Never,  no  never  !     Alas  !  for  ever 

They  have  faded  from  rivers  and  shore ; 

Yea  !  have  passed  like  a  dream  or  a  summer-dried 
stream. 
And  their  place  shall  know  them  no  more  ! 

Lay  me  to  rest  in  the  silent  breast 

Of  the  solemn  mountain  chain. 
Beyond  all  trace  of  the  ruthless  race 

By  whom  my  race  was  slain  ! 

And  have  remorse  on  my  lonely  corse  ; 

Let  ravenous  science  reap 
Nor  nerve,  nor  bone,  but  leave  me  alone 

Unharmed,  for  my  last  long  sleep. 

My  days  arc  past,  and  I  die,  tho'  last 

Of  the  tribes !     So  let  me  rest 
In  my  long,  last  home,  where  they  loved  to  roam, 

Where  the  hills  face  the  dying  west ; 

And  the  shadows  deep  of  the  mountain  sweep 
O'er  the  lonely  wandering  stream  ; 

There  lay  my  head,  in  its  last  cold  bed, 
For  the  sleep  that  has  never  a  dream. 


ALPHA  CRUCIS.  43 

Whilst  the  high  stars  cahii  hear  the  night  wind's  psalm, 

And  the  rivulet's  rippling  wave, 
As  Nature  wild  takes  home  her  child, 

And  watches  her  lonely  grave  ! 


44  EMMA  FRANCES  ANDERSON. 


EVENING  :  A  FRAGMENT. 

It  is  the  evening  hour,  and  silently 

The  day  has  folded  all  his  robes  of  light, 

And  laid  them  gently  on  the  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  fields  ; 

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. 


EMMA  FEAiVCES  ANBERSON.  45 

No  ruder  sound 
Than  the  low  hushing  of  the  waving  trees, 
Rocking  all  weary  little  birds  to  rest. 
No  rougher  breeze  than  this,  which  scarcely  plucks 
^Vith  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  the  calm  hour. 
All  perfect  in  its  holy  loveliness. 
That  I  have  almost  sighed  to  think  in  heaven 
There  is  no  nicrht. 


46  EMMA  FRANCES  ANDERSON. 


AN  AUSTRALIAN  GIRL'S  FAREWELL. 

I'm  leaving  thee,  my  happy  native  land, 

I'm  leaving  thee,  for  years,  perhaps  for  ever, 

But  still  my  heart  is  clinging  to  thy  strand, 
And  still  repining— must,  oh,  must  we  sever  ? 


What  though  the  land  I  go  to  rises  fair, 
x'Vnd  glittering  like  a  jewel  from  the  sea, 

I  know  it  not ;  strange  scenes  will  meet  me  there — 
Australia,  my  home,  I  cling  to  thee. 


I  cling  to  thee.     Each  songless  bird  I  love 
That  flutters  through  the  still  and  sultry  air  ; 

Each  withered  leaf,  that,  borne  by  winds  above, 
Goes  trembling  up  to  heaven  like  a  prayer. 


Like  moss  upon  some  storm-worn  rugged  stone, 

Australia,  my  spirit  cleaves  to  thee ; 
Like  branches  from  the  vine,  when  leaves  have  grown, 

]My  heart  is  bleeding  for  its  parent  tree. 


Yes,  I  am  bidding  thee  a  long  good-bye, 
A  dearer  voice  than  thine  is  calling  me  ; 

But  oft  in  other  homes  for  thee  I'll  sigh, 
Still  shall  my  hope  be,  oh,  to  die  in  thee. 


EMMA  FRANCES  ANDERSON.  47 

What  though  they  plant  some  waving  forest  tree 

Or  stately  palm  above  my  last  lone  bed, 
Methinks  my  sleep  would  yet  more  peaceful  be, 

With  tJiy  blue  sky  and  guardian  star  o'erhead. 


Adieu,  my  native  land,  mine  eyes  are  dim, 

The  thought  7i'iU  come — I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more  ; 

Oh,  for  the  sea-bird's  power  the  waves  to  skim, 
And  rest  its  weary  wing  upon  thy  shore  ! 


48  ANONYMOUS. 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  BUSH. 

'■'■  O  !  inihi  prceteritos.  .  ." 

High  noon,  and  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky  to  break  this  blind- 
ing sun  ! 

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, 

For  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  season's  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  my  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. 
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  ? 


ANONYMOUS.  49 

Would  I  ?     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  ? — 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  ? 
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  ; 
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 

River  Plate. 

5 


50  ANONYMOUS. 

Do  they  ever  think  of  me  at  all,  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  Barkby  Holt  I  set  the   pick  of  the 

Quorn. 

Well,  those  were  harmless  pleasures  enough ;  for  I  hold  him 

worse  than  an  ass 
^Vho  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. 


ANONYMOUS.  51 

But  though  it  reheves  one's  mind  at  times,  there's  Hltlegood 

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 
In  "  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. 
I'ooted  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  pardy  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  ought  to  be. 


52  ANONYMOUS. 

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  good 

time  at  last. 


AUSTRAL.  53 


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. 


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  sky. 


And  cloud  and  shadow,  across  the  deep 

Wavered,  or  paused  in  enchanted  sleep, 

And  eastward,  the  purple-misted  islets 

Fretted  the  wave  with  terrace  and  steep. 


54  AUSTRAL. 

"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. 


A  USTRAL.  55 


A  SPRING  AFTERNOON,  N.Z. 

We  rode  in  the  shadowy  place  of  pines, 
The  wind  went  whispering  here  and  tliere 
Lilce  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  trees  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  sky-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, 


56  AUSTRAL. 

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. 
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-clifi"s  glimmer  on  the  ranges  to  the 

west. 
Hear  the  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. 


A  USTRALIE.  57 


FROM  THE  CLYDE  TO  BRAIDWOOD. 

A  WINTER  morn,  the  blue  Clyde  river  winds 
'Mid  sombre  slopes,  reflecting  in  clear  depths 
The  tree-clad  banks  or  grassy  meadow  flats 
Now  white  with  hoary  frost,  each  jewell'd  blade 
With  myriad  crystals  glistening  in  the  sun. 

Thus  smiles  the  Vale  of  Clyde,  as  through  the  air 
So  keen  and  fresh  three  travellers  upward  ride 
Toward  the  Braidwood  heights.     Quickly  they  pass 
The  rustic  dwellings  on  the  hamlet's  verge. 
Winding  sometimes  beside  the  glassy  depths 
Of  Nelligen  Creek,  where  with  the  murmuring  bass 
Of  running  water  sounds  the  sighing  wail 
Of  dark  swamp-oaks  that  shiver  on  each  bank  ; 
Then  winding  through  a  shady-bower'd  lane, 
With  flickering  streaks  of  sunlight  beaming  through 
The  feathery  leaves  and  pendant  tassels  green 
Of  bright  mimosa,  whose  wee  furry  balls 
Promise  to  greet  with  golden  glow  of  joy 
The  coming  spring-tide. 

Now  a  barren  length 
Of  tall  straight  eucalyptus,  till  again 
A  babbling  voice  is  heard,  and  through  green  banks 
Of  emerald  fern,  and  mossy  boulder  rocks, 
The  Currawong  dances  o'er  a  pebbly  bed, 
In  rippling  clearness,  or  with  cresting  foam 


58  AUSTRALIE. 

Splashes  and  leaps  in  snowy  cascade  steps. 
Then  every  feature  changes — up  and  down, 
O'er  endless  ranges  like  great  waves  of  earth, 
Each  weary  steed  must  climb,  e'en  like  a  ship 
Now  rising  high  upon  some  billowy  ridge, 
But  to  plunge  down  to  mount  once  more,  again 
And  still  again. 

Naught  on  the  road  to  see 
Save  sullen  trees,  white  arm'd,  with  naked  trunks. 
And  hanging  bark,  like  tatter'd  clothes  thrown  off, 
An  undergrowth  of  glossy  zamia  palms 
Bearing  their  winter  store  of  coral  fruit, 
And  here  and  there  some  early  clematis, 
Like  starry  jasmine,  or  a  purple  wreath 
Of  dark  kennedia,  blooming  o'er  their  time, 
As  if  in  pity  they  would  add  one  joy 
Unto  the  barren  landscape. 

But  at  last 
A  clearer  point  is  reached,  and  all  around 
The  loftier  ranges  loom  in  contour  blue. 
With  indigo  shadows  and  light  veiling  mist 
Rising  from  steaming  valleys.     Straight  in  front 
Towers  the  Sugarloaf,  pyramidal  King 
Of  Braidwood  peaks. 

Impossible  it  seems 
To  scale  that  nature-rampart,  but  where  nian 
"Would  go  he  must  and  will  :  so  hewn  from  out 
The  mountain's  side  in  gradual  ascent 
Of  league  and  half  of  engineering  skill 
There  winds  the  Weber  Pass. 


AUSTRALIE,  59 

A  glorious  ride  ! 
Fresher  and  clearer  grows  the  breezy  air, 
Lighter  and  freer  beats  the  quickening  pulse 
As  each  fair  height  is  gain'd.     Stern,  strong,  above 
Rises  the  wall  of  mountain  ;  far  beneath, 
In  sheer  precipitancy,  gullies  deep 
Gloom  in  dark  shadow,  on  their  sheltered  breast 
Cherishing  wealth  of  leafage  richly  dight 
With  tropic  hues  of  green. 

No  sound  is  heard 
Save  the  deep  soughing  of  the  wind  amid 
The  swaying  leaves  and  harp-like  stems,  so  like 
A  mighty  breathing  of  great  mother  earth, 
That  half  they  seem  to  see  her  bosom  heave 
With  each  pulsation  as  she  living  sleeps. 
And  now  and  then  to  cadence  of  these  throbs 
There  drops  the  bell-bird's  knell,  the  coach  whip's  crack 
The  wonga-pigeon's  coo,  or  echoing  notes 
Of  lyre-tail'd  pheasants  in  their  own  rich  tones, 
Mocking  the  song  of  every  forest  bird. 
Higher  the  travellers  rise — at  every  turn 
Gaining  through  avenued  vista  some  new  glimpse 
Of  undulating  hills,  the  Pigeon-house 
Standing  against  the  sky  like  eyrie  nest 
Of  some  great  dove  or  eagle.     On  each  side 
Of  rock-hewn  road,  the  fern  trees  cluster  green, 
Now  and  then  lighted  by  a  silver  star 
Of  white  immortelle  flower,  or  overhung 
By  crimson  peals  of  bright  epacris  bells. 
Another  bend,  a  sheltered  deepening  rift, 
And  in  the  mountain's  very  heart  they  plunge — 
So  dark  the  shade,  the  sun  is  lost  to  view. 


6o  AUSTRALIE. 

Great  silver  wattles  tremble  o'er  the  path, 
Which  overlooks  a  glen  one  varying  mass 
Of  exquisite  foliage,  full-green  sassafras, 
The  bright-leaf'd  myrtle,  dark-hued  kurrajong 
And  lavender,  musk-plant,  scenting  all  the  air, 
Entwined  with  clematis  or  bignonia  vines. 
And  raspberry  tendrils  hung  with  scarlet  fruit. 
The  riders  pause  some  moments,  gazing  down. 
Then  upward  look.     Far  as  the  peeping  sky 
The  dell-like  gully  yawns  into  the  heights ; 
A  tiny  cascade  drips  o'er  mossy  rocks, 
And  through  an  aisle  of  over-arching  trees. 
Whose  stems  are  dight  with  lichen,  creeping  vines 
A  line  of  sunlight  pierces  lighting  up 
A  wealth  of  fern  trees  ;  filling  every  nook 
With  glorious  circles  of  voluptuous  green. 
Such  as,  unview'd,  once  clothed  the  silent  earth 
Long  milliards  past  in  Carboniferous  Age. 
A  mighty  nature-rockery  !     Each  spot 
Of  fertile  ground  is  rich  with  endless  joys 
Of  leaf  and  fern  ;  now  here  a  velvet  moss, 
And  there  a  broad  asplenium's  shining  frond 
With  red-black  veinings  or  a  hart's-tongue  point. 
Contrasting  with  a  pale-hued  tender  brake 
Or  creeping  lion's  foot.     See  where  the  hand 
Of  ruthless  man  hath  cleft  the  rock,  each  wound 
Is  hidden  by  thick  verdure,  leaving  not 
One  unclothed  spot,  save  on  the  yellow  road. 

Reluctant  the  travellers  leave  the  luscious  shade 
To  mount  once  more.     But  now  another  joy — 
An  open  view  is  here  !     Before  them  spreads 
A  waving  field  of  ranges,  purple  grey, 


AUSTRALIE.  6i 

In  haze  of  distance  with  black  hnes  of  shade 
Of  ocean-blue  o'er  whose  horizon  verge 
The  morning  mist-cloud  hangs.     The  distant  bay 
Is  clear  defined.     The  headland's  dark  arms  stretch 
(Each  finger-point  white-lit  with  dashing  foam) 
In  azure  circlet,  studded  with  rugged  isles — 
A  picturesque  trio,  whose  gold  rock-sides  glow 
In  noonday  sunlight,  and  round  which  the  surf 
Gleams  like  a  silvery  girdle. 

The  grand  Pass 
Is  traversed  now,  the  inland  plateau  reach'd, 
The  last  sweet  glimpse  of  violet  peaks  is  lost. 
An  upland  rocky  stream  is  pass'd,  and  naught 
But  same  same  gum  trees  vex  the  wearied  eye 
Till  Braidwood  plain  is  reached. 

A  township  like 
All  others,  with  its  houses,  church,  and  school — 
Bare,  bald,  prosaic — no  quaint  wild  tower, 
Nor  ancient  hall  to  add  poetic  touch, 
As  in  the  dear  old  land — no  legend  old 
Adds  softening  beauty  to  the  Buddawong  Peak, 
Or  near-home  ranges  with  too  barbarous  names. 
But  everything  is  cold,  new,  new,  too  new 
To  foster  poesy ;  and  famish'd  thought 
Looks  back  with  longing  to  the  mountain  dream. 


62  A  USTRALIE. 


THE  EXPLORER'S  MESSAGE. 

Golden,  crimson,  glows  the  sunset  o'er  the  wild  Australian 

scene, 
Gilding  e'en  the  lonely  desert  with  a  glory-tinted  sheen, 
Purple,  purple,  gloom  the  mountains  towering  in  their  dis- 
tant height, 
And  the  blushing  air  is  quivering  with  the  joy  of  rosy  light. 
Glorious  beauty  ! — heavenly   radiance  !    beaming   o'er   the 

barren  earth, 
While   the  weary  land   is   stricken  with   a   life-destroying 

dearth. 
But  no  joy  that  glory  bringeth — ominous  that  sunset  blaze, 
Telling  but  of  rainless  sunshine,  burning  on  through  cloud' 

less  days ; 
Parch'd,  the  thirsty  ground  is  gasping  for  one  shower  of 

cooling  rain— 
Shadeless  trees  stand  gaunt  and  withering  on  the  grassless 

arid  plain. 
Not  a  sound  of  living  creature,  not  one  blade  or  leaf  of 

green  ! 
E'en  the  very  birds  have  vanish'd  from  the  desolated  scene ! 

Hark  !  what  sound  of  coming  footsteps  breaks  the  silence  of 

the  air  ? 
Can  it  be  a  human  being  all  alone  that  rideth  there  ? 
Jaded,  drooping,  horse  and  rider  slowly  wend  their  dreary 

way, 


AUSTRALIE.  63 

Toiling  on  as  they  have  toil'd  through  many,  many  a  weary 
day. 

Wan  the  rider,  wan  and  fainting — mind  and  body  over- 
wrought ; 

Worn  the  steed,  and  gauntly  fleshless,  perishing  of  bitter 
drought — 

"Water,  water!  oh,  for  water!"  Now  the  horse  sinks  to 
the  ground ; 

And  the  faithful  beast  here  resting  a  last  halting-place  has 
found  ; 

Now  the  last,  last  link  is  broken !  e'en  the  poor  dumb  friend 
is  gone, 

And  the  pioneer  must  turn  his  eyes  unto  a  heavenly  bourn. 

But  six  months  a  gallant  band,  the  brave  explorers  had  set 

forth, 
Resolute  to  pierce  the  mysteries  of  Australia's   unknown 

north. 
Strove  they  nobly,  daring  danger,  hardships  cheerfully  en- 
dured ! 
Recking   not  of  death    or   failure,   still   by   patriot   hopes 

allured. 
Onward  they  had  pressed  adventurous    till   by  want  and 

sickness  tried. 
One  by  one  their  ranks  had  thinn'd,  lost,  or  spear'd,   or 

famish'd,  died. 
Each  day  saw  a  martyr  added,  each  night  heard  some  dying 

moan. 
Till  at  last  one  man  was  left   in   that  great  wilderness — 

alone — 
Solitary,  all  untended ;  none,  none  left  behind  to  mourn, 
Now  the  last  of  the  explorers  lies  on  dying  bed  forlorn. 


64  A  USTRALIE. 

Faint  the  lonely  man  is  growing,  yet  before  he  turns  to  die, 
With  one  strong  expiring  effort,  with  one  long-drawn  weary 

sigh, 
Draws  he  from  his  breast  a  locket — with  onstalking  death 

he  fights. 
While  upon  a  slip  of  paper,  painfully  he  trembling  writes — 
"Mary,  loved  one,  in  the  desert  my  last  thought  is  still  of 

you. 
God  be  with  you,  guard  and  bless  you.     To  my  memory 

still  be  true." 
His  last  signature  he  signeth,  gazing  lovingly  and  long 
On  the  face  within  that  locket — tender  memories  o'er  him 

throng 
As   he   folds   the   tiny  letter,    mournfully  to   parch'd   lips 

pressed — 
Clasps  it  in  the  golden  casket,  lays  it  to  his  loving  breast ; 
Then  with  one  deep  prayer  for  mercy — ere  the  last  glow 

leaves  the  skies. 
Resting  on  his  Father's  bosom,  calm  the  lone  explorer  dies. 
None  are  near  to  close  the  eyelids — none  weep  o'er  that 

bronzed  face, 
Only  night   is   stealing  softly,  shrouding  him  with  tender 

grace. 


Springs  have  fled,  and  summers  faded,  ten  long  years  have 

come  and  gone, — 
Mary's  face  still  wears  its  sweetness,  though  with  long,  long 

waiting  worn ; 
Many  a  one  has  sought  to  win  her— clear  her  answering 

words  and  few — 
"  I  my  love  long  since  have  plighted — to  that  love  I  will  be 

true." 


A  USTRALJE.  65 

Brave  men,  searching,  have  gone  forth  upon  the  last  ex- 
plorer's track, 

Unsuccessful,  disappointed,  they  have  aye  returned  back. 

Yet,  within  the  maiden's  bosom,  hope  'gainst  hope  will 
quenchless  burn, 

Still  his  death  is  all  unproven — still  the  wanderer  may 
return 

*'  Let  me  know  his  fate,"  she  prayeth,  "only  one  small  token 
send, 

Then  my  heart  in  resignation  to  God's  holy  will  shall 
bend." 

Ride  two  horsemen  through  the  wild  lands  where  man's  foot 

scarce  trod  before. 
*'  We,  the  pioneers,"  they  murmur,  "  we  now  first  this  land 

explore." 
Ah !  but  see  what  is  it  then,  that  on  the  plain  is  gleaming 

there  ? 
Hush'd  and  lonely  is  the  desert — motionless  the  silent  air, 
As  with  solemn  pace  the  travellers  to  the  hallow'd  spot 

draw  nigh, 
Where  a  famish'd  lone  explorer  years  agone  lay  down  to 

die! 
By  him   close   his   steed   is  lying — ^skeleton   with   harness 

trapp'd. 
While  in  life's  worn  m.ouldering  garments  still  the  master  is 

enwrapp'd. 

Awe-struck  gaze  they  on  the  ruins  whence  a  brother's  soul 

has  fled ; 
Then,  all  loth  to  leave  a  comrade  nameless  on  his  desert 

bed 

6 


66  AUSTRALIE. 

Search  the  men  for  note  or  journal — some  faint  ckie  to 

name  and  fate. 
Not  a  trace  or  record  find  they— not  one  letter,  word,  or 

date! 


Least  a  grave  they  will  make  for  him  !    Gleameth  now  a 

yellow  sheen, 
And  amid  the  quiet  ashes,  where  the  faithful  breast  has 

been, 
Shining  lies  a  golden  locket,  with  a  simple  name  engraved. 
Ah,  that  name !   long  mourn'd  and  honour'd — now  from 

cold  oblivion  saved ! 
Eagerly  they  ope  the  locket — in  that  dreary  desert  place 
Beams  there  now  upon  these  rough  men,  sweetest,  gentlest 

woman's  face, 
Image  of  some  cherished  loved  one ;  who,  perchance  these 

words  may  tell ; 
See  !  here  lies  a  tiny  letter, — the  explorer's  last  farewell. 


Anxiously,  yet  almost  doubting,  lest  a  sacrilege  it  prove, 
Strangers  now  unfold  the  message  from  the  martyr  to  his 

love; 
Trembling  is  the  pencill'd  writing,  but  the  touching  words 

are  clear. 
Mists  cloud  o'er  the  eyes  now  reading,  e'en  the  strong  men 

drop  a  tear 
On  that  tender  last  love-letter — warm  voice  from  the  quiet 

dead ; 
Reverently  tliey  gently  lay  it  on  that  face  he  would  have 

wed, 


A  USTRALIE.  67 

And  they  vow  to  rest  nor  linger  till  that  relic  they  have 

placed 
In   the  keeping  of  the  maiden   by  such  love  so  deeply 

graced. 

Autumn  wanes  and  winter  cometh  ;  Mary's  hair  is  tinged 
with  grey  ; 

But  her  eye  is  beaming  softly  with  calm  resignation's  ray. 

Loving  cares  have  left  their  traces  on  the  peaceful  gentle 
face, 

And  youth's  beauty  now  has  softened  to  a  sweet  diviner 
grace. 

Still  her  plighted  troth  she  keepeth,  bears  no  ring  of  circling 
gold, 

But  one  ornament  she  weareth,  of  a  fashion  quaint  and  old, 

For  a  golden  locket  lieth  on  her  bosom  evermore. 

One  alone  that  true  heart  loveth — one  who  long  that  relic 
wore, 

While  his  message  in  its  dearness  to  her  soul  is  ever  new — 

"  God  be  with  you,  guard  and  bless  you — to  my  memory 
still  be  true." 

Ah  !  that  blessing  seems  to  follow  e'en  where'er  her  foot- 
steps go, 

While  his  monument  she  buildeth  in  the  homes  of  want  and 
woe. 

Dedicated,  all  unfetter'd,  ever  sister,  never  wife — 

To  God's  suffering  poor  she  yieldeth  the  devotion  of  a  life. 

Lonely  to  the  world  she  seemeth,  all  unknown  her  gentle 
fame, 

But  in  lowly  homes  soft  blessings  gather  round  her  well- 
loved  name, 

And  the  lost  explorer's  lone  death,  and  the  maiden's 
anxious  pain, 


68  AUSTRALIE,     ■ 

To  full  many  n  sick  and  sad  one  have  proved  yet  a  deeper 

gain. 
Soon  shall  come  life's  golden  sunset,  and  the  evening  shall 

close  in, 
And  to  heaven's  distant  mountains  Mary  then  her  way  may 

win. 
There  perchance,  in  perfect  beauty,  free  from  earthly  taint 

or  tie, 
We  cannot  tell,  we  know  not  how — her  love  may  be  fulfilled 

on  high. 


AUSTRALIS.  69 


MELBOURNE. 

0  SWEET  Queen-city  of  the  golden  South, 
Piercing  the  evening  with  thy  star-ht  spires, 

Thou  wert  a  witness  when  I  kissed  the  mouth 
Of  her  whose  eyes  outblazed  the  skyey  fires. 

1  saw  the  parallels  of  thy  long  streets, 
^Vith  lamps  like  angels  shining  all  a-row, 

While  overhead  the  empyrean  seats 

Of  gods  were  steeped  in  paradisic  glow. 

The  Pleiades  with  rarer  fires  were  tipt, 

Hesper  sat  throned  upon  his  jewelled  chair, 

The  belted  giant's  triple  stars  were  dipt 
In  all  the  splendour  of  Olympian  air, 

On  high  to  bless,  the  Southern  Cross  did  shine, 

Like  that  which  blazed  o'er  conquering  Constantine. 


7o  Z.  AV/S. 


THE  TUI. 

Full  in  the  light  of  morning,  high  upon  a  withered  bough, 
A  Tui  sits  and  calls  his  mate  in  tuneful  "  thee  and  thou," 
Methinks  a  bird  of  high  degree,  graceful,  alert,  and  keen. 
With  dead-gold  specks  about  his  coat,  and  violet  lights  and 
green. 

A  speckled  band,  a  shapely  ruff,  about  his  supple  throat, 
As  though  he  must  be  warmly  kept,  or  would  not  sing  a 

note, 
And  best   of  beauties   manifold,   his    crisp,  white   feather 

"  bands," 
Arranged  and  kept  in  order  meet,  without  the  use  of  hands. 

In  perfect  match  with  his  attire,  his  song  is  choice  and 

strange, 
Now  soft,   now  harsh,   now  sweet,  he  runs  through  all  a 

songbird's  range ; 
He  stands  on  high  and  calls  his  mate,  bright  in  the  sun's 

bright  rays — 
A  type  of  that  mysterious  past,  the  unknown  INIaori  days. 

Days  when  the  bold,  bright  Maori  was  free  from  Pakeha 

rule, 
When  to  learn  to  fish  and  fight  and  swim  was  all  he  knew 

of  school. 
Looks  he  not  back  to  those  free  days,  to  wish  they  were  not 

done  ? 
He  may,  for,  like  the  birds  and  bush,  his  race  is  nearly 

run. 


GEORGE  BARRINGTON.  71 


PROLOGUE  TO    "THE    REVENGE." 

A   TRAGEDY    BY    DR.    YOUNG. 

From  distant  climes,  o'er  wide-spread  seas  we  come, 
Though  not  with  much  tdat^  or  beat  of  drum  ; 
True  patriots  all,  for,  be  it  understood, 
We  left  our  country  for  our  country's  good  : 
No  private  views  disgraced  our  generous  zeal, 
What  urged  our  travels  was  our  country's  weal ; 
And  none  will  doubt  but  that  our  emigration 
Has  proved  most  useful  to  the  British  nation. 
But  you  inquire,  What  could  our  breasts  inflame, 
AVith  this  new  passion  for  theatric  fame ; 
What,  in  the  practice  of  our  former  days, 
Could  shape  our  talents  to  exhibit  plays  ? 
Your  patience,  sirs,  some  observations  made, 
You'll  grant  us  equal  to  the  scenic  trade. 
He  who  to  midnight  ladders  is  no  stranger, 
You'll  own  will  make  an  admirable  Ranger. 
To  seek  Macbeth  we  have  not  far  to  roam, 
And  sure  in  Filch  I  shall  be  quite  at  home. 
Unrivalled  there,  none  will  dispute  my  claim, 
To  high  pre-eminence  and  exalted  fame. 
As  oft  on  Gad's  hill  we  have  ta'en  our  stand, 
When  'twas  so  dark  you  could  not  see  your  hand. 
Some  true-bred  Falstaff,  we  may  hope  to  start, 
Who,  when  well-bolstered,  well  will  play  his  part. 
The  scene  to  vary,  we  shall  try  in  time 
To  treat  you  with  a  little  pantomime. 


72  GEORGE  BARRINGTON. 

Here  light  and  easy  Columbines  are  found, 

And  well-tried  Harlequins  with  us  abound  ; 

From  durance  vile  our  precious  selves  to  keep, 

We  often  had  recourse  to  th'  flying  leap. 

To  a  black  face  have  sometimes  ow'd  escape. 

And  Hounslow  Heath  has  proved  the  worth  of  crape. 

But  how,  you  ask,  can  we  e'er  hope  to  soar 

Above  these  scenes,  and  rise  to  tragic  lore  ? 

Too  oft,  alas  !  we've  forced  th'  unwilling  tear, 

And  petrified  the  heart  with  real  fear. 

Macbeth  a  harvest  of  applause  will  reap. 

For  some  of  us,  I  fear,  have  murdered  sleep  ; 

His  lady,  too,  with  grace  will  sleep  and  talk 

Our  females  have  been  used  at  night  to  walk. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  so  various  is  our  art, 

An  actor  may  improve  and  mend  his  part ; 

"  Give  me  a  horse,"  bawls  Richard,  like  a  drone. 

We'll  find  a  man  would  help  himself  to  one. 

Grant  us  your  favour,  put  us  to  the  test, 

To  gain  your  smiles  we'll  do  our  very  best ; 

And  without  dread  of  future  Turnkey  Tockits, 

Thus,  in  an  honest  way,  still  pick  your  pockets. 


ALEX.   JF.  BATHGAIE.  73 


OUR  HERITAGE. 

A  PERFECT  peaceful  stillness  reigns, 
Not  e'en  a  passing  playful  breeze 
•The  sword-shaped  flax-blades  gently  stirs 
The  vale  and  slopes  of  rising  hills 
Are  thickly  clothed  with  yellow  grass, 
Whereon  the  sun,  late  risen,  throws 
His  rays  to  linger  listlessly. 
Naught  the  expanse  of  yellow  breaks, 
Save  where  a  darker  spot  denotes 
Some  straggling  bush  of  thorny  scrub  ; 
While  from  a  gully  down  the  glen. 
The  foHage  of  the  dull-leaved  trees 
Rises  to  view ;  and  the  calm  air. 
From  stillness  for  a  moment  waked 
By  parakeets'  harsh  chattering, 
Swift  followed  by  a  tiny  thrill 
Of  bell-like  notes,  is  hushed  again. 
The  tiny  orbs  of  glistening  dew, 
Still  sparkle  gem-like  'mid  the  grass, 
While  morning  mist,  their  mother  moist, 
Reluctant  loiters  on  the  hill, 
Whence  presently  she'll  pass  to  merge 
In  the  soft  depths  of  the  blue  heav'ns. 

This  fertile  isle  to  us  is  given 

Fresh  from  its  Maker's  hand  ;  for  here 

No  records  of  the  vanished  past 


74  ALEX.    W.  BATHGATE. 

Tell  of  the  times  when  might  was  riglit 
And  self-denial  weakness  was, 
But  all  is  peaceful,  pure,  and  fair. 
Our  heritage  is  hope.     We'll  rear 
A  nation  worthy  of  the  land ; 
And  when  in  age  we  linger  late, 
Upon  the  heights  above  life's  vale, 
Before  we,  like  the  mist,  shall  merge 
In  depths  of  God's  eternity, 
We'll  see,  perchance  our  influence 
Left  dew-like,  working  for  the  good 
Of  those  whose  day  but  dawns  below. 


ALEX.    IK  BATHGATE.  75 


TO  THE  MOKO-MOKO,  OR  BELL-BIRD.' 

I. 
Merry  chimer,  merry  chimer, 

Oh,  sing  once  more, 

Again  outpour, 
Like  some  long-applauded  mimer, 

All  thy  vocal  store. 

II. 
Thy  short  but  oft-repeated  song, 

At  early  dawn, 

Awakes  the  morn. 
Telling  that  joys  to  thee  belong, 

Greeting  day  new-born. 

III. 
Alas  !  we  now  but  seldom  hear 

Thy  rich,  full  note 

Around  us  float. 
For  thou  seem'st  doomed  to  disappear, 

E'en  from  woods  remote. 

IV. 

Some  say  the  stranger  honey-bee. 

By  white  men  brought. 

This  ill  hath  wrought ; 
It  steals  the  honey  from  the  tree 

And  it  leaves  thee  naught. 

'  Now  rapidly  dying  out  of  our  land. 


76  ALEX,    m  B  A  TUG  ATE. 

V. 

The  songsters  of  our  Fatherland 

We  hither  bring, 

And  here  they  sing, 
Reminding  of  that  distant  strand, 

Whence  old  mem'ries  spring. 

VI. 

But  as  the  old,  we  love  the  new ; 

Fain  we'd  retain 

Thy  chiming  strain, 
Thy  purple  throat  and  olive  hue— 

Yet  we  wish  in  vain. 

VII. 

Thy  doom  is  fixed  by  nature's  law — 
Why  ?  none  can  tell. 
Therefore,  farewell. 

We'll  miss  thy  voice  from  leafy  shaw- 
Living  silver  bell. 

vni. 
Why  should  we  ever  know  new  joys, 

If  thus  they  pass  ? 

Leaving,  alas  ! 
Wistful  regret,  which  much  alloys 

All  that  man  now  has. 


ALEX,   W.  BATHGATE,  77 


THE  CLExMATIS. 

Fair  crown  of  stars  of  purest  ray, 

Hung  aloft  on  mapau  tree, 
What  floral  beauties  ye  display. 

Stars  of  snowy  purity ; 
Around  the  dark-leaved  mapau's  head 

Unsullied  garlands  ye  have  spread. 

Concealed  were  all  thy  beauties  fair 
'Neath  the  dark  umbrageous  shade, 

But  still  the  loftiest  spray  to  gain, 
Thy  weak  stem  its  efforts  made. 

Now,  every  obstacle  o'ercome, 

Thou  smilest  from  thy  leafy  home. 

That  home  secure,  'mid  sombre  leaves 
Yielded  by  thy  stalwart  spouse. 

Helps  thee  to  show  thy  fairy  crown, 
Decorates  his  dusky  boughs  : 

His  strength,  thy  beauty,  both  unite 
And  form  a  picture  to  delight. 

Fair  flowers,  methinks  thou  dost  afford 

Emblem  of  a  perfect  wife, 
Whose  work  is  hidden  from  the  world. 

Till,  perchance,  her  husband's  life 
Is  by  her  influence  beautified. 

And  this  by  others  is  descried. 


78  H.  I/.  BLACK  HAM. 


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  settlers'  haunts  are  found 

Rude  vestiges  of  life  and  death, 
Forsaken  home  and  burial  mound 
Of  those  whose  names  still  cling,  around. 
To  circling  wilderness  and  heath. 


These  olden  walls,  whose  ruins  low 

Are  met  in  many  a  lonely  ride. 
Deserted  hearths  whose  fires  did  glow 
With  homelight  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. 


H.  II.  B  LAC  KM  AM.  79 

The  noles,  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 
With  low  and  stealthy  undertones, 

Footfall  and  voice  of  former  life  ; 

Wraith-presences  of  sire  and  wife 

And  children  cling  to  Avood  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. 


Here  the  night-zephyr,  passing,  wings 

At  midnight  to  that  she-oak  nigh, 
Plays,  harplike,  on  its  drooping  strings, 
And  to  its  dreary  cadence  sings 
The  wildwood's  soothing  lullabv. 


8o  'J  BOM  AS  BRACKEN, 


DEDICATION. 

TO   SIR   GEORGE   GREY,    K.C.R. 

Within  a  forest  stood  a  grand  old  tree. 
Whose  head  above  the  other  plants  rose  high ; 
He  was  the  forest's  firstborn.     Sun  and  sky 
Had  known  him  and  had  smiled  on  him  ere  he 
Had  kinsfolk  near  or  leafy  brethren  nigh ; 
The  wild  birds  brought  to  him  their  minstrelsy  ; 
The  singers  knew  that,  when  the  scene  was  rude, 
He  grew  and  gave  a  shelter  to  their  race. 
By  him  the  wandering  melodists  were  wooed 
To  trill  and  warble  in  that  lonely  place ; 
A  sanctuary  in  the  solitude 
He  gave  to  them.     In  him  the  birds  could  trace 
The  forest's  king,  and  so  from  hills  and  plains 
They  flew  to  him  and  sang  their  sweetest  strains. 


THOMAS  BRACKEN.  8i 


ORAKAU. 

Three  hundred  swarthy  braves  at  Orakau, 

Savage  warriors  from  Uriwcra, 

And  from  the  hills  and  gorges  of  Taupo, 

Commanded  by  Rewi  bold  and  fearless, 

The  haughtiest  chief  in  all  Waikato, 

Lay  intrenched  within  the  Pah,  surrounded 

By  over  two  thousand  hardy  Britons  : 

Carey's  Royal  Celts  and  Forest  Rangers, 

And  Fortieth  Fighters  under  Leslie, 

Upon  the  second  morning  of  April, 

When  the  colours  in  Nature's  dress  were  chanqim; 

From  the  brown  and  russet  hues  of  Autumn 

To  the  dark  and  sadder  shades  of  Winter, 

Three  hundred  lion-hearted  warriors 

Assembled  with  Rewi  to  fan  the  flame 

Of  deadly  hatred  to  the  Pakoha, 

Into  avengeful  blaze  at  Orakau. 

Roaring  for  blood,  our  early  gun 

Rent  the  clouds  like  a  thunder-clap  ; 

Carey  cried,  "  There's  work  to  be  done  !  " 
Close  to  the  walls  we  pushed  the  sap. 

"  Ready,  lads,  with  your  hand-grenades ; 

Ready,  lads,  with  your  rifles  true; 
Ready,  lads,  with  your  trusty  blades  ; 

Ready,  lads,  with  your  bayonets  too. 
7 


THOMAS  BRACKEN. 

"  Now  for  the  Armstrongs,  let  them  roar ; 

Death  unto  those  that  laugh  at  peace  " — 
Into  their  nest  our  volleys  pour  ; 

"  Steady  there  ! — let  the  firing  cease." 

'Tis  Cameron's  voice — "  Tell  the  foe 
To  leave  the  Pah  ;  their  lives  we'll  spare. 

Tell  them  Britons  can  mercy  show  ; 
Nothing  but  death  awaits  them  there." 


Mainwaring  with  a  flag  of  truce  before  the  Maories  stood, 
And  said,  "  Oh,  friends,  be  warned  in  time,  we  do  not  seek 

your  blood. 
Surrender,  and  your   lives   are  safe.''      Then  through  the 

whole  redoubt 
The  swarthy  rebels  answered,  with  a  fierce,  defiant  shout, 
"  Ka  Whawhai  tonu  !  Ake  !  Ake  !  Ake  !  " 


Again  Mainwaring  spake,  "  Oh,  friends,  you  wish  for  blood 

and  strife. 
With  blind  and  stubborn  bravery,  preferring  death  to  life ; 
But  send  your  women  and  your  children  forth  ;  they  shall 

be  free." 
They  answered  back,  "  Our  women  brave  will  fight  as  well 

as  we  : 
Ka  Whawhai  tonu  !  Ake  !  Ake  !  Ake  !  " 


Again  the  fiery-throated  cannon  roared  aloud  for  blood, 
Again  the  hungry  eagle  swooped  and  shrieked  for  human 
food, 


THOMAS  BRACKEN.  83 

Again  wild  spirits,  soaring,  saw  their  shattered  corses  He 
In  pools  of  gore,  and  still  was  heard  the  fierce,  defiant  cry, 
'  Ka  Whawhai  tonu  !  Ake  !  Ake  !  Ake  !  " 

With  wild  untutored  chivalry  the  rebels  scorned  disgrace ; 

Oh,  never  in  the  annals  of  the  most  heroic  race 

Was  bravery  recorded  more  noble  or  more  high 

Than  that  displayed  in  Rewi's  fierce  defiance  and  reply, 

"Ka  Whawhai  tonu  !  Akt;  !  Ake  !  Ak^  !"  ' 

'  We  will  fit'ht  for  ever  and  ever  and  ever. 


84  THOMAS  BRACKEN, 

McGILLVIRAY'S  DREAM. 

A  forest-ranger's  story. 

Just   nineteen   long   years,   Jack,    have    passed   o'er   my 
shoulders, 

Since  close  to  this  spot  we  lay  waiting  the  foe ; 
Ay,  here  is  the  mound  where  brave  Percival  moulders, 

And  yonder's  the  place  where  poor  Norman  lies  low  ; 
'Twas  only  a  skirmish — just  eight  of  our  number 

Were  stretched  on  the  sward  when  the  fighting  was  done  \ 
We  scooped  out  their  beds,  and  we  left  them  to  slumber, 

The  bold-hearted  fellows  went  down  with  the  sun. 
The  month  was  October — young  Summer  was  peeping 

Through  evergreen  forests  where  Spring,  still  supreme, 
Spread  all  the  rich  tints  that  she  had  in  her  keeping 

On  tree,  shrub,  and  bush,  while  each  brooklet  and  stream 
With  babblings  of  joy  ran  along  to  the  river. 

But,  hang  it,  old  man,  I  am  going  too  far ; 
I  talk  as  I  used  to  when  from  Cupid's  quiver 

Flew  darts  of  affection  my  bosom  to  scar, 

I'm  not  much  at  poetry,  Jack,  though  I've  written 

Some  nonsense  in  verse  when  my  heart  was  aglow 
With  what  they  call  love — have  you  ever  been  smitten 

By  som^e  artful  minx  who  deceived  you  ?     What,  no  ?■ 
By  Jove,  you've  been  lucky ;  but.  Jack,  I'm  digressing. 

Our  quarters  were  here,  under  Lusk,  and  we  made 
Our  camp  in  the  church  without  asking  a  blessing  ; 

This  place  is  still  known  as  the  Mauku  Stockade. 


THOMAS  BRACKEN.  85 

I'd  fought  with  Von  Tenipsky  along  the  Waiknto ; 

I'd  seen  the  green  banks  of  that  fair  river  dyed 
With  British  blood,  red  as  the  plumes  of  the  rata  ; 

When  Spring  scatters  scarlet  drops  thick  in  her  pride. 
I  cared  not  for  danger,  and  fighting  was  pleasure, 

The  life  of  a  Ranger  was  one  of  romance — 
A  dare-devil  fool,  ever  ready  to  measure 

A  savage's  length  with  my  rifle,     'Twas  chance 
That  sent  me  among  them  ;  I  lived  but  for  glory ; 

My  comrades  were  all  of  good  mettle  and  true. 
And  one  was  a  hero  ;  I'll  tell  you  his  story — 

God  rest  poor  McGillviray — brave-hearted  Hugh  ! 
I  knew  him  for  years.  Jack,  and  shoulder  to  shoulder 

He  stood  by  me  often  when  swift  leaden  hail 
Whizzed   close    to    our    ears.      Ah  !    old    man,    I   was 
bolder 

In  those  valiant  days  than  I'm  now.     To  my  tale — 
The  morning  was  gloomy,  and  Hugh  sat  beside  me  ; 

We'd  chummed  in  together  for  two  years  or  more  ; 
I  found  him  a  brick,  and  he  said,  when  he  tried  me 

In  front  of  the  foe,  "  Bill,  you're  true  to  the  core  I  " 
Enough,  we  were  friends,  and  in  trouble  or  danger 

We  stuck  by  each  other  in  camp  and  in  fray. 
How  often  we  find  in  the  breast  of  a  stranger 

The  heart  of  a  kind  brother  throbbing  away 
With  warmest  aftection,  responsive  and  tender  ! 

Hugh's  breast  had  a  tenant  like  this,  and  I  knew 
In  him  I'd  a  brother,  a  friend,  a  defender. 

Prepared  for  whatever  a  brave  man  might  do. 
The  morning  was  dark,  and  the  outlook  was  dreary ; 

I  noticed  my  comrade  was  sitting  alone. 
All  thoughtful,  disconsolate,  pallid,  and  weary, 

*'  Why,  where  has  the  gladness  of  yesterday  flown  ? 


86  THOMAS  BRACKEN. 

"  Come,  tell  me,  Hugh,  why  you  are  gloomy  this  mornuig? 

AVhat  change  has  come  over  my  light-hearted  mate  ? 
You've   not  " — and   I  laughed — "  had  a  Banshee's  death- 
warning? 
Have  Brownies  or  Goblins  been  sealing  your  fate  ?  " 
He  turned  his  pale  face,  while  his  eyes,  full  of  sorrow, 
Met  mine,  and  it  seemed  like  the  gaze  of  the  dead ; 
I  spoke  once  again — "  Hugh,  we'll  meet  them  to-morrow  ; 
Fierce  Rewi  is  coming  this  way."     Then  he  said — 
"  Why  am  I  sad  ?     Ah  !  comrade  kind, 

We  cannot  tell  why  shadows  fall 
Across  the  soul  and  o'er  the  mind ; 
We  cannot  tell  why  dreams  recall 
Old  scenes  endeared  by  memory's  spell. 

Old  haunts  where  love  and  sorrow  met, 
Old  spots  where  airy  castles  fell, 

And  hope's  young  sun  for  ever  set; 
We  cannot  tell  why  thought  should  leap 

Across  the  ocean's  wide  expanse, 
And  through  the  telescope  of  sleep 
Review  the  dead  years  at  a  glance ; 

We  cannot  tell 

But  why  should  I 
Philosophize  ?     We  know  we're  here. 
And  for  the  wherefore  and  the  why, 

That  problem  suits  the  sage  and  seer, 
But  not  the  soldier.     Listen,  mate — 

I'm  not  a  coward,  for  I've  stood 
Full  face  to  face  with  death,  and  fate 

Has  led  me  safe  through  scenes  of  blood  ; 
But  now  my  hour  is  drawing  nigh, 
Life's  battle  now  is  nearly  done ; 
For  me  to-morrow's  arching  sky 
Shall  canopy  no  rising  sun." 


THOMAS  BRACKEN.  87 

'  Why,  comrade,  you  but  jest,"  I  said  ; 

"  You  shouldn't  joke  with  me,  you  know  ; 
To-morrow's  sun  shall  shine  o'erhead 

And  see  us  watching  for  the  foe." 

*'  Nay,  comrade,  we  must  part  to-day  : 

A  hand  has  beckoned  through  the  gloom. 
And  signalled  me  away,  away, 

To  brighter  realms  beyond  the  tomb  — 
You  smile,  and  count  me  as  a  slave 

Of  superstition — be  it  so; 
My  vision  stretches  o'er  the  grave ; 

I  travel  where  you  cannot  go. 
Ah  !  friend,  you  were  not  nursed  beneath 

The  Highland  hills,  where  every  glen 
Is  filled  with  those  who've  conquered  death — 

Is  tenanted  with  ghosts  of  men. 
Ah  !  friend,  your  feet  have  never  trod 

The  mighty  Bens,  whose  summits  grim 
Approach  the  starry  gates  of  God, 

Where  heaven  grows  bright  and  earth  gets  dim. 
The  legendary  lore  that  clings 

Round  Highland  hearts  you  have  not  felt. 
Nor  yet  the  weird  imaginings 

Which  stir  the  spirit  of  the  Celt. 
Wei),  hear  my  story — listen,  pray. 

And  I'll  explain  why  I  am  sad 
And  in  a  downcast  mood  to-day. 

You  smile  again,  and  deem  me  mad. 
Last  night  I  was  again  a  boy 

Light-hearted  'mong  my  native  hills, 
Filled  with  a  bright,  ecstatic  joy, 

And  pure  as  my  own  mountain  rills  ; 


S8  THOMAS  BRACKEN. 

I  stood  beneath  old  Monagh  Leagh, 
Nor  far  from  rugged  Dumnaglass, 

And  in  the  distance  I  could  see 
Wild  Farracagh's  romantic  Pass. 

A  monarch  proud,  a  youthful  king, 

Alone  with  nature  there  I  stood, 
At  peace  with  God  and  everything. 

For  all  His  works  seemed  fair  and  good ; 
But  best  and  fairest  of  them  all 

Was  she  who  came  to  meet  me  there,— 
I  little  thought  dreams  could  recall 

Those  silken  waves  of  sunny  hair, 
That  tender  smile,  those  eyes  of  blue  j 

The  magic  of  whose  flashing  glance 
Inflamed  my  soul  with  love,  and  threw 

A  glamour  round  me ;  joyous  trance  ! 
We  met  last  night  just  as  of  old. 

And  Elsie  nesded  by  my  side. 
While  playing  widi  each  tress  of  gold 

I  whispered,  '  Lassie,  be  my  bride.' 
The  sweet  soft  answer  came — Why  dwell 

On  that  dear  moment  of  delight  ? 
Our  heaven  was  in  that  Highland  dell. 

Where  all  seemed  beautiful  and  bright. 
We  parted,  and  my  dreaming  soul 

On  fancy's  pinions  forward  flew 
O'er  five  short  years,  and  reached  the  goal 

That  love  and  hope  had  kept  in  view. 
Oh,  joyous  day  !  a  merry  throng 

Were  gathered  on  the  Clachan  green, 
The  villagers,  with  dance  and  song. 

Held  jubilee  ;  that  happy  scene 


THOMAS  BRACKEN.  89 

Is  treasured  in  my  memory  still  ; 

I  hold  again  that  little  hand  ; 
I  hear  the  whispered  word,  I  will  ! 

I  lead  her  through  the  cheerful  band, 
While  Donald  Eeg,  and  Fergus  Mohr, 

And  Angus  Uhu — the  pipers  three — 
Strike  up,  while  marching,  on  before, 

The  pibroch  of  McGillviray. 
Oh  !  how  the  wild  notes  brought  a  flood 

Of  mem'ries  bright  and  glories  gone, 
When  for  the  royal  Stuart  blood 

Our  chief  led  great  Clan  Chatton  on 
To  famed  Culloden's  field ; — 'Tis  past, 

That  marriage  scene,  with  all  its  charms ; 
And  winter  comes  with  freezing  blast 

To  find  my  young  wife  in  my  arms, 
And  all  the  villagers  in  tears 

Assembled  round  us — -she  was  gone ; 
The  prize  was  mine  a  iosN  short  years, 

And  I  was  now  alone,  alone. 
Oh  !  what  had  I  to  live  for  then  ? 

One  clasp,  one  look,  one  fond  caress, 
And  flying  far  from  each  proud  Ben, 

With  sorrow  deep  as  dark  Loch  Ness, 
I  left  my  humble  Highland  home. 

To  gaze  on  Monagh  Leagh  no  more. 
With  blighted  heart  I  crossed  the  foam 

And  landed  on  New  Zealand's  shore  ; 
You  know  the  rest " 

"  But  what  has  all 
This  home^sick  dreaming  got  to  do 
With  death,  my  friend  ?  " 


90  THOMAS  BRACKEN. 

"  I've  got  a  call 
To  meet  my  Elsie." 

"  Nonsense,  Hugh  ! " 
I  laughed,  but  still  his  brow  was  sad. 

"  Cheer  up,  and  chase  this  gloom  away — • 
There's  pleasure  yet  in  life,  my  lad." 


"  I  tell  you  we  must  part  to-day  ; 
I  have  not  told  you  all  that  passed 

Before  me  in  my  dreaming  hours. 
This  day,  with  you,  shall  be  my  last. 

True  friendship.  Bill,  has  long  been  ours 
And  we  must  part  in  love,  my  friend, — 

You  smile  again — ^well,  time  will  prove 
My  premonition  true.     The  end 

Is  drawing  nigh.     Behold  my  love, 
My  life,  my  Elsie,  on  yon  hill, — 

Ah,  yonder  hill  is  Monagh  Leagh — 
Just  listen,  friend,  she's  calling  still, 

And  still  the  dear  one  beckons  me 
Away — the  sun  upon  the  peaks 

Is  blushing  crimson  o'er  the  snow. 
Behold  !  how  bright  its  rays  and  streaks 

Are  dancing  on  Loch  Ness  below ; 
Rich  violet  and  purple  clouds — 

A  tabernacle  from  on  high, 
Behind  those  folds  the  starry  crowds 

Lie  hidden  in  the  silent  sky. 
'Tis  there,  'tis  there,  the  same  fond  face, 

Which,  but  a  few  short  hours  ago, 
Pressed  close  to  mine;  just  in  this  place 

My  Elsie  stood,  and,  bending  low, 


mo  MAS  J'.  R  AC  KEN.  91 

She  whispered  in  an  icy  breath, 

'  Oh,  Hugh,  behold  thy  spirit-bride. 
I'm  here  for  thee ;  prepare  for  death. 

My  soul  to-morrow,  by  my  side. 
Shall  trace  the  scenes  we  loved  of  yore. 
Again,  my  Hugh,  my  husband  brave, 
We'll  watch  the  Highland  eagle  soar  ; 

We'll  see  the  heath  and  bracken  wave, 
Ah  !  Hugh,  the  spirit  sight  is  keen  \ 
We  cross  the  ocean  with  a  glance  ; 

We  know  not  time '     She  left  the  scene, 

And  I  awakened  from  my  trance ; 
But  let  us  change  the  subject,  mate  ; 

Let's  have  a  smoke  ! — Hark !  there's  a  shot — 
One,  two,  three,  four,  we  mustn't  wait — 
Where  are  our  rifles  ?     Ah  !  we've  got 
The  darkies  now.     See,  see,  they  dance 
Before  our  eyes  ;  hear  how  they  yell ! 
There  goes  the  order  for  advance — 
There's  Norman  out  and  Percival." 
McGillviray  ceased,  and  we  ran  to  the  door, 

Prepared  to  advance  where  our  officers  led ; 
Both  Hill  and  O'Beirne  were  all  well  to  the  fore. 
While  Norman  and  Percival  rushed  on  ahead. 
Flash  !  flash  !  went  our  rifles  ;  we  followed  their  track, 

And  in  through  a  gap  in  the  timber  we  broke ; 
We  fired  again,  and  they  answered  us  back — 

The  rebels  I  mean — as  they  plunged  through  the  smoke, 
"  Now  back  to  the  camp,  lads  ;  we've  scattered  the  swine ; 

They've  tasted  enough  of  our  metal  to-day  !  " 
'Twas  Percival  spoke,  and  wc  fell  into  line, 

And   back  through   the   break    in    the   bush    took   our 
way. 


92  THOMAS  BRACKEN. 

We  reached  but  the  centre,  when  out  from  the  bush 

That  skirted  each  side  with  its  branches  and  logs 
The  Maoris  in  crowds,  with  a  yell  and  a  rush, 

Encompassed  us — "  Boys,  give  the  treacherous  dogs 
A  taste  of  our  true  British  pluck  !  "     A  wild  cry, 

As  a  tomahawk's  stroke  cut  the  sentence  in  twain, 
Went  in  through  the  woodlands  and  up  to  the  sky, 

And  Percival  lay  in  the  front  of  the  slain. 
Oh  God  !  in  my  ears  still  rings  yell  after  yell. 

I  see  the  bright  tomahawks  dripping  with  blood ; 
The  wild  demons  looked  as  if  painted  in  hell ; 

They  leaped   through   the   thicket   and   burst  from  the 
wood, 
Outflanked  and  outnumbered,  our  officers  dead, 

A  handful  of  men  in  the  grasp  of  the  foe. 
What  could  we  have  done  in  such  a  stress  ?  so  we  fled 

When  Norman  and  Wheeler  and  Hill  were  laid  low. 
We  reached  the  old  church,  but  the  savages  stayed 

To  butcher  the  wounded  and  mangle  the  slain  ; 
They  vanished  ere  night  in  the  forest's  dark  shade, 

To  steer  their  canoes  o'er  Waikato  again. 
At  daybreak  we  went  to  the  scene  of  the  fray, 

To  bury  our  comrades  and  bid  them  adieu, 
And  near  a  small  mound,  where  five  savages  lay, 

We  found  brave  McGillviray  sleeping  there  too. 
Five  warrior  chiefs  proved  the  work  he  had  done  ; 

They  fell  by  his  hand  ere  his  soul  went  to  God ; 
He  smiled  in  the  face  of  the  bright  morning  sun 

That  shone  on  the  purple  streaks  o'er  the  green  sod, 
I  planted  a  wattle  to  mark  where  he  sleeps — 

I  wonder  where  is  it  ? — Ah  !  there  stands  the  tree  ! 
By  Jove,  it's  in  blossom  too  !     See  how  it  weeps 

Rich  tears  of  bright  gold  o'er  the  hillock  where  he 


THOMAS  BRACKEN,  93 

Is  resting  in  peace.     Is  he  dreaming  there  still 

Of  Elsie,  his  bride,  and  his  dear  Highland  glen  ? 
This  life  is  a  puzzle,  Jack ;  fight  as  we  Avill, 

We're  nothing  at  last  but  the  shadows  of  men. 
The  substance  soon  bHnds  with  the  blossoms  and  weeds 

That  spring  to  the  surface  ;  and  as  for  the  soul, 
Perhaps  it  may  flourish  or  fade  in  its  deeds. 

Or  find  in  some  other  bright  planet  its  goal. 


94  JOHN  BRIGHT. 


WHEN   I   AM   DEAD. 

When  I  am  dead  lay  me  down  to  rest 
In  some  shady  dell  where  the  wild  flowers  spring ; 
Where  the  golden  beams  shall  come  from  the  west, 
And  smile  through  the  trees  where  the  wild  birds  sing. 
And  leave  me  there  in  my  lonely  grave 
With  nought  but  the  green  turf  o'er  my  head, 
For  the  flowers  shall  bloom  and  the  blossoms  wave 
To  show  w^here  I  sleep  when  I  am  dead. 

For  these  are  the  scenes  I  have  loved  in  life, 
And  when  death  comes  I  would  lay  me  here. 
The  busy  town  with  its  noise  and  strife 
Would  break  my  rest  if  you  laid  me  near, 
And  the  want  and  w^oe  would  make  me  sad  ; 
But  away  in  the  woods  I  have  no  dread — - 
For  there  in  my  heart  I  was  ever  glad, 
And  shall  sleep  in  peace  when  I  am  dead. 

And  shed  no  tears  when  you  lay  me  there, 
But  weep  for  those  who  are  left  behind, 
For  they  shall  wake  to  trouble  and  care, 
Whilst  I  shall  sleep  with  a  tranquil  mind. 
For  who  will  speak  of  the  evil  I've  done. 
When  you  lay  me  down  in  my  narrow  bed  ? 
May  the  friends  who  have  loved  me,  many  a  one, 
Think  of  me  kindly  when  I  am  dead. 


JOHN  BRIGHT,  95 

Then  let  me  rest ;  I  have  wandered  long, 

And  fought  in  the  world's  unequal  fight, 

Where  the  weak  must  ever  give  way  to  the  strong, 

And  he  who  has  wealth  is  always  right. 

Where  the  poor  must  stand  up  in  the  house  of  God, 

Where  the  rich  can  sit  without  fear  or  dread. 

Then  lay  me  not  'neath  the  churchyard  sod, 

But  away  in  the  woods,  when  I  am  dead. 

For  why  should  I  sleep  in  a  pauper's  grave. 
When  here  is  a  tomb  that  is  fit  for  a  king, 
Then  lay  me  down  where  the  blossoms  wave 
'Neath  the  shady  trees  where  the  wild  birds  siog^ 
For  it  seems  to  me  as  if  God  were  near. 
Nearer,  here,  where  the  wild  woods  spread. 
In  life  I  have  felt  His  presence  here, 
And  He  will  guard  me  when  I  am  dead. 


96       SIR  FREDERICK  NAPIER  BROOME, 


ON  MY  TWENTY-FOURTH  BIRTHDAY. 

I  LIVE  with  hopes  a  decade  old, 

My  years  are  lapsuig  one  by  one, 
My  mind  is  hardening  in  its  mould — 
And  nothing  done ! 


In  arms,  in  arts,  but  most  in  song, 

I  count  them  o'er  of  glorious  name 
Who  closed  a  life  than  mine  less  long — 
In  deathless  fame. 


I  feel  my  hopes  like  armour  tire  : 

Once  had  I  scorned  to  lay  them  down, 
Or  sheathe  their  sword  for  Shelley's  lyre, 
Or  Keats's  crown, 


Yet,  loth  to  lose  their  life  of  rhyme, 

They  drive  me  still  to  sigh  or  smile 
O'er  tasks  which  ill  redeem  the  time 

They  serve  to  while. 


World-voices  slowly  travel  on, 

They  faintly  reach  my  distant  ear, 
And  deeds  are  done,  and  glory  won — 
And  I  am  here  ! 


S7J?  FREDERICK  NAPIER  JIRCOMR.        07 

Poor  heart  and  j^roud  !  U-at  mourn'st  thy  lot, 

Could  altered  fate  thy  wish  allow  ? 
Were  thy  home  at  earth's  centre  ^pot, 

What  ti:en  dccm'st  thou  ? 

Go,  stop  thy  car,  avert  thy  gaze, 

Nor  deem  for  thee  the  nobler  strife, 
But  meekly  walk  the  lowly  ways 
Of  daily  life. 

Thy  boyish  spirit  set  a  sail, 

Which  o'er  smooth  seas  drave  well  its  prow ; 
'Twas  well,  but  from  Life's  rising  gale 
Take  warning  now. 


98  yENNINGS  CARMICHAEL. 


TOMBOY   MAPGE. 

O  !  FOR  a  swim  thro'  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  I 
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  thro'  the  waves  in  the  Black-eyed  Sue. 
Fred,  you  remember  the  great-eyed  fishes 

Shining  star-like  thro'  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  stumplin^ 

Would  lay  the  Tomboy  cripple    and  dumb  ? 


yENNINGS  CARMICHAEL.  99 

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 

Thro'  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  hearkened — • 

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  ; 
liUt  never  again  will  these  feet,  weak  and  failing. 

Rise  to  walk  thro'  the  flowers  and  fern." 


"  Ten  seasons  turn  ! "     One  glad  month  of  springtime 

With  ferns  and  flowers  I  cannot  see, 
Will  make  me  long  for  the  heavenly  sunshine, 

^\'here  you  and  the  boys  may  come  to  me. 
How  can  I  live  under  walls  and  ceiling 

When  all  my  life  has  been  spent  in  the  breeze  ? 
Whenever  the  bells  of  the  birds  are  pealing 

I  will  pine  and  long  for  their  nests  in  the  leaves. 

0  !  Auntie  dear,  draw  the  blinds  up  widely. 
Let  stream  the  sun  thro'  the  bow'ry  trees. 

O  !  see  the  clouds  on  the  deep  blue  gliding, 
And  watch  them  ride  and  sport  on  the  breeze. 


I  CO  JENNINGS  CARMICHAEL. 

And,  Freddy,  boy,  I  hold  your  hand  gently, 
With  its  boyish,  hard,  familiar  palm — 

The  hand  I  will  feel  in  the  far-off  country. 

When  "  Tomboy  Madge  "  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  your  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  thro'  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. 
The  boys,  when  they  swing  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. 


JLTIirU,  CASnilA,  lof 


AN  AUSTRALIAN  GIRL. 

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

Siii  John  Suckling. 

She  has  a  beauty  of  her  own, 
A  beauty  of  a  paler  tone 

Than  English  belles. 
Yet  southern  sun  and  southern  air 
Have  kissed  her  cheeks  until  they  wear 
The  dainty  tints  that  oft  appear 

On  rosy  shells. 

Her  frank,  clear  eyes  bespeak  a  maid 
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  divinel}',  flirt  as  well, 

Do^s  she  disdain. 


I02  ALFRED  T.   CHANDLER. 


BESS. 

Eh  ?  Why  am  I  keeping  that  old  crippled  mare  ? 
She  ought  to  be  shot  ?     Come  now,  steady,  lad,  there  ! 
I  keep  her  because  she  is  crippled — that's  why. 
Not  much  of  a  reason  ?    Well,  that  I  deny. 

You  see  she  was  true  in  a  test  that  was  rough, 
And  did  what  no  man  could  have  done — that's  enough  ! 
But  come  down  to  the  paddock,  and  let  me  relate 
How  Bess,  through  sheer  courage,  fell  down  at  the  gate. 

In  seventy-one — yes,  sir,  that  was  the  year, 

My  Mary  and  I  had  selected  round  here ; 

Those  farms  on  the  flat  were  then  sheep  walks,  I  guess, 

For  we  first  invaded  the  lone  v/ilderness. 


We'd  only  been  wed  for  a  twelve-month  or  so, 
Were  happy  and  hopeful,  like  lovers,  you  know  ; 
And  then  came  a  cherub  one  warm  summer  morn — 
'Twas  death  or  a  doctor  when  "  Stranger"  was  born  ! 


I  trembled  with  fear  as  I  saw  my  love  He, 
For  help  was  away  where  the  earth  touched  the  sky ; 
Some  thirty  miles  there  and  some  thirty  miles  back, 
Through  swamps  and  through  mallee,  with  scarcely  a  track. 


ALFRED  T.   CHANDLER.  103 

I  sprang  to  the  back  of  that  bonny  old  mare, 
And  felt,  without  uttering,  a  sort  of  a  pray'r  : 
One  look  at  my  Mary,  and  off  then  we  sped, 
Straightway  at  a  gallop — I  gave  Bess  her  head. 


The  sun  had  just  reached  yon  northern  hill's  crown, 
And  we'd  to  get  back  before  he  had  gone  down : 
A  life  was  depending  on  that,  maybe  two, 
And  Bess  seemed  to  know  it  as  forward  she  flew. 


Ten  miles  of  good  pacing,  without  a  mishap, 
Brought  Willoughby's  Bridge  and  Victoria  Gap, 
When  right  on  ahead  there  I  saw,  to  my  woe, 
The  scrub  was  all  smoking,  the  forest  aglow  ! 


'Twas  straight  through  or  round  it — an  hour  or  a  day- 
But  time  was  too  precious,  so  fear  fled  away ; 
I  spoke  to  Bess  cheerily,  called  her  by  name, 
Then  started  to  rush  through  the  region  of  flame. 


We  soon  were  amidst  it — her  strides  never  broke 
Through  fierce  flying  curtains  of  thick  sultry  smoke. 
Through  falling  of  timber  and  cracking  of  boughs. 
Through  showers  of  sparks  and  my  mutt'ring  of  vows  ! 

Bess  struggled  for  love — aye,  the  noblest  of  strife — 
While  I  urged  her  on  for  love  and  for  life ; 
We  passed  through  a  miracle — 'tis  now  like  a  dream. 
But  God  somehow  guides  when  the  danger's  extreme. 


I04  ALFRED  T.   CHANDLER, 

Then  two  creeks  we  passed  where  the  bottoms  were  stiff 
And  rose  on  the  ranges  at  Robertson's  chff; 
Away  on  the  plain  where  the  rivers  turned  south, 
I  saw  my  one  hope  with  my  heart  in  my  mouth. 


Ere  noon  we  ran  into  the  liitle  bush  town, 
And  Bess  was  so  heated,  I  watered  her  down, 
Then  sought  out  the  doctor,  and  stammered  widi  piin, 
In  teUing  my  message — then  sped  off  again, 


He  rode  a  stout  pony — -a  deep  iron  grey, 
And  made  a  hand-gallop  from  first  right  away, 
A  long  line  of  dust  marked  our  journey  behind. 

As  eight  clattering  hoof-strokes  sent  thuds  on  the  wind. 


Some  fifteen  miles  racing,  still  Bess  on\vard  press'd, 
Though  snow-flakes  had  whitened  her  flanks  and  her  breast; 
I  patted  and  coaxed  her,  and  told  her  my  fears — ■ 
She  galloped  on  gamely,  and  flickered  her  ears. 


But  flush  as  we  came  to  the  bush  fire  with  speed. 
The  grey  pony  stopped,  and  declined  to  proceed  ; 
Persuasions  both  gentle  and  sterner  were  vain, 
He  wouldn't  face  flames,  and  he  put  it  quite  plain. 


And  then  in  the  throes  of  my  anxious  distress, 
I  handed  the  doctor  my  noble  mare  Bess  ; 
Away  they  went,  flying  through  danger  and  heat, 
"When  reckless,  though  scared,  the  cob  followed  as  fleet. 


ALI-KED  T.   CHANDLER. 

We  got  through  that  hell,  looking  burntup  and  brown, 
And  pulled  at  the  gate  e'er  the  sun  had  gone  down  \ 
Well,  Mary  was  saved,  but  the  mare  she  was  done, 
And  fell  at  the  end  of  the  race  she  had  won  ! 


We  nursed  her  for  months,  and  we  watched  her  with  care, 
For  gratitude  gets  to  be  purer  than  prayer  : 
Though  paralyzed  then  into  maimed  helplessness, 
We'll  love  her  for  ever,  our  bonny  mare  Bess  ! 


Yon  colt  is  her  foal,  and  that  lad  on  his  back 
Is  "  Stranger  "  or  "  Cherub  " — we  now  call  him  Jack. 
A  beautiful  pair  ?     Well,  that  colt  is  worth  ten— 
sooner  trust  him  than  my  own  fellow-men, 


io6  ALFRED  T.   CHANDLER. 


CATCHING  THE  COACH. 

At  Kangaroo  Gully  in  "  Fifty-two  " 

The  rush  and  the  scramble  was  reckless  and  rough  ; 
"  Three  ounces  a  dish  and  the  lead  running  true  ! " 

Was  whispered  around  concerning  the  "  stuff." 

Next  morning  a  thousand  of  fellows,  or  more, 
Appeared  for  invasion  along  the  brown  rise — 

Some  Yankees,  and  Cockneys,  and  Cantabs  of  yore, 
And  B.A.'s  from  Oxford  in  blue  shirt  disguise. 


And  two  mornings  later  the  "  Nugget "  saloon. 
With  billiards  and  skittles,  was  glaring  with  signs, 

A  blind  fiddler,  Jim,  worried  out  a  weak  tune, 
Beguiling  the  boys  and  collecting  the  fines. 

Then  tents  started  up  like  the  freaks  of  a  dream. 
While  heaps  of  white  pipeclay  dotted  the  slope, 

To  "  Dern  her — a  duffer  !  "  or  "  Creme  de  la  Creme  ! 
That  settled  the  verdict  of  lagging  hope. 

And  bustle  and  jollity  rang  'mong  the  trees 
In  strange  combination  of  humankind  traits — 

With  feverish  searchings  and  gay  levities 
The  fires  of  excitement  were  fully  ablaze. 


ALFRED  T.  CHANDLER.  107 

^^'ell,  three  mornings  after,  the  stringy-bark  gums 
All  rustled  their  leaves  with  further  surprise, 

They'd  seen  old  stagers  and  limey  new  chums, 
But  here  were  galoots  in  peculiar  guise. 


With  nondescript  uniform,  booted  and  spurred, 
A  fierce-looking  strap  on  the  underneath  lip, 

-^n  ominous  shooter,  a  dangling  sword, 
A  grim  leather  pouch  above  the  right  hip  ! 


And  maybe  a  dozen  came  cantering  so, 
All  clanking  and  jaunty — authority  vain — 

When  down  through  the  gully  rang  out  the  word  "  Jo," 
And  "Jo"  was  sent  on  with  a  sneering  refrain. 


There  was  hunting  for  "rights,"  and  producing  the  same, 

Or  passing  them  on  to  a  paperless  mate, 
Or  hiding  in  bushes  or  down  in  the  claim — • 

Such  various  expedients  to  baffle  the  State. 


Then  "  Who  put  him  on  ?  "'- — "  Twig  his  illigant  seat ! " 
"  Cuss  me,  but  it's  purty  !  " — "  The  thing  on  the  horse  !  " 

"His  first  dacent  clothes  ! " — "  What  surprise  for  his  feet !  " 
Such  volleys  as  these  were  soon  fired  at  the  force. 


But  duty  was  duty.     Just  then  througli  the  scrub 
A  digger  made  off — he  a  culprit  no  doubt  ! 

"  Dismount  you  then,  Wilson  !  "  roared  Sergeant  Hubbub; 
"  Quick  !  follow  the  rascal,  and  ferret  him  out." 


io8  ALFRED  T.   CHANDLER. 

The  sapling  cadet,  with  budding  moustache, 
Then  sjDrang  to  the  ground  in  dauntless  pursuit, 

And,  filled  Avith  zeal  and  a  soldier-like  dash. 
He  felt  a  true  hero  of  saddle  and  boot. 


The  gully  quick  echoed  with  taunts  that  were  real — 
Keen  chaff  of  defiance  allied  to  revolt — ■ 

Such  sharp  wordy  weapons  as  might  have  been  steel-^ 
From  skirmishers  laughing  on  hillock  and  holt. 


Away  went  the  fugitive,  spurred  on  by  haste, 
Escaping  the  undergrowth,  leaping  the  logs, 

Yet  ne'er  looking  back — did  he  know  he  was  chased  ? 
Said  Wilson  :  "  He's  one  of  the  worst  of  the  dogs  ! 


'^  Some  greater  misdeed  must  have  blackened  his  hand  ; 

I'll  have  him — promotion  !     Stop  there,  or  I'll  shoot ! ' 
The  other  ahead  didn't  hear  the  command. 

But  sprang  on  unheeding  o'er  dry  branch  and  root. 


The  chase  settled  down  to  a  heavy  set  to  ; 

They  ran  o'er  the  hill  and  across  the  clear  flat ; 
And  Wilson  was  chuckling — the  villain  he  knew 

Was  making  a  bee-line  for  gaol — Ballarat ! 


"  I'll  follow  the  rogue  safely  into  the  trap — ■ 

Confound  him,  he's  speedy  :  I  can't  run  him  down  ; 

But  there,  quite  unconscious  of  any  mishap, 
I'll  fix  him  up  neatly  in  gay  Canvas  Towa  I " 


ALFRED  T.   CHANDLER.  109 

Then  over  a  creek  ^vhere  a  line  of  sage  gums 
All  flourishing  grew,  then  away  to  the  right ; 

Their  loud  breathings  mingled  with  strange  forest  hums, 
And  Wallabies  scampered  with  terror  and  fright. 


And  cockatoos  screeched  from  the  loftiest  trees, 
The  minahs  and  magpies  all  fluttered  and  flew, 

The  drowsy  old  'possums  were  roused  from  their  ease, 
The  locusts  and  lizards  quick  stepped  out  of  view. 


But  on  went  the  pair,  never  noticing  this. 
For  both  had  a  serious  business  in  hand  : 

With  one  there  were  feelings  that  prophesied  bliss, 
The  other  saw  capture  and  glory  so  grand. 

O'er  hillside  and  creek,  beyond  hollow  and  spur, 

Thro'  brief  strips  of  woodland,  they  hurried  on  still  j 

The  trooper  lost  ground,  but  he  wasn't  a  cur; 
Besides,  they  were  nearing  on  Bakery  Hill. 


Then  suddenly  broke  on  each  sweltering  sight 
The  thousand  of  tents  in  the  city  of  gold ; 

And  straight  to  the  thick  of  them  ran  with  delight 
The  chased  and  the  chaser — what  luck  for  the  bold 


The  coach  was  just  starting  for  I\Ielbournc  that  day 
As  Wilson  rushed  eagerly  on  to  his  man. 

"  I'll  put  you  with  care  where  you  won't  be  so  gaj'," 
The  trooper  in  triumph  already  began. 


no  ALFRED  T.   CHANDLER. 

"  You've  led  me  a  dance  in  a  lively  hour's  sun  ; 

Now  trip  out  your  licence,  or  waltz  off  to  gaol ! 
What  !  got  one  ?     Oh,  ho  !     Why  the did  you  run  ?  ■ 

"To  post  this  here  letter  for  Nell  by  the  mail." 


ALFRED  T.  CHANDLER.  in 


A  BUSH  IDYLL. 

WiiY,  Ruby,  hulloa,  you  are  pricking  your  ears  ! 

Come,  what  is  the  matter,  old  fellow,  to-day  ? 
I  thought  at  your  age  you  had  lost  all  your  fears. 

And,  like  my  own  youth,  they  had  long  passed  away. 
So  steady,  now  steady  !     Don't  ask  me  to  think 

That  you're  but  a  colt  scarce  a  year  from  your  dam, 
All  quiv'ring  and  nervous,  and  frisky,  and  "  pink," — 

It's  only  a  bell  on  a  little  white  lamb  ! 

Well,  how  could  you  shrink  at  the  melody  sweet  ? 

There's  surely  no  harm  in  the  silvery  sound, 
Or  ribbon  of  blue  knotted  carelessly  neat, 

Encircling  a  neck  in  a  delicate  round  ; 
Some  babe  at  the  station  just  up  on  the  rise 

Hath  decked  out  her  darling  in  innocent  play. 
And,  while  a  soft  sleep  hath  come  o'er  her  young  eyes, 

Released  from  caresses  her  lamb  leapt  away. 

We  men  often  grow  just  as  weak  as  a  child, 

And,  Ruby,  again  you  are  surely  a  foal ; 
For  you  as  a  youngster  were  skittish  and  wild, 

And  trouble  enough  in  those  days  to  control. 
Why  now  dread  a  bell  with  a  rippling  ring  ? 

'Tis  music  that  murmurs  with  rhythmical  spells, 
For  you  to  thus  tremble  's  a  curious  thing — 

But  somehow  you  horses  don't  understand  bells. 


112  ALFRED  T.   CHANDLER. 

Well,  come,  let  us  go— you  are  older,  you  see, 

And  I,  too,  am  older. — How  memories  fly 
To  those  golden  days  when  we  two  used  to  be 

By  day  and  by  night  'neath  the  blue  southern  sky  ! 
How  merry  we  wandered  when  never  as  yet 

That  shadow  of  sorrow  had  saddened  our  zest — 
When  all  the  bright  world  had  no  shade  of  regret, 

Before  I  fell  weary  and  wishing  for  rest. 

And  O  1  our  grand  gallops — you  bore  me  so  well 

O'er  stretches  of  plain,  up  the  thick-wooded  slopd, 
From  rock-covered  ridges  to  never-trod  dell. 

With  nothing  to  think  of  but  roseate  hope- 
You  felt  a  brave  pride  then  in  speeding  along — 

The  pride  of  a  conscious  and  generous  pow'r, — ■ 
While  I  was  so  happy  that  many  a  song 

I  trilled  in  those  wild  woods  from  hour  to  hour. 

And  what  was  the  theme  ?    Ah,  the  same  olden  tale  ; 

But  is  it  not  good  it  should  ever  thus  be  ? 
You  know  when  we  haunted  the  wattle  tree  dale 

A  glorious  girl  used  to  linger  with  me. 
The  time  was  idyllic  !  what  halcyon-days 

When  we  in  our  joy  went  to  meet  her  in  spring  ! 
Then  life  seemed  to  run  in  most  beautiful  ways. 

And  sorrow  was  merely  a  mythical  thing 


You  know  how  we  kissed  'neath  the  old  lightwood  tree, 
That  bloom-budding  day  when  the  hillsides  were  green. 

And  love  was  there  sealed  'tween  my  darling  and  me, 
And  you  became  glad  in  the  gay  laughing  scene. 


ALFRED  T.   CHANDLER.  J13 

Ah  !  such  was  my  theme,  and  to  you  I  would  say, 
That  here  unto  man  'tis  the  godliest  given, 

For  he  who  can  love  from  his  heart  clears  away 
Full  many  a  shadow  that  hides  him  from  heaven. 


But  all  that  went  by  and  my  song  note  was  changed, 

For  sorrow  came  up  like  the  night  on  the  day, 
I  know  I  was  'wildered,  for  reason  estranged 

Left  dark  grief  to  blind  me  and  vanished  away. 
The  morning  they  carried  her  down  to  the  dell 

To  lie  near  the  flowers,  the  ferns,  and  the  floss  : 
I  prayed  to  be  laid  with  my  heart  there  as  well — 

To  sleep  or  to  dream — 'neath  the  delicate  moss  ! 

My  prayer  was  in  vain,  yet  the  Lord  He  is  good, 

And  after  a  season  I  bowed  to  His  will ; 
Though  day  unto  day  did  I  come  by  the  wood, 

To  sit  and  to  think  at  her  grave  'neath  the  hill. 
Ah  !  love  shapes  our  destiny  sharper  than  fate. 

Till  evil  or  good  from  the  issue  doth  spring ; 
The  fair  buds  may  burst  to  dark  petals  of  hate, 

Or  bright  passion  blossoms  that  clamber  and  cling. 

And  so,  brave  old  horse,  sped  our  sweet  sunny  days- 

Our  revel  of  galloping,  rollicking  prime ; 
But  why  should  I  grieve  that  it  flitted  away. 

And  left  but  a  dream  of  that  golden-born  time  ? 
For  though  I  am  tired  as  a  weariful  bird 

That  flutters  and  longs  for  a  season  of  rest, 
One  joy  is  still  left :  when  the  summons  is  heard, 

To  fly  to  that  star  where  my  angel  is  blest. 

y 


114  ALFRED  T.   CHANDLER. 

Yet,  Ruby,  at  times  I  could  covet  3'our  lot, 

With  no  human  dread  of  the  leveller  death — 
You'd  stand  coolly  there  to  be  cruelly  shot 

Without  the  least  quiver  or  bating  of  breath. 
And  why  should  we  fear  ?     Ah  !  no  mortal  knows. 

Or  ever  the  wonderful  mystery  can  break  ; 
Perhaps  'tis  a  dreaming  that  ends  with  repose, 

Or  maybe  we  slumber  and  never  awake. 


Av/ay  with  such  thoughts  !     So  you're  wanting  to  roll, 

Well,  wait  till  we  camp  at  the  Warrigal  Creek, 
A  bright  blazing  fire  by  the  old  gumtree  bole 

Will  light  up  the  gloom — let  us  spell  for  a  week  ! 
You're  done  by  our  seven  hours'  journey  to-day 

(That  sweet  bogie  bell  is  some  miles  to  the  west) — 
But  why  am  I  strangely  and  mournfully  gay 

And  weary  yet  winged  to  some  dreamland  of  rest  ? 


Come,  Ruby,  old  boy  !  .  .  .  What  !  you  tremble — I  see 

Your  breathing  comes  thicker,  and  faltering,  and  fast, 
Your  strong  muscles  fail  you — Oh  God  !  can  it  be 

That  Ruby,  brave  Ruby — is  going  at  last  ? 
And  now  I'm  alone,  for  my  one  faithful  friend 

Has  left  me  to  battle  an  innermost  pain — • 
To  wander  all  lonely,  awaiting  the  end 

When  death  bids  me  tryst  with  my  darling  again. 


ALFRED  T.  CHANDLER,  115 

But  there  'ncath  the  starlight  the  tired  bushman  dreamed 

Such  beautiful  dreams  in  which  mingled  a  moan, 
But  ere  the  pale  dawn  o'er  the  dusky  hill  gleamed 

His  spirit  had  passed  to  the  silent  unknown ! 
And  down  by  the  creek  the  rough  station  hands  found 

Dead  rider  and  horse  as  they  peacefully  lay — - 
A  verdict  laconic — a  lonely  bush  mound — 

Tell  not  of  the  sorrow  that  bore  him  away  ! 


ii6  •     MARCUS  CLARKE. 


"IN  A  LADY'S  ALBUM." 

(Written  in  the  Album  of  Mrs.  H.  G.  Turner,  of  Melbourne.) 

What  can  I  write  in  thee,  O  dainty  book, 

About  whose  daintiness  quaint  perfume  lingers— « 

Into  whose  pages  dainty  ladies  look, 

And  turn  thy  dainty  leaves  with  daintier  fingers  ? 

Fitter  my  ruder  muse  for  ruder  song, 

My  scrawling  quill  to  coarser  paper  nlatchds, 

My  voice,  in  laughter  raised  too  loud  and  long, 
Is  hoarse  and  cracked  with  singing  tavern-=catche3. 

No  melodies  have  I  for  ladies'  ear, 

No  roundelays  for  jocund  lads  and  lasses,—^ 

But  only  brawlings  born  of  bitter  beer, 

And  chorused  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  j.ar  upon  thy  modest  mirth 
With  harsher  jest,  or  with  less  gentle  laughten 


MARCUS  CLARKE.  117 

So  some  poor  tavern-hunter  steeped  in  wine, 

With  staggering  footsteps  thro'  the  streets  returning, 

Seeing,  through  gathering  glooms,  a  sweet  h'ght  shine 
From  household  lamp  in  happy  ^vindo^Y  burning, 

;May  pause  an  instant  in  the  wind  and  rain, 
To  gaze  on  that  sweet  scene  of  love  and  duty, 

But  turns  into  the  wild  wet  night  again, 
Lest  his  sad  presence  mar  its  holy  beauty. 


ii8  NELLIE  S.  CLERIC. 


GIPPSLAND  SPRING  SONG. 

"  I  AM  coming,  I  am  coming," 

Spring  is  whispering  to  the  trees ; 
Welcome  me  with  buds  unfolding, 

Young  leaves  bending  to  the  breeze  ! 
Rosy  stems  and  dainty  pink  tips 

Smooth  and  cool  as  maiden's  hand 
Ere  she  feels  her  lover's  ardour 

Her  own  wondering  heart  expand. 

Let  your  ribbon-leaves  all  plume-like, 

Flutter  gay  at  my  approach. 
Brightly  twinkle  in  my  sunbeams, 

Wilfully  elude  my  touch  ; 
Coyly  shrink,  like  maiden's  fingers ; 

Droop,  love  pitying  as  her  eyes  ; 
Pause,  as  she,  half  melting,  lingers, 

Glance  defiant  as  she  flies. 

Then  with  tender,  calm,  repentant, 

Yield  to  my  reproachful  prayer ; 
Let  me  feel  your  soft-breathed  kisses, 

Revel  in  your  waving  hair  ; 
Cast  your  wintry  bark-dress  downward, 

Stand  revealed  in  stately  grace  ; 
Let  your  fair  round  limbs  enfold  me, 

Warm  they  glow  in  Spring's  embrace. 


NELLIE  S.   CLERK.  119 

Call  the  birds  !  the  merry  whistlers  ; 

Magpie,  robin,  thrush,  and  jay, 
Gaudy  parrot,  mimic  lyre-bird, 

All  shall  celebrate  this  day. 
Spring  is  mated,  spring  is  mated, 

To  the  forest  even  young, 
Happy  union  !  winter  hated. 

Rain-drenched,  lonely,  get  you  gone  ! 

Deck  the  buds  with  pale  gum  blossom, 

Robe  in  clinging  clematis. 
Bring  the  perfumed,  golden  wattle, 

Twine  a  crown  for  love  like  this  ; 
Mosses  green,  and  lichens  silvery, 

Weave  a  carpet  soft  and  sweet, 
Ferns,  caress  her ;  sword-grass,  guard  her  ] 

Rouse,  ye  snakes  !  protect  her  feet. 


Spring  is  mated  !  fair  example ! 

All  things  living  seek  your  loves — 
Satin-birds  of  varying  plumage, 

Tiny  wrens,  and  meek  grey  doves. 
Flitting,  darting,  twittering  wagtail. 

Friendliest  minstrel  of  the  grove, 
All  things  living,  without  number. 

Ere  the  sun  set  choose  your  love  ! 

Now,  bold  bird  of  echoing  laughter, 
Hail  the  waning  of  the  light  ! 

And  grim  moi)e-hawk,  as  shades  deepen, 
Mark  the  watches  of  the  nicrht ! 


120  NELLIE  S.  CLERK, 

Bears,  grotesque,  for  ever  climbing, 
Shriek  and  groan,  and  shriek  again  j 

Flying  squirrels,  nimble  wallabies, 
Clucking  'possums  join  the  strain. 

Praise  the  triumph  of  the  bridegroom  ! 

Praise  the  beauties  of  the  bride  ! 
And  that  homage,  heart  proceeding, 

Your  discordant  voice  shall  hide. 
Praise  the  promise  of  the  future  ! 

Loves,  and  joys,  and  sunny  days, 
Golden  berries,  fruits,  and  flowers  ; 

Let  all  nature  join  your  praise  ! 


/  R  DANIELl.  12  1 


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  banks  sweet  scented  wattles  grew 
Amidst  whose  fragrant  boughs  soft  love  birds  flew, 

And  magpies  poured  from  glossy  plumaged  throats 

Their  morning  song  of  rich  melodious  notes. 


122  J.  F.  DANIELL. 

From  out  the  scrub  that  fringed  the  river's  bank 
What  dusky,  strange,  and  uncouth  forms  emerge 

With  matted  locks  which  chng  Uke  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, 
Bearing  courageous  hearts  and  vigorous  hands. 

To  carve  their  way  to  wealth  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  ? 
What  seer  predict  a  stripling  in  the  race 

Would  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. 


/.  F.  DANIELL.  123 

Where  stalwart  bushmen  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. 


1 2  4  ERASiUI/S  DAR  WJN. 


A  FULFILLED  PROPHECY. 

(From  a  Erocidside,  dated  1789.) 

Where  Sydney  Cove  her  lucid  bosom  swells, 
Courts  her  young  navies  and  the  storm  repels  ; 
High  on  a  rock  amid  the  troubled  air 
Hope  stood  sublime,  and  waved  her  golden  hair ; 
Calm'd  with  her  rosy  smile  the  tossing  deep, 
And  with  sweet  accents  charm'd  the  winds  to  sleep  ; 
To  each  wild  plain  she  stretch'd  her  snowy  hand, 
High-waving  wood  and  sea-encircled  strand, 
"  Hear  me,"  she  cried,  "  ye  rising  Realms  !  record 
Time's  opening  scenes,  and  Truth's  unerring  word — 
There  shall  broad  streets  their  stately  walls  extend, 
The  circus  widen,  and  the  crescent  bend  ; 
There,  ray'd  from  cities  o'er  the  cultur'd  land, 
Shall  bright  canals,  and  solid  roads  expand — 
There  the  proud  arch,  Colossus-like,  bestride 
Yon  glittering  streams,  and  bound  the  chafing  tide : 
Embellish'd  villas  crown  the  landscape-scene, 
Farms  wave  with  gold  and  orchards  blush  between — ■ 
There  shall  tall  spires  and  dome-capt  towers  ascend, 
And  piers  and  quays  their  massy  structures  blend  ; 
While  with  each  breeze  approaching  vessels  glide, 
And  Northern  treasures  dance  on  every  tide  !  " 
Then  ceased  the  Nymph — tumultuous  echoes  roar. 
And  Joy's  loud  voice  was  heard  from  shore  to  shore— 
Her  graceful  steps  descending,  press'd  the  plain. 
And  Peace  and  Art  and  Labour  join'd  her  train. 


Alfred  doMeti. 


THE  PRELUDE  TO  RANOLF  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  ? 
Is  there  room  for  no  hope — such  a  handbreadth  we  scan 
In  the  permanence  yet  of  the  spirit  of  man  ? 
May  we  bless  the  far  seeker,  nor  blame  the  fine  dreamer  ? 
Leave  reason  her  radiance — doubt  her  due  cloud ; 
Nor  their  rainbows  enshroud  ? 

From  our  life  of  realities,  hard,  shallow-hearted, 
Has  romance,  has  all  glory  idyllic  departed, 
From  the  work-a-day  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  ? 

0,  my  friends,  never  deaf  to  the  charms  of  denial. 
Were  its  comfortless  comforting  worth  a  life-trial. 
Discontented  content  with  a  chilling  despair  ? 
Better  ask  as  we  float  down  a  song-flood  unchecked. 
If  our  sky  with  no  Iris  be  glory-bedecked  ? 


126  ALFRED  DOMETT. 

Through  the  gloom  of  ecHpse  as  ^Ye  wistfully  steal, 
If  no  darkling  aureolar  rays  may  reveal 
That  the  future  is  haply  not  utterly  cheerless : 
While  the  present  has  joy  and  adventure  as  rare, 
As  the  past  when  most  fair  ? 


And  if  weary  of  mists  you  will  roam  undisdaining 
To  a  land  where  the  fanciful  fountains  are  raining 
Swift  brilliants  of  boiling  and  beautiful  spray, 
In  the  violet  splendour  of  skies  that  illume 
Such  a  wealth  of  green  ferns  and  rare  crimson  tree-bloom ; 
^Vhere  a  people  primeval  is  vanishing  fast, 
With  its  faiths,  and  its  fables,  and  ways  of  the  past ; 
O,  with  reason  and  fancy  unfettered  and  fearless, 
Come,  plunge  with  us  deep  into  regions  of  day, 
Come  away,  and  away  ! 


ALFRED  D0MET2.  127 


THE  LEGEND  OF  TAWHAKI. 

Then  Amohia,  tapping  Ranolfs  arm, 
Said,  "  Listen,  Pakcha  !  "  and  with  lifted  hand. 

Rounding — enchantress-wise 
When  double  soul  she  throws  into  a  charm— 
The  solemn  archness  of  her  great  black  eyes, 

Deep  lighted  like  a  well, 
An  ancient  legend  she  began  to  tell 

Of  one  God  hero  of  the  land. 
Of  which  our  faithful  lay  presents 
Precisely  the  main  incidents. 
Adorning  freely  everywhere 
The  better  its  intents  to  reach, 

The  language  so  condensed  and  bare. 
Those  clotted  rudiments  of  speech. 

"  Once  a  race,  the  Pona-luri,  in  the  oozy  depth  of  ocean, 

Fierce,  uncouth,  in  gloomy  glory,  lived  where  light  is  none, 
nor  motion, 

More  than  anything  created.  Light,  their  bane,  their  death, 
they  hated ; 

So  for  night  they  ever  waited  ere  ashore  they  seal-like 
clambered ; 

To  their  house  ALmdwa-tanc— their  great  mansion,  lofty- 
chambered. 

Whence,  if  e'er  a  windy  moon  had  caught  them,  you  would 
see  them  hieina; 


128  ALFRED  DOMETT. 

Homeward,  Sable  shapes  beneath  the  ciiisping  silver  floating, 

flying, 
Swift  as  scattered  clouds  on  high  their  snowy  courses  gaily 

plying. 


"  Young  Tawhdki,  well  he  knew  them— did  they  not  his 

father  mangle  ? 
Hang "  his  fleshless  bones,  a  scarecrow,  ghastly  from  their 

roof  to  dangle  ? 
Keep  his  mother  too,  a  slave,  each  day  to  give  them  timely 

warning 
Ere  dark  sky  from  earth  uplifting  left  the  first  gold  gap  of 

morning? 


*'  Vengeance  with  his  mother  then  he  plotted.     So  by  day- 
light hiding 
In  their  house-roof  thatch  he  couched,  his  slimy  foes'  arrival 

biding. 
Darkness  comes;  they  land  in  swarms ;  their  spacious  house 

they  crowd  and  cumber ; 
Revel  through  the  midnight  reckless ;  drop  at  last  In  weary 

slumber. 
Like  the  distant  ocean's  roaring,  sinks  and  swells  the  mighty 

snoring. — 
Out  then  steals  Tawhdki,  chuckling ;  long  ere  day  begins  to 

brighten, 
Stops  up  every  chink  in  doorway,  window,  that  could  let  the 

light  in. 
And  the  snoring  goes  on  roaring;  or  if  any  sleepci'  yaw-ning 
Turned  him  restless,  thinking  '  Surely  it  iiiUst  now  be  near 

the  dawninc' 


ALFRED  DOMETT.  129 

Growling,  '  Slave,  is  daylight  breaking  ?  are  you  watching  ? 

are  you  waiting  ? ' 
Still  the  mother  answered  blandly,  '  Fear  not,  I  will  give  you 

warning — 
Sleep,  O  sleep,  my  Pona-turi,  there  are  yet  no  streaks  of 

morninc;.' 


"  So  the  snoring  goes  on  roaring.     Now  above  the  moun- 

tarns  dewy, 
High   the   splendour-God    careers   it — great   Te    Ra,    the 

Tama  Nui. 
Sudden  cries  Tawhaki's  mother,  '  Open  doors  and  windows 

quickly  ; 
Every  stop-gap  tear  out,  clear  out !  On  them  pour  the  sun- 
beams thickly  ! ' 
Through  the  darksome  mansion — through  and  through  those 

sons  of  darkness  streaming, 
Flash   the   spear-flights   of    the    Day-God — deadly-silent— 

golden-gleaming ! 
Down  they  go,  the  Pona-turi !  vain  their  struggles,  yells  and 

fury  1 
Like  dead  heaps  of  fishes,  stranded  by  the  storm's  spray, 

gaping,  staring- 
Stiffened  so,  astonished,  helpless,  Imy  they  in  the  sunbeams 

glaring ; 
Fast  as  shrink  upon  the  shelly  beach,  those  tide-left  discs  of 

jelly ; 
Fast  as  leathery  fungus  balls,  in  yellow  dust  clouds  fuming 

fly  off, 
So  they  shrink,  they  fade,  they   isMther,  so  those  imps  of 

darkness  die  off." 


I30  ALFRED  DOMETT. 

"  Now,  of  heavenly  birth  to  cheer  hnii,  beauteous  from  those 

blue  dominions, 
llapae  came,   divine,  a  damsel,   floating  down  on  steady 

pinions ; 
Came,  a  moving  moonbeam,  nightly  lit  with  love  his  chamber 

brightly. 
Till  that  spring-time  of  her  bosom  flushed  out  in  a  baby 

blossom. 
Infant,    it    had    infant    failings.      Once    the    dirt-delighted 

bantling, 
Scornfully  Tawhdki  jeered  at.     Straightv\'ay  all  the  mother 

mantling 
In  her  heart,  her  treasure  Hapae  caught  up  ;  to  her  plumy 

vesture 
Pressed  it,  nestling  ;  then  upspringing  with  reproachful  look 

and  gesture, 
Sailed  off   to  her   skyey    mansion,  vanished    in   the    blue 

expansion. 
Like   an   Albatross   that    slides    into    the    sunset, — whitely 

fading 
With   its   fixed  rare-winking  vans,   away   into  the   crimson 

shading. 
Only,    ere  she   parted,   while   the   lagging   west  wind    she 

invited — 
Fla2:)ping   her   broad   wings,    a   tip-toe    on    the    mannikin 

alighted 
(Red — its  arms  on  knees  akimbo — squat— the  gabel  apex 

crowning) 
One  advice  she  waved  Tawhdki,  more  with  grief  than  anger 

frowning ; 
'  If  you  ever  feel  the  child  and  mother,  to  your  heart  grow 

dearer. 
Ever  wish  to  follow  and  to  find  Us,  O  unkindly  sheerer. 


ALFRED  DOMETT.  131 

And  would  climb  by  trce-dropt  trailers,  to  the  sky  a  little 

nearer, 
O  remember,  leave  the  loose  ones,  only  take  and  trust  to 

surely 
Such   as  hung  from  loftiest   tree-tops,  root  themselves  in 

earth  securely  ! ' 


"  Many  a  moon  he  mourned — Tawhdki.     Then  he  started 

to  discover 
Where  they  grew,  those  happy  creepers,  that  could  help  a 

hapless  lover. 
Many  a  moon  he  roamed — Tawhaki.     And  his  heart  was 

sore  and  weary 
When  he  found  himself  despondent  in  a  forest  grand  and 

dreary 
(Ah,  that  wildering  wild  wood — who  can  tell  how  dense  it 

was  and  tangled), 
Where  in  wanton  woody  ringlets  many  a  rope  of  trailers 

dangled. 
Rapt,    absorbed   in    her  pursuit,   a  blind  old   crone   those 

creci)ers  tended  ; 
Caught  at,  groped  and  felt  for  any  that   within  her  reach 

descended. 
He,  an  ancestress  discerning,  ere  for  counsel  he  implored 

her, 
Touched  her  eyes,  a  charm  repeating,  and  to  sight  at  once 

restored  her. 
Then  they  found  a  creeper  rooted,  hnely  for  his  purpose 

suited. 
U})   he    went   cxultingly,    bold-hearted,    joyous-eyed,   firm- 
footed. 
At  the  tree-top,  see  !  a  liny  spider-thread  upshooting  shiny, 


132  ALFRED  DOMETT. 

Wavering,  viewless  half,  yet  ever  held  aloft  by  mere 
endeavour. 

With  a  beating  heart,  Tawhdki,  muttering  many  an  incanta- 
tion— - 

Wild  with  hope  so  high  it  takes  the  very  hue  of  despera- 
tion, 

Clasps  the  clue  so  evanescent ;  then  with  yearnings  deep, 
incessant. 

Seeing  in  the  vault  above  him  only  Hapae's  eyes  that  love 
him, 

Up  and  up,  for  ever  upwards  mounts  he  dauntless,  nothing 
scares  him. 

Up  through  azure  bright  abysses  still  that  thread  in  triumph 
bears  him. 

Suddenly   a   sunny   grove   is   round   him  —  cheery  people 

working 
At  a  great  canoe,  appear.     All  day  he  keeps  the  thicket, 

lurking. 
Till   when  balmy  shadow  veils   them,  and  serenest  sleep 

assails  them. 
Stripping  off  his  youthful  glory,  out  he  steals,  an  old  man 

hoary  ; 
Strikes  a  few   swift   strokes,  and   magic-like   the   work   is 

ended. 
Graceful  with  its  lofty  stern,    with   open-circled   fret-work 

splendid, 
Lo !  the  great  canoe  completed  !     To  his  copse  he  then 

retreated. 
On  another  hollowed  trunk  next   night   the   wonder-work 

repeated — 
Those  Celestials  marvelled  greatly ;  yet  reflecting  in  their 

pleasure 


ALFRED  DOMETT.  133 

Such   a   worker   were   a   treasure   as   a  slave    beyond   all 

measure, 
Watched  and  clutched  that  old  man  wilful — so  decrepit,  yet 

so  skilful, 
And  to  their  great  ruler  bore  him. — 0  delight !    who   sits 

before  him  ? 
'Tis  his  beautiful  benign  one,  'tis  his  downy-plumed  divine 

one, 
Hapae  !  will  he  now  deride  her,  or  the  subtle  Elf  beside 

her! 
Kindly   greeted,    with   caresses    he   the   child  allures   and 

presses 
To  his  heart,  no  more  to  sever.     Then  as  he  flings  off  for 

ever 
That  disguise's  dim  defilement,  Hapae  smiles  sweet  recon- 
cilement ; 
Swift  the  child  they  bathe,  baptize  it,  lustral  waters  o'er  it 

dashing  ; 
And    Tawhdki — breast    and    brow    sublime    insufferably 

flashing. 
Mid  in  lightnings,  as  he  looks  out  from  the  thunder-cloven 

portals 
Of  the  sky — stands  forth  confest — a  God  and  one  of  the 

Immortals  !  " 


134  ALFRED  DOMETT. 


MIROA'S  STORY. 

"  Alas,  and  well-a-day  !  they  are  talking  of  me  still : 
By  the  tingling  of  my  nostril,  I  fear  they  are  talking  ill ; 
Poor  hapless  I — poor  little  I — so  many  mouths  to  fill — 
And  all  for  this  strange  feeling — O,  this  sad,  sweet  pain  ! 

"  O  !  senseless  heart — O  simple  !  to  yearn  so,  and  to  pine 
For  one  so  far  above  me,  confest  o'er  all  to  shine. 
For  one  a  hundred  dote  upon,  who  never  can  be  mine  ! 
O,  'tis  a  foolish  feehng — all  this  fond,  sweet  pain  ! 

"  When  I  was  quite  a  child— not  so  many  moons  ago — • 
A  happy  little  maiden — O,  then  it  was  not  so ; 
Like  a  sunny-dancing  wavelet  then  I  sparkled  to  and  fro  ; 
And  I  never  had  this  feeling — O,  this  sad,  sweet  pain  ! 

"  I  think  it  must  be  owing  to  the  idle  life  I  lead 
In  the  dreamy  house  for  ever  that  this  new  bosom-weed 
Has  sprouted  up  and  spread  its  shoots  till  it  troubles  me 
indeed 
With  a  restless,  weary  feeling — such  a  sad,  sweet  pain  ! 

"  So  in  this  pleasant  islet — O,  no  longer  will  I  stay — ■ 
And  the  shadowy  summer  dwelling  I  will  leave  this  very  day  ; 
On  Arapa  FU  launch  my  skiff,  and  soon  be  borne  away 
From  all  that  feeds  this  feeling — 0,  this  fond,  sweet  pain  ! 


ALFRED  DOMETT.  135 

"  I'll  go  and  see  dear  Rima — she'll  welcome  me,  I  know, 
And  a  flaxen  cloak — her  gayest — o'er  my  weary  shoulders 

throw, 
With   purfle   red   and   points    so   free — O,   quite  a   lovely 

show — 
To  charm  away  this  feeling — 0,  this  sad,  sweet  pain  ! 

"  Two  feathers  I  will  borrow,  and  so  gracefully  111  wear 
Two  feathers  soft  and  snowy,  for  my  long,  black,  lustrous 

hair. 
Of  the  Albatross's  down  they'll  be — O,  how  charming  they'll 

look  there — 
All  to  chase  away  this  feeling — 0,  this  fond,  sweet  pain  ! 

"Then  the  lads  will  flock  around  me  with  flattering  talk  all 

day — 
And,  with  anxious  little  pinches,  sly  hints  of  love  convey ; 
And  I  shall  blush  with  happy  pride  to  hear  them,  I  daresay. 
And  quite  forget  this  feeling — O,  this  sad,  sweet  pain  1  " 


136  ALFRED  DOMETT. 


TANE,  THE  TREE  GOD. 

I. 
"  I  am  Tafic,  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  room  and  range  is  j 
Shadowy  aisle  and  avenue ; 
Creeper-girdled  columns  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. 


ALFRED  DOMETT.  137 

Wandering  darkly  overhead, 
Under  luminous  leafy  deeps, 
Which  an  emerald  splendour  steeps 
From  the  moon  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  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,  a?id  sects,  and  churches, — hopeful  each  its  ozan 

way  going; 
Bigots,  sceptics,  saints,  and  sinners— precious  to  the  Poiver  all- 

knoiuing, 
So  they  keep  absorbing  ever  more  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  Tane— 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. 
Which  shall  my  favourites  be  ? 
Which  are  most  pleasing  to  me, 
Of  their  shapes  and  their  qualities  manifold  ? — ■ 


138  ALFRED  DOMETT. 

The  gigantic  parasite-myrtle 

That  over  its  victims  piles  up 

Great  domes  of  pure  vermilion, 

Filling  the  black  defiles  up  : 

The  King-Pine  that  grandly  towers  ; — ■ 

The  fuchsia-tree  with  its  flowers, 

Poor  rustics  that  timidly  ape 

Their  sisters  of  daintier  shape 

With  their  delicate  bells  downhung, 

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-tip-toe  one  pointed  foot, 

And  one  horizontal  outshoot : — 

The  Clematis-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  skyey  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  sapphirine  face  is 

Illumined  for  wonderful  spaces 


ALFRED  DOMETT.  139 

AVith  a  matting  of  floating  flowerets — 

Drift-bloom  and  a  watersward  meet 

For  a  water-sprite's  fairy  feet ; 

'Tis  the  Kowhai,  that  spendthrift  so  golden  ! 

But  its  kinsman  to  Nature  beholden 

For  raiment  is  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  curybia  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  earth  as  it  can  !  " 

'•  Many   creatures — varied  features — dark   and  bright  still 

omcard  fnoving  ; 
Tyrants — tumblers — boors   and  beauties,   kings   and    clowns 

alike  approving — • 
To  them  all  the  gods  are  gracious — to  them  all  the  gods  arc 

loving.''' 

III. 

"  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  ! 


140  ALFRED  DOMETT. 

Melting  pulp — juicy  flake — ■ 

Sweet  kernel  or  bitter — 

None  are  better — none  fitter — • 

All  are  grateful  to  me  ; 

But  yon  shell  with  no  lining, 

Though  splendidly  shining ; 

But  your  husk  with  a  varnish 

That  nought  seems  to  tarnish  ; 

If  any  of  these  I  espy, 

Empty  and  hard  and  dry, 

That  serve  but  for  clamour  and  chatter, 

Or  the  genuine  fruit  to  belie; 

These  cheats  will  I  shiver  and  shatter, 

And  their  fragments  scornfully  scatter  : 

Oh,  none  of  them  bring  to  me  ! " 

'■''Tains  and  passions — deeds  and  duties— virtues,  vices — gifts 

and  graces — ■ 
Have  not  all  tlicir  value,  uses — /;/  their  various  fitting  places— 
So  they  be  not  jalse  pretences^  mocking  masks  for  natural 

faces  ?  "— 

"There,  my  sweet  one,  that  is  what. 
Were  I  Tanii  (which,  thank  God,  /'/;/  not, 
Seeing  mine's  a  happier  lot), 
That  is  about  what  I  should  say, 
Had  I  my  own,  my  wondrous  way," 

lY. 

And  Amo,  coming  to  his  side  amused. 
Her  smiling  eyes  with  tender  love  suftused, 
"  How  fond,  O,  Rano  mine,"  said  she, 
"  Of  these  dumb  things  you  seem,  to  be  !. 


ALFRED  DOMETT.  141 

I  shall  be  jealous  soon,  I  think, 
And  wish  myself  a  I'ree  !  " 

'*  A  Tree,  my  Amo  !  but  I  wonder  which  ? 

O,  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 

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  ; 

That  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  ! " 


142  ALFRED  DOMETT. 

She  paused  a  tender  moment — then  resumed  : 

"  Nay,  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  fost. 

Rather,  O,  how  much  rather  than  destroy 

The  thing  I  loved,  the  source  of  all  my  joy, 

Would  I,  my  Rano,  share  the  piteous  fate 

That  Rata's  poor  companion  must  await — 

Were  you  the  clasper,  I  the  tree  that  died, 

That  you  might  flourish  in  full  strength  and  pride  !' 

"  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  Rata  bright. 
In  murd'rous  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  lovely  vegetable  life 
Leaves  startling  models  of  unnatural  strife." 


ALFRED  DOMETT.  143 


THE  PINK  TIvR RACES,  N.Z. 


'■'  Ho'io  beautiful !  Junu  7vonderful  I  lunv  sf range  I" 

Such  words,  less  thought  than  nicre  emotion,  well 

Might  Ranolf  with  abated  breath,  in  tone 

That  wonder-stricken  to  a  whisper  fell, 

For  Amo's  looks  of  triumph  now  exchange  : 

So  fair  a  vision  charmed  our  loiterers  lone, 

As  at  the  closing  of  a  sultry  day, 

In  search  of  some  good  camping  ground 

They  paddled  up  Mahdnas  Lake, 

Where  they  a  small  canoe  had  found 

(Which  Amo  settled  they  might  take). 

With  little  care  half  hid  in  sedge. 

Flax-fastened  to  the  water's  edge — 

Its  owners  clearly  far  away. 

From  the  low  sky  line  of  the  hilly  range 

IJefore  them,  sweeping  down  its  dark-green  face 

Into  the  lake  that  slumbered  at  its  base, 

A  mighty  cataract — so  it  seemed — 

Over  a  hundred  steps  of  marble  streamed 

And  gushed,  or  fell  in  dripping  overflow  ! 

Flat  steps,  in  flights  half-circled — row  o'er  row, 

Irregularly  mingling  side  by  side  ; 

They  and  the  torrent-curtain  wide. 

All  rosy-hued,  it  seemed,  with  sunsets  glow. 

But  what  is  this  ! — no  roar,  no  sound. 

Disturbs  that  torrent's  hush  profound  ! 


144  ALFRED  DOMETT. 

The  wanderers  near  and  nearer  come — 
Still  is  the  mighty  cataract  dumb  ! 
A  thousand  fairy  lights  may  shimmer 
With  tender  sheen,  with  glossy  glimmer, 
O'er  curve  advanced  and  salient  edge 
Of  many  a  luminous  water  ledge  ; 
A  thousand  slanting  shadows  pale 
May  fling  their  thin  transparent  veil 
O'er  deep  recess  and  shallow  dent 
In  many  a  watery  stair's  descent ; 
Yet,  mellow  bright,  or  mildly  dim 
Both  lights  and  shades — both  dent  and  rim- 
Each  wavy  streak — each  warm  snow  tress — 
Stand  rigid,  mute,  and  motionless  ! 
No  faintest  murmur — not  a  sound — 
Relieves  that  cataract's  hush  profound ; 
No  tiniest  bubble,  not  a  flake 
Of  floating  foam  is  seen  to  break 
The  smoothness  where  it  meets  the  lake ; 
Along  that  shining  surface  move 
No  ripples  ;  not  the  slightest  swell 
Rolls  o'er  the  mirror  darkly  green. 
Where,  every  feature  limned  so  well — ■ 
Pale,  silent,  and  serene  as  death — - 
The  cataract's  image  hangs  beneath 
The  cataracts — but  not  more  serene, 
More  phantom-silent  than  is  seen 
The  white  rose-hued  reality  above. 


II. 

They  paddle  past — -for  on  the  right. 
Another  cataract  comes  in  sight^ 


ALFRED  DOMETT.  m5 

Another,  broader,  grander  fliglit 

Of  steps  all  stainless,  snowy  bright ! 

They  land — their  curious  way  they  track, 

Near  thickets  made  by  contrast  black ; 

And  then  that  wonder  seems  to  be 

A  cataract  carved  in  Parian  stone, 

Or  any  purer  substance  known — 

Agate  or  milk-chalcedony  !  > 

Its  showering  snow  cascades  appear 

Long  ranges  bright  of  stalactite, 

And  sparry  frets  and  fringes  white, 

Thick-falling,  plenteous,  tier  o'er  tier  ; 

Its  crowding  stairs  in  bold  ascent, 

Piled  up  that  silvery  glimmering  height 

Are  layers,  they  know,  accretions  slow 

Of  hard  silicious  sediment. 

For  as  they  gain  a  rugged  road. 

And  cautious  climb  the  solid  rime, 

Each  step  becomes  a  terrace  broad — 

Each  terrace  a  wide  basin  brimmed 

With  water,  brilliant  yet  in  hue 

The  tenderest  delicate  harebell-blue 

Deepening  to  violet ! 


Slowly  climb 
The  twain,  and  turn  from  time  to  time 
To  mark  the  hundred  paths  in  view — 
Crystalline  azure,  snowy  rimmed — 
The  marge  of  every  beauteous  pond. 
Curve  after  curve — each  lower  beyond 
The  higlier — outsweeping  white  and  wide, 
Like  snowy  lines  of  foam  that  glide 


146  ALFRED  DOMETT. 

O'er  level  sea-sands  lightly  skimmed 

By  thin  sheets  of  the  glistening  tide. 

They  climb  those  milk-white  flats  incrusted 

And  netted  o'er  with  wavy  ropes 

Of  wrinkled  silica.     At  last — 

Each  basin's  heat  increasing  fast — - 

The  topmost  step  the  pair  surmount, 

And  lo,  the  cause  of  all !     Around, 

Half-circling  cliffs  a  crater  bound  ; 

Cliffs  damp  with  dark  green  moss — their  slopes 

All  crimson  stained  with  blots  and  streaks — 

White-mottled  and  vermilion-rusted. 

And  in  the  midst,  beneath  a  cloud 

That  ever  upward  rolls  and  reeks 

And  hides  the  sky  with  its  dim  shroud, 

Look  where  upshoots  a  fuming  fount — 

Up  through  a  blue  and  boiling  pool 

Perennial — a  great  sapphire  streaming. 

In  that  coralline  crater  gleaming. 

Upwelling  ever,  amethystal, 

Ebullient  comes  the  bubbling  crystal 

Still  growing  cooler  and  more  cool 

As  down  the  porcelain  stairway  slips 

The  fluid  flint,  and  slowly  drips, 

And  hangs  each  basin's  curling  lips 

With  crusted  fringe,  each  year  increases. 

Thicker  than  shear-forgotten  fleeces  ; 

More  close  and  regular  than  rows, 

Long  rows  of  snowy  trumpet-flowers 

Some  day  to  hang  in  garden-bowers, 

When  strangers  shall  these  wilds  enclose. 


ALFRED  DOMETT.  147 

III. 

But  see  !  in  all  that  lively  spread 

Of  blue  and  white  and  vermeil  red, 

How,  dark  with  growths  of  greenest  gloss 

Just  at  the  edge  of  that  first  ledge, 

Calcareous  string  to  cliff- formed  bov^' 

(O'er  which  the  hot  pool  trickles  slow) 

A  little  rocky  islet  peeps 

Into  the  crater-caldron's  deeps. 

Along  the  ledge  they  lightly  cross, 

And  from  its  midway  islet  gaze 

O'er  all  the  scene,  and  every  phase 

The  current  takes  as  down  it  strays. 

They  note  where'er,  by  step  or  stair, 

By  brimming  bath,  on  hollow  reef, 

Or  hoary  plain,  its  magic  rain 

Can  reach  a  branch,  a  flower,  a  leaf. 

The  branching  spray,  leaf,  blossom  gay 

Are  blanched  and  stiffened  into  stone  ! 

So  round  about  lurks  tracery  strewn 

Of  daintiest  moulded  porcelain  ware, 

Or  coral  wreaths  and  clusters  rare, 

A  white  flint  foliage  rather  say 

Such  fiiiry  work  as  frost  alone 

Were  equal  to,  could  it  o'erlay 

With  tender  crust  of  crystals  fliir, 

Fine  spikes  so  delicately  piled — • 

Not  wintry  trees,  leaf-stripped  and  bare, 

But  summer's  vegetation,  rich  and  wild. 


r4S  ALFRED  DOMETT. 


THE  HAUNTED  MOUNTAIN. 

"  Shall  we  run  into  the  cloudlet,  love,  so  luminous  and 
white, 

That  is  crouching  up  in  sunshine  there  on  yonder  lofly 
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  tlie  purple 
black. 

Set  on  fire  by  the  sunbeam  which  has  caught  it  there  alone, 

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, 

1  would  follow  my  fleet  darling  by  the  flashing  of  her  eyes, 

O'er  that  lofly  level  summit,  as  they  vanish  vapour-veiled, 

Or  would  glitter  out  rekindling  and  then  glance  away  to 
seek, 


ALFRED  DOMETT.  149 

Like  swift  meteors  seen  a  moment,  for  some  other  silver 
streak, 

Now  bedim med  and  now  bedazzling,  till  each  dodge  and 
double  failed, 

And  I  caught  her— O,  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  — O  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  ! 
Such   a   hideous   lizard    monster   in    its   gloomy   shade   it 

screens. 
That  as  rugged  as  the  rocks   are,    winds  along   the   close 

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  !  O,  not  at  least  to- 
day : 
Took  how  lovely  calm  the  Lake  is ; — 'twill  be  sweeter  far  to 

stray 
In  the  blue  hot  brilliant  noontide  to  each  secret  shadowy  bay, 
And  afloat  on  liquid  crystal  pass  the  happy  time  away  I" 


1 5  o  LINDSA  V  D  UN  CAN. 


CHRISTMAS  GUESTS. 

"  The  loneliest  night  of  all  the  lonely  year !  " 
The  sick  man  murmured  with  a  weary  moan ; 

"  And  I  shall  spend,  without  a  creature  near, 
Another  dreary  Christmas-tide  alone  !  " 

A  wooden  shanty,  common,  rough,  and  bare. 
Rude  shelter  offered  to  a  suff'ring  man  ; 

Its  door  flung  open  to  the  warm  night  air, 
Courting,  in  vain,  a  breeze  his  cheek  to  fan. 

A  man  well  on  in  years;  deep-lined  and  grey 

His  brow,  and  those  scant  locks  which  o'er  it  hung  ; 

One  who  had  lost,  he  had  been  heard  to  say, 
All  that  he  lived  for  while  he  still  was  young. 

A  world-worn  wand'rer  on  the  face  of  earth, 
Whom  Death  and  Sorrow,  in  an  evil  time, 

Had  driven  from  the  country  of  his  birth 
To  lonely  labour  in  an  Austral  clime. 

Where,  toiling  without  heart,  to  keep  alive 
A  life  he  did  not  cherish,  he  had  failed. 

As  hopeless  toilers  fail  'mid  those  who  strive ; 
For  sorry  life  alone  his  gains  availed. 


LINDSA  V  D  UNCAN.  1 5 1 

Half-dressed,  and  flung  upon  his  restless  bed, 
He,  burning-eyed,  gazed  out  upon  the  night — 

Gazed  from  the  glowing  darkness  overhead 

To  where  the  distant  township's  lamps  shone  bright. 


"Full  many  kindly  souls,"  he  muttered  low, 
"  Feasting  and  laughing  on  this  Christmas  Eve, 

Did  they  my  dire  extremity  but  know 

Would  gladly  seek  my  suff'rings  to  relieve. 


"And  who  am  I,  to  wrap  me  in  my  pride, 
Scorning  to  ask  what  would  be  freely  given  ? 

Yet,  no  !  I  cannot  beg  !  "  he  feebly  cried, 

"Help,  to  be  help  for  me,  must  come  from  Heav'n!"' 

E'en  as  he  spoke,  high  in  the  vast  dark  blue, 
A  meteor,  loosened  from  its  viewless  ties. 

Across  the  star-flow'red  fields  of  ether  flew, 
Like  some  grand  fire-winged  bird  of  paradise. 


Its  trailing  lustre  shed  a  transient  gleam 
Upon  two  figures  at  the  open  door. 

Whose  faces  brightened  with  a  tender  beam 
The  lonely  hut  that  was  so  dim  before. 


A  woman  and  a  child !  Was  he  distraught. 
That  neither  fear  nor  wonder  held  him  bound 

To  welcome  beings  who,  his  reason  taught, 
Had  slept  for  twenty  years  in  English  ground  ? 


1 5  2  LINDSA  Y  D  UNCAN. 

Why  should  he  fear  them  ?    Were  they  not  his  own — 
The  wife,  the  child— with  whom  his  heart  had  died  ? 

What  wonder  if,  when  he  was  sick  and  lone, 
They  left  their  Heaven  for  service  at  his  side  ? 


Hand  clasped  in  hand,  they  crossed  his  threshold  now. 
Smiling  upon  their  loved  one  as  they  came  ; 

They  spoke  no  word,  but  kissed  his  pain-dewed  brow. 
And  coolness  fell  upon  his  fevered  frame. 


How  'twas  he  knew  not — but  within  a  space 

That  seemed  no  longer  than  a  moment's  flight — 

A  happy  change  had  come  upon  the  place. 

And  all  around  him  streamed  a  soft,  clear  light. 


The  child  was  hanging  garlands  ev'rywhere, 
Familiar  wreaths  of  holly's  glossy  green. 

Of  laurel  and  of  bay  ;  while  here  and  there 
Gleam'd  marv'llous  unknown  blooms  of  snowy  sheen. 


The  mother  spread  the  table  for  a  feast. 

As  though  resuming  old  sweet  household  care  ; 

And  he,  in  whom  all  sense  of  pain  had  ceas'd. 
Was  gently  led  this  wondrous  meal  to  share. 


W^hat  was  his  fare,  that  Eve  of  Christmas  morn  ? 

He  cannot  tell  us,  and  he  only  could ; 
But,  if  'twere  not  a  dream  of  weakness  born, 

He,  for  the  first  time,  tasted  angels'  food  I 


LINDSA  V  D  UNCAN.  153 

Then,  smiling  still,  they  held  his  feeble  hands, 
And  sweetly  raised  that  old,  old  hymn  of  praise. 

That  echoes  on  through  widest-sundered  lands. 
In  Christian  hearts  all  earthly  Christmas  days — 


"  Come  all  ye  faithful !  "     Were  they  calling  him  ? 

Uidding  him  seek  a  heavenly  Bethlehem  ? 
He  smiled  in  answer  as  his  eyes  grew  dim, 

And  strove  to  rise  that  he  might  follow  them. 


"Joyful  and  triumphant !  "     Ah  !  such  harmonies 
Thrilled  through  the  humble  hut,  as  human  ear, 

Unhelp'd  by  angel-teachers  from  the  skies. 
Has  never  heard,  may  never  hope  to  hear. 


Grandly  it  rose  and  swelled,  that  Christmas  song ! 

Surely  all  choirs  of  Heaven  joined  the  strain — 
That  mighty  stream  of  praise  that  bore  along 

Upon  its  flood  a  being  freed  from  pain  ! 


When  his  next  neighbours,  on  the  Christmas  Day, 
Some  friendly  impulse  to  his  shanty  led, 

Calm,  placid,  still,  upon  his  bed  he  lay, 

A  smile  was  on  his  face and  he  was  dead  ! 


154  DUGALD  FERGUSON. 


THE  UPPER  DARLING. 

Where,  like  an  oven  in  the  sky, 
Australia's  sun  is  blazing  high, 
And  from  its  distant  inland  source 
The  Darling  winds  its  sinuous  course, 
'Mid  dreary  regions,  parched  and  dry, 
Whose  sameness  palls  the  wearied  eye  ; 
With  sandy  scrubs  and  salt-bush  plains. 
That  scant  reward  the  shepherd's  pains ; 
And  timber  belts  of  straggling  growth, 
All  stunted  with  the  summer's  drouth ; 
Where  dusty  clouds  and  teasing  flies 
Afflict  the  sight  and  bung  the  eyes  : 
While  panting  nature  faints  beneath 
The  hot  sirocco's  stifling  breath  j 
Where,  proper  to  that  region  rude, 
Appears  the  Aborigine  nude, 
With  agile  form,  and  eye  of  fear, 
Equipped  with  boomerang  and  spear; 
A  simple  race,  devoid  of  cares, 
Who  herd  in  camps,  like  beasts  in  lairs, 
Exhibiting  in  their  outlines — 
As  things  grow  coarse  at  their  confines — 
God's  image's  remotest  trace, 
The  selvedge  of  the  human  race. 


BARRON  FIELD.  155 


SONNET. 

(On  visiting  the  spot  where  Capt.  Cook  and   Sir  Joseph   Eanks    first 
landed  in  Botany  Bay.) 

Here  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 

With  lance  and  spear  his  musket.     Close  at  hand 
Is  the  clear  stream,  from  which  his  vent'rous  band 

Refreshed  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  covimdincc  Banks  first  found ; 

But  Where's  the  tree,  with  the  ship's  wood-carved  fame  ? 

Fix  then  the  Ephesian  brass — 'tis  classic  ground. 


156  ALEXANDER  FORBES. 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  NEW  YEAR'S  DAY. 

The  shepherd  was  out  in  his  hut  alone, 

On  his  pallet  hard  reclining, 
Not  a  sound  was  heard  but  the  night  wind's  moan, 
Or  the  mope-hawk  hooting  with  solemn  tone 

To  the  stars  which  were  brightly  shining. 

The  fire  had  gone  down  to  a  single  spark, 

AVhich  glowed  in  the  smouldering  ember. 
But  little  he  cared  that  the  place  was  dark, 
Eor  he  had  no  timepiece  by  which  to  mark 
The  last  fleeting  hours  of  December. 

And  his  thoughts  went  back  to  his  native  land, 
Where  the  sweet  church  bells  were  ringing ; 
Where  his  kindred  have  met  in  a  happy  band, 
And  at  twelve  o'clock,  joined  hand  in  hand. 
Dear  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  are  singing. 


Ah  !  woe  is  me  for  those  glorious  days, 
Alas  for  the  youth-time  squandered  ! 
When  I  roved  upon  Scotia's  snow-clad  braes, 
Or  when  the  lark's  sweet  song  of  praise 
O'er  the  verdant  meadows  wandered. 


ALEXANDER  FORBES.  157 

And  the  shepherd  knelt  down  by  his  lonely  bed, 

In  the  heart  of  the  Queensland  wild-wood  ; 
And  a  fervent  prayer  to  his  Maker  said, 
His  blessings  to  share  on  each  dear  one's  head, 
Whom  he  loved  in  his  happy  childhood. 

And  hope  came  down  from  his  Father's  throne ; 
No  longer  his  thoughts  had  a  mournful  tone, 

As  in  solitude  he  was  lying. 
He  was  hushed  to  sleep  by  the  night  wind's  moan, 
And  the  creaking  gum-tree's  hollow  groan, 

For  the  old  year  that  was  dying. 


1 5  8  WILLI  AM  FORSTER 


FROM  MIDAS. 

Then  are  there  Gods  indeed  ? 

Or  was  it  a  fantastic  creed 

Dreamed  of  our  doting  fathers  long  ago, — 

Which  peopled  the  blue  space 

With  an  immortal  race, 

Who  mixed  their  thoughts  with  things  below 

And  recked  of  human  weal  and  human  woe? 

Was  it  a  poet's  dream 

That  power  and  will  supreme 

Possess  the  thrones  above  ? 

That  infinite  wisdom,  strength,  and  love 

Fulfil  themselves  in  days  and  years 

And  motions  of  the  spheres  ? 

That  from  the  central  core 

To  the  uttermost  outward  rim 

Of  this  round  sea  without  a  shore, 

Which  men  with  senses  weak  and  dim 

Pretentiously  explore, 

And  through  disastrous  ages  puzzle  o'er, 

This  multiform  mysterious  shell 

And  curtain  of  material  seeming 

Which  nature,  like  a  conscious  maiden  innocently 

teeming 
With  many  a  thought  slie  loathes  yet  longs  to  tell, 
Before  her  secret  wonders  coyly  holds, 
And  save  to  those  who  love  her  well 
Or  win  her  by  transcendent  dreaming, 
Or  painful  study  of  her  laws, 


WILLIAM  FORSTER.  159 

Never  unfolds, 

Or  loosely  lifts,  or  amorously  withdraws — 

That  through  creation's  cosmic  course, 

Through  first  effect  and  final  cause, 

Through  fashioning  ^Vill  and  plastic  Force, 

Through  molecules  made  warm 

\Vith  harmony  of  growth  and  form, 

When  pulse  of  mystic  motion  first 

The  shell  of  Chaos  burst, 

Through  germs  of  birth  and  breath, 

Through  life  and  death. 

One  universal  soul 

Informs  and  fills  the  whole — 

That  still  through  water,  earth,  and  air 

God  lives  and  flows,  and  Heaven  is  everywhere  ? 

If  such  a  Heaven  there  be. 

If  earth,  and  air,  and  sea. 

If  all  around,  beneath  us,  and  above. 

Thrill  with  the  eternal  pulse  of  Love  ; 

If  universal  life. 

With  Godhead  and  with  Gods  be  rife, 

\\'hy  mock  they  man's  persistent  prayer. 

Why  groan  and  fret  we  thus  for  ever  and  in  vain, 

Why  find  our  woes  no  echo  there. 

And  our  tremendous  pain 

Awaken  but  indifference  and  disdain  ? 

The  race  of  beasts  I  reckon  blest : 

Tiieir  dream  of  life,  though  passing  brief. 

The  labour  and  alternate  rest 

Is  yet  their  own  for  joy  or  grief; 

Their  own,  and  naught  beyond,  they  know ; 

They  revel  in  the  right  possessed  ; 

They  taste  the  pleasures  undepressed 


i6o  WILLIAM  FORSTEIi. 

By  shadows  of  impending  woe  ; 

No  spirit  shocks  their  tranquil  moods  molest, 

Nor  phantom  fears  infest, 

Nor  spectral  memories  haunt  their  happy  hours 

Amid  the  ephemeral  flowers 

That  on  their  pathway  grow  ; 

No  black  foreboding  rears  its  serpent  crest ; 

Unconscious  to  their  goal  they  go. 

What  ills  they  suffer  in  their  meek  estate, 

Exhaust  the  rage  of  fate. 

The  torture  swift  or  slow. 

The  burden  and  the  blow. 

The  heat,  the  cold,  the  hunger,  and  the  thirst  — 

These  ills  are  in  their  suffering  all, 

And  suffered,  then  have  done  their  worst. 

But  whether  great  or  small. 

They  bring  no  rankling  sore, 

They  leave  no  sting  behind, 

They  cast  no  shade  before. 

Man,  man  alone,  whose  conscious  mind 

The  eternal  doubt  devours, 

With  all  his  boasted  knowledge  blind, 

The  creature  of  contrarious  powers, 

Ever  from  his  birth  oppressed 

By  the  accumulating  hours. 

With  the  inherited  unrest, 

Like  a  baleful  shadow  cast 

From  the  dimness  of  the  past. 

Which  above  the  future  towers, 

Breathing  on  the  life  to  come 

Presages  of  poison-bloom. 

And  for  ages  yet  unfurled 

Fatally  foredooms  the  world, 


/  /  'IL  LI  AM  l  ORSTER.  1 6 1 

And  through  each  succeeding  morrow 

Piles  up  sorrow  upon  sorrow. 

We  dig,  we  delve,  we  crush,  we  tear, 

We  ransack  ocean,  earth,  and  air — 

All  forms  of  ill,  all  shapes  of  suffering  brave, 

To  build  fresh  heaps  for  those  who  have 

Already  in  excess,  yet  dare 

Still  more  to  covet,  more  to  crave, 

Wherewith  to  swell  the  unearned  superfluous  share, 

Mho  have  not  borne  what  we  must  bear, 

Nor  owned  their  wealth  by  toil,  and  misery,  and  despair. 

For  them,  not  for  ourselves,  we  toil. 

Like  forked  fires  that  desolate  the  plain, 

Their  tyrant  tongues  lick  up  the  spoil 

We  gather  with  our  sweat  and  labour's  bloody  pain. 

For  them  we  strive,  for  them  we  pine. 

For  them  from  forest,  field,  and  mine, 

We  wring  the  golden  grain. 

I'or  them,  with  life  and  strength  accursed, 

Through  heat  and  cold,  through  drought  and  rain. 

Through  hunger  and  through  thirst, 

^Ve  perish  piecemeal  to  sustain 

Their  lives  which  out  of  ours  like  parasites  are  nursed. 

To  give  them  strength  we  drain 

And  empty  heart  and  brain  ; 

We  bleed  to  give  them  blood 

From  every  quivering  vein  ; 

Our  very  flesh,  unnatural  food, 

A  horrid  hunger  draws 

To  their  insatiate  jaws. 

And  this,  even  this,  we  seem  to  give. 

Whereby  the  old  saying  is  made  good, 

12 


1 62  WILLIAM  FORSTER. 

However  little  understood, 
The  many  perish  that  the  few  may  thrive, 
And  thus  from  age  to  age  the  labourer's  lot, 
While  all  around  him  changes,  changes  not ; 
And  griefs  that  were  the  burden  of  old  chimes, 
The  pangs  our  fathers  felt,  the  wrongs  they  bore, 

Like  an  eternal  sore, 
Eat  fostering  to  the  heart  of  our  familiar  times. 


FRANCES  GILL.  163 


THE  WIND  IN  THE  SHE-OAK  TREE. 

O,  WOULD  that  I  could  translate 
Each  untranslateable  tone 
Of  the  wind  in  the  she-oak's  leaves, 

As  it  maketh  its  plaintive  moan. 

Nor  only  moan  doth  it  make  ; 
It  knoweth  the  subtlest  speech 
To  waft  the  attuned  soul  afar 

'Yond  mortal  things  and  their  reach. 

And,  oh  mournful  and  dark-hued  tree, 
With  thy  myriad  pendant  leaves, 
That  like  slender  reeds  make  the  strings 

For  those  airs  that  the  wind-soul  weaves. 

Thou  fittest  of  instruments  art 
For  the  pathos  that  lies  in  the  strain  ! 
For  knowest  thou  not  all  that  mystery  dark 

Whose  haunts  are  the  bush  and  the  plain  ? 

And  the  wind  stealing  over  the  grass, 
\Vith  a  sound  like  soft  rustling  of  sheaves, 
Brought  ye  not  sighs,  from  the  dying  lips 

Of  some  traveller  lost,  to  these  leaves, 


i64  FRANCES  GILL. 

For  see,  as  your  fingers  touch, 
The'  e'er  so  lightly  the  strings, 
There  ariseth  the  look  of  the  burning  day, 

And  the  sound  of  the  whirr  of  wings. 


The  steep  range  stands  in  the  blaze 
Of  the  noon  ;  and  the  dry  creek-bed 
Is  panting  and  white  'neath  the  pitiless  sky 

The  birds  are  awatch  for  the  dead. 


And  this  dying  note  is  the  hush 
Of  the  night's  swift  fall — of  the  awe 
Of  the  man's  spent  soul  as  he  sinks  to  the  gra;  s, 

Whence  he  knows  he  shall  rise  no  more. 


And  this  other  sound  like  a  sob, 
Fell  perchance  on  the  ear  of  the  night, 
While  the  speechless  stars  looked  down 

On  the  solemn  and  woful  sight. 


Wild  longings  and  memories  fond. 
And  anon  most  passionate  pain, 
The  calm  of  despair  and  the  sense  of  the  dark, 

All  mingle  and  speak  in  the  strain. 


For  the  loving,  a  world  away, 
Who  watch  for  the  wanderer's  face. 
Thro'  the  mystic  thrill  of  the  spirit  bond 

Are  troubled  in  soul  in  their  place. 


FRANCES  GILL.  165 

For  nature  cloth  speak  thro'  the  air, 
Thro'  the  flowers,  the  fields,  and  the  sea, 
And  her  wind  is  composer  and  player  both 

In  the  leaves  of  the  she-oak  tree. 


1 66  FRANCES  GILL. 


BENEATH  THE  WATTLE  BOUGHS. 

The  wattles  were  sweet  with  September's  rain, 

He  drank  in  their  breath  and  the  breath  of  the  spring, 

"Our  pulses  are  strong  with  the  tide  of  life," 

I  said,  "  and  one  year  is  so  swift  a  thing  !  " 

The  land  all  around  was  yellow  with  bloom  ; 
The  birds  in  the  branches  sang  joyous  and  shrill  ; 
The  blue  range  rose  'gainst  the  blue  of  the  sky ; 
Yet  she  sighed,  "  But  death  may  be  stronger  still !  " 

Then  I  reached  and  gathered  a  blossomy  bough. 
And  divided  its  clustering  sprays  in  twain, 
"  As  a  token  for  each  "  (I  closed  one  in  her  hand) 
"  Till  we  come  to  the  end  of  the  year  again  !  " 

Then  the  years  sped  on,  strung  high  with  life ; 

And  laughter  and  gold  were  the  gifts  they  gave, 

Till  I  chanced  one  day  on  some  pale  dead  flowers. 

And  spake,  shaking  and  white,  "  One  more  gift  I  crave. 

''Nay,"  a  shadow  voice  in  the  air  replied, 

'"Neath  the  blossoming  wattles  you'll  find  a  grave  !  " 


JUZANCES  GILL.  167 


LOVE'S  LOYALTY. 


DAY. 


With  the  magpie  for  the  nightingale, 

The  wattle  for  the  beech, 
And  for  the  woodland  warbler's  notes 

The  wild  bush-parrot's  screech — 

With  unknown  range  and  gorge  to  scan, 

Unbounded  land  to  roam, 
And  for  the  changeful  English  seas, 

The  long  Australian  foam  ! 

For  afternoons  of  dreaming  fond, 

In  old  leaf-hidden  lanes. 
Is  the  long  sure  stride  of  my  swift-limbed  horse 

Across  the  short-grassed  plains. 

I  drink  the  golden  morning  air, 

And,  as  the  returned  tide 
Of  full  life  bounds  along  my  veins, 

I  crave  for  naught  beside  ! 

I  hear  the  loud  creek  plunging  down. 
The  slope  just  freshed  with  llood — 

Its  wild  song  keeps  triumphant  time 
With  the  rapture  of  my  blood. 


1 68  FRANCES  GILL. 

"  This  sense  of  new  untrammelled  life, 
This  sense,"  I  cry,  "  of  space, 

Hath  cured  me  of  the  fever  wrought 
By  one  enchanting  face  !  " 


NIGHT. 

Now  evening  falls  upon  the  land, 
The  magpie's  parting  strain 

Dies  out  along  the  ti-tree  marge  ; 
My  tired  horse  crops  the  plain. 

Half  dreamily  the  faint  blue  line, 
That  marks  the  farthest  range, 

Takes  in  the  hill's  familiar  form 
That  rose  behind  the  grange. 

The  English  scents  steal  in  the  air  : 

A  rush  of  liquid  notes 
Fills  all  the  leafy  copse — poured  forth 

Unnumbered  feathered  throats. 

Those  lovely  hazel  eyes  again  ! 

With  their  old  haunting  look- 
That  lithe  light  form— one  dainty  foot, 

Drawn  backward  from  the  brook  ! 

The  raging  pain  swirls  thro'  my  soul ; 

In  fierce  resolve  and  dire, 
I  shake  me  from  the  glamour  free 

Beside  the  red  camp  fire. 


FRANCES  GILL.  iGc, 

'My  comrade's  laughter  fills  the  hours, 

Night  claims  her  toll  of  sleep, 
The  large  soft  southern  stars  gaze  on, 

The  hush  is  close  and  deep. 


From  dreams  I  wake  to  find  my  soul 

A  captive  to  the  past. 
Tho'  all  the  seas  are  wide  between, 

My  freedom  could  not  last ! 


Oh  love  !  Love-loyal  I  remain  ! 

For  tho'  some  spirit  bar 
Constrained  thy  soul,  thy  face  for  aye 

Lives  on — my  guiding  star  ! 


I70  KEIGHLEY  GOODCHILD. 


WHILE  THE  BILLY  BOILS. 

While  the  ruby  coals  in  the  dull  grey  dust 

Shine  bright  as  the  daylight  dies  ; 
When  into  our  mouths  our  pipes  are  thrust, 

And  we  watch  the  moon  arise  ; 
While  the  leaves,  that  crackle  and  hiss  and  sigh, 

Feed  the  flames  with  their  scented  oils, 
In  a  calm  content  by  the  fire  we  lie. 

And  watch  while  the  billy  boils. 

A  desire  for  rest,  a  wash  in  the  creek. 

And  a  seasoned  bit  of  clay, 
With  a  chum  who  knoweth  the  lime  to  speak, 

And  who  singeth  a  jovial  lay. 
Though  our  pants  are  moles  and  apparently  made 

With  the  aid  of  a  tomahawk, 
Though  we  are  not  in  fashion's  garb  arrayed, 

We  can  revel  in  tea  and  talk. 

Old  Toucher,  look  up  at  those  gum  trees  old  — 

They're  not  lovely,  but  will  be  soon ; 
They  are  ugly  enough  in  the  sunlight  bold, 

But  look  well  by  the  silver  moon. 
The  light  in  which  life  is  viewed  on  earth 

Makes  it  better  or  greatly  worse  ; 
And  hardship  is  often  but  food  for  mirth. 

And  trial  a  boon  or  curse. 


KEIGHL EY  GOOD CHIL D  171 

Just  now  the  sun  in  its  glory  sank 

At  the  back  of  the  slow  creek's  fringe, 
On  a  sapphire,  ruby,  and  crimson  bank — 

Even  now  there  is  left  a  tinge — 
Just  a  tinge  to  soften  the  sombre  hue, 

'Till  the  banners  of  night  unfurl, 
'Till  the  flowers  shall  be  drenched  with  silver  dew. 

And  the  moon  mount  the  path  of  pearl. 

They  can't  bottle  the  sunset  up,  old  boy, 

And  cart  it  away  to  town — • 
Yes,  even  their  gold  has  some  alloy — 

It  won't  buy  the  desert's  crown. 
Though  the  rich  lie  soft,  yet  we  sleep  well 

On  our  bed  of  the  fragrant  leaves  ; 
And  we're  better  than  those  who  in  mansions  dwell. 

In  this — that  we  fear  no  thieves. 


We  have  no  turtle  in  grand  tureens, 

But,  with  hunger  to  serve  as  sauce. 
We  can  relish  the  bacon  and  wholesome  beans, 

The  damper  and  salted  horse. 
One  thing  we  have  which  is  always  good — 

^^'hich  poverty  can't  destroy — 
Though  our  meals  be  made  of  the  coarsest  food, 

Through  hunger  we  still  enjoy. 

Some  look  on  our  lives  as  wasted,  true, 
And  our  views  are  the  same  as  theirs — 

At  present  we've  scarcely  enough  to  do, 
They  are  worried  with  business  cares, 


172  KEIGHLEY  GOODCHILD. 

We  have  elegant  leisure  and  time  for  thought — 
Had  we  something  to  think  about — 

They  have  lots  of  wealth,  and  business  fraught 
With  a  constant  care  and  doubt. 


Not  all  the  good  things  are  reserved  for  one 

In  this  wonderful  world  of  ours — 
We  each  have  our  share  of  the  shade  and  sun, 

We  must  each  take  the  thorns  with  the  flowers ; 
To  make  the  best  of  the  hardest  fate, 

Is  a  maxim  that  cannot  be  wrong  ; 
So,  Fred,  as  for  tea  we  have  got  to  wait — 

Suppose  you  attempt  a  song. 


H.  NE  WTON  GOODRICH. 


ANGEL-BECKONED. 

A    MONOLOGUE. 
(WriUen  in  the  Filzroy  Gardens,  Melbourne.) 

No  past — it  hath  no  past,  this  place — 
Nothing  to  chronicle  a  race 

Which  here  hath  loved  and  died; — 
No  memories  ;  no  romance  to  stir 
Its  solitudes  ;  no  voice  to  spur 

Ambition's  brooding  pride. 


Naught  but  the  present — -yet  it  looks 
Like  a  thought  stol'n  from  story-books, 

And  charms  like  some  old  ditty  ; 
And  sometimes,  as  in  peace  it  lay, 
At  sunrise  (here,  with  new-mown  hay — 
There,  stretching  through  soft  shades,  aw>i)) 

A  leaf-formed  fairy  city. 


I've  watched  it  from  its  smiling  dream 
Awaking,  in  the  golden  gleam. 

To  breezes  sweet,  that  shook 
Its  feathered  choir  to  early  praise, 
And  could  have  lingered  all  my  days 

Upon  its  charms  to  look. 


174  H.  NEWTON  GOODRICH. 

I've  seen  how,  here,  the  noon  hath  sent 
The  sick  and  weary-hearted — bent 

On  shade  and  soHtude — - 
To  smile  and  dream — in  some  green  nook, 
Half-hidden,  p'rhaps — o'er  Nature's  book 

Of  universal  good. 


The  gay  come  here  to  greet  the  flowers — ■ 
The  grave  to  lengthen  out  the  hours 

x'Vmbition  makes  too  fleet. 
The  aged  the  little  ones  to  bring, 
And  feel  the  greensward  once  more  spring, 

Like  youth,  beneath  their  feet. 

The  Sabbath  groups  with  pleasure  throng — 
Glad  music  of  the  matin-song 

Remembering — to  its  bowers— 
At  e'entide  leave  its  balmy  air, 
And  carry  to  the  House  of  Prayer 

The  scent  of  summer  flowers. 

But  most  of  all  its  peace  I  feel 
When  sounds  upon  the  air  reveal 

The  city's  sultry  strife. 
Reminding  me  how  wide's  the  v.-ave 
That  sweep  ambitions  t'ward  the  grave 

Along  the  sea  of  life. 

Hark  !  from  the  temple,  on  the  hill 
Rich  strains,  that  through  the  memory  thiill. 
Are  stealing  down  the  slope. 


H.  NEWTON  GOODRICH.  175 

Filling  the  sun-striped  glades  with  sounds 
At  which  the  fainting  spirit  bounds 
To  life  again,  and  hope  ! 


And  that  meek  maid — who'll  lay  her  head 
Beneath  the  turf  she  now  doth  tread, 

Ere  the  next  snowdrops  peep — • 
Pauses  to  listen — with  her  soul 
More  softened  to  the  beautiful 

As  nearer  to — Her  Sleep  : — 

Then,  as  the  music  ceases,  seeks 

A  seat  where,  through  the  sunny  weeks. 

She  daily  hath  reclined, 
And  sits  her  down  with  tottering  care, 
And  turns  her  hectic  cheek  so  fair. 

Unto  the  cooling  wind. 

Hid  by  yon  branch  which  spans  the  path 
Comes  one,  grown  old,  who  also  hath 

A  feeble  step  and  slow  ; — 
Unto  this  avenue  he  wound 
From  where  the  wattle-glooms  abound 

A  little  way  below. 

And,  now  we  see  him,  halting  half 
His  time,  as  often,  with  his  staff, 

He  turns  aside  the  grass 
Where  peeps  the  flowers  he  scarce  can  bend 
To  jiluck  to  carry  to  his  friend — 

A  daughter's  little  lass. 


T76  IL  NEWTON  GOODRICH. 

Grey  is  his  head  and  fresh  his  face, 
And  glad  his  eye  and  soft  the  grace 

Which  goodness  gives  his  age, — ■ 
A  cheerful  man,  who  reads  aright, 
hX  length,  by  some  imparted  light, 

On  life's  bewildering  page. 

Look  !  through  the  underwood  he  breaks, 
His  seat  beside  the  maiden  takes, 

And,  with  a  freedom  sage, 
By  some  kind  commonplace  dispels 
The  silence  that  in  strangeness  dwells, 

Her  gossip  to  engage. 


A  DAM  LINDSA  Y  GORDON.  1 7  7 


THE  SICK  STOCK-RIDER. 

Hold  hard,  Ned  !     Lift  me  down  once  more,  and  lay  me  in 
the  shade. 
Old  man,  you've  had  your  work  cut  out  to  guide 
Both  horses,  and  to  hold  me  in  the  saddle  when  I  swayed. 

All  through  the  hot,  slow,  sleepy,  silent  ride. 
The   dawn   at   "  Moorabinda "  was  a  mist  rack   dull  and 
dense. 
The  sun-rise  was  a  sullen,  sluggish  lamp ; 
I  was  dozing  in  the  gateway  at  Arbuthnot's  bound'ry  fence, 

I  was  dreaming  on  the  Limestone  cattle  camp. 
We  crossed  the  creek  at  Carricksford,  and  sharply  through 
the  haze. 
And  suddenly  the  sun  shot  flaming  forth; 
To  southward  lay  "  Katawa,"  with  the  sand  peaks  all  ablaze, 

And  the  flushed  fields  of  Glen  Lomond  lay  to  north. 
Now  westward  winds  the  bridle-path  that  leads  to  Lindis- 
farm, 
And  yonder  looms  the  double-headed  Bluff ; 
From  the  far  side  of  the  first  hill,  when  the  skies  are  clear 
and  calm, 
You  can  see  Sylvester's  woolshed  fair  enough. 
Five  miles  we  used  to  call  it  from  our  homestead  to  the 
place 
Where  the  big  tree  spans  the  roadway  like  an  arch ; 
'Twas  here  we  ran  the  dingo  down  that  gave  us  such  a  chase 
Eight  years  ago — or  was  it  nine  ? — last  March. 
13 


178  ADAM  LINDSAY  GORDON. 

'Twas  merry  in  the  glowing  morn  among  the  gleaming  grass, 

To  wander  as  we've  wandered  many  a  mile, 
And  blow  the  cool  tobacco    cloud,  and  watch  the  white 
wreaths  pass, 

Sitting  loosely  in  the  saddle  all  the  while. 
'Twas  merry  'mid  the  blackwoods,  when  w^e  spied  the  station 
roofs 

To  wheel  the  wild  scrub  cattle  at  the  yard, 
With  a  running  fire  of  stock  whips  and  a  fiery  run  of  hoofs  ; 

Oh  !  the  hardest  day  was  never  then  too  hard  ! 


Aye!  we  had  a  glorious  gallop  after  "Starlight"  and  his 
gang. 
When  they  bolted  from  Sylvester's  on  the  flat ; 
How  the  sun-dried  reed-beds  crackled,  how  the  flint-strewn 
ranges  rang, 
To  the  strokes  of  "  Mountaineer  "  and  "  Acrobat," 
Hard  behind  them  in  the  timber,  harder  still  across  the 
heath. 
Close  beside  them  through  the  tea-tree  scrub  we  dash'd ; 
And  the  golden-tinted  fern  leaves,  how  they  rustled  under- 
neath : 
And  the  honeysuckle  osiers,  how  they  crash'd. 
We  led  the  hunt  throughout,  Ned,  on  the  chestnut  and  the 
grey, 
And  the  troopers  were  three  hundred  yards  behind, 
While  we  emptied  our  six-shooters  on  the  bush-rangers  at 
bay. 
In  the  creek  with  stunted  box-trees  for  a  blind  ! 
There  you  grappled  with  the  leader,  man  to  man,  and  horse 
to  horse, 
And  you  roll'd  together  when  the  chestnut  rear'd. 


ADAM  LINDSA  V  GORDO JV.  179 

He  blazed  away  and  missed  you    in   that  shallow  water- 
course— 
A  narrow  shave — his  powder  singed  your  beard  ! 


In  these  hours  when  life  is  ebbing,  how  those  days  when  life 
was  young 
Come  back  to  us ;  how  clearly  I  recall 
Even   the  yarns  Jack  Hall  invented,  and   the  songs  Jem 
Roper  sung  ; 
And  where  are  now  Jem  Roper  and  Jack  Hall  ? 

Aye !  nearly  all  our  comrades  of  the  old  colonial  school, 
Our  ancient  boon  companions,  Ned,  are  gone ; 

Hard  livers  for  the  most  part,  somewhat  reckless  as  a  rule, 
It  seems  that  you  and  I  are  left  alone. 

There  was  Hughes,  who  got  in  trouble  through  that  business 
with  the  cards, 

It  matters  little  what  became  of  him  ; 
But  a  steer  ripp'd  up  Macpherson  in  the  Cooraminta  j'ards, 

And  Sullivan  was  drown'd  at  Sink-or-swim  ; 
And  Mostyn — poor  Frank  Mostyn — died  at  last,  a  fearful 
wreck. 

In  the  "  horrors  ''  at  the  Upper  Wandinong, 
And  Carisbrooke,  the  rider,  at  the  Horsefall  broke  his  neck. 

Faith  !  the  wonder  was  he  saved  his  neck  so  long  ! 
Ah  !     those  days  and  nights  we  squandered  at  the  Logans' 
in  the  glen — 

The  Logans,  man  and  wife,  have  long  been  dead. 
Elsie's  tallest  girl  seems  taller  than  your  little  Elsie  then  ; 

And  Ethel  is  a  wonnan  grown  and  wed. 


i8o  ADAM  LINDSA  V  GORDON. 

I've  had  my  share  of  pastime,  and  I've  done  my  share  of 
toil, 

And  hfe  is  short — the  longest  life  a  span  ; 
I  care  not  now  to  tarry  for  the  corn  or  for  the  oil, 

Or  for  wine  that  maketh  glad  the  heart  of  man. 
For  good  undone,  and  gifts  misspent,  and  resolutions  vain, 

'Tis  somewhat  late  to  trouble.     This  I  know — 
I  should  live  the  same  life  over,  if  I  had  to  live  again ; 

And  the  chances  are  I  go  where  most  men  go. 

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


ADAM  LINDSA  Y  GORDOJS. 


AN  EXILE'S  FAREWELL. 

I. 

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 
Behind  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. 


III. 

How  brightly  gleams  the  orb  of  day 

Across  the  trackless  sea  ! 
How  lightly  dance  the  waves  that  play 

Like  dolphins  in  our  lee. 


1 82  ADAM  LINDSAY  GORDON, 

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  ? 
Oh  !  can  the  leagues  that  I  have  ranged, 

Have  made  no  difference  there  ? 


V. 

How  vivid  Recollection's  hand 

Recalls  the  scene  once  more  ! 
I  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  ? 


VI. 

Let  woman's  nature  cherish  grief, 

I  rarely  heave  a  sigh. 
Before  emotion  takes  relief 

In  listless  apathy. 


ADAM  LINDSAY  GORDON.  183 

While  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. 


1 84  HENRY  HALL OKAN. 


ODE. 

(Ill  commemoration  of  the  anniversary  of  the  birthday  of  Her  Most 
Gracious  Majesty  Queen  Victoria,  May  24,  1887.) 

I. 

Now,  once  again  the  month  returns, 

And  once  again  the  day  ; 
And  through  our  golden  autumn  burns 

The  glorious  sun  of  !May  ; 
And  to  our  hearts  again  returns 

A  blessing  on  the  day. 


Let  all  who  feel  no  shame  in  faith, 

No  scorn  for  loyal  truth, 
Stand  firm,  whoever  else  betrayeth 
The  lessons  of  his  youth  ; 
And  bless  her  name, 
And  shield  her  fame  : 
Unswerving  in  their  truth. 


III. 

Victoria  !  sovereign  of  the  seas  ! 

Queen  of  the  many  isles  ; 
Whose  glory  fills  the  vagrant  breeze 

Wherever  ocean  smiles. 


HENR  V  HALLO  RAN.  1 85 

Wherever  ocean  bears  afar 

Thy  ships  of  commerce  and  of  war, 

Men  who  are  men  thy  name  repeat 

With  old  regards  and  reverence  sweet. 

IV. 

Keep,  Britons,  in  the  sun's  bold  light, 

That  none  may  challenge,  or  obstruct  thy  path. 

That  two-edged  sword,  the  Fleet,  its  name  and  might, 
Its  power  of  succour,  and  its  power  of  wrath  ! 

Thine  ocean's  roadways  safe  from  shore  to  shore — 
From  Dover's  cliffs  to  distant  Albany ; 
From  sweet  Pacific  Isles  that  slumbering  lie, 

To  where  the  vast  Atlantic's  billows  roar ; 
Keep  whatsoe'er  it  cost  without  a  stain. 
That  broke  the  banded  might  of  France  and  Spain  ; 

Thy  bulwarks  and  thy  legions,  sword  and  shield. 

Live  in  tliy  monarchs  of  the  ocean  field  ! 

V. 

Voices  speak  out  even  from  the  buried  past ; 

They  tell  of  States'  decay, 

Of  Nations  passed  away — 
Even  Rome  herself,  tho'  great,  succumbed  at  last. 
However  proud  t-hey  be,  however  vast ; — 

We  but  an  acorn  seem 

Planted  beside  a  stream. 
The  stream  of  Time  which  swiftly  hurries  by ; 
But  soon  its  rising  form  and  spreading  boughs, — 
And  leaves  innumerous  as  when  spring  endows 
With  vernal  wealth  the  forests  quick  with  praise, 
Filling  the  world's  broad  gaze, 


1 86  HENRY  HALLO  RAN. 

Shall  gather  o'er  our  heads  beneath  our  sky  ; — 

We  see,  as  in  a  dream, 

The  cities  raised  on  high ; 

The  gathering  millions  where  we  stragglers  are ; 

Fate  in  their  word  ; 

Their  navies  floating  on  our  waters  wide ; 

The  potence  of  control  hanging  on  their  ?word 

Beneath  the  Austral  star. 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  187 


THE  CLOUD. 

One  summer  morn,  out  of  the  sea-waves  wild, 
A  speck-like  Cloud,  the  season's  fated  child, 
Came  slowly  floating  up  the  boundless  sky, 
And  o'er  the  sun-parched  hills  all  brown  and  dry. 

Onward  she  glided  through  the  azure  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  oh  ! "  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  dov>'ny  nest. 

The  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. 


38  CHARLES  HARPUR. 

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 — • 
"  We  famish  for  thy  bounty  !     For  our  sake 
O  break  thou  !  in  a  showery  blessing,  break  !  " 

"  I  feel,  and  fain  would  help  you,"  said  the  cloud. 

And  towards  the  earth  her  bounteous  being  bowed ; 

But  then  remem'bring  a  tradition  she 

Had  in  her  youth  learned  from  her  native  sea, 

That  when  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 ;  then  suddenly,  with  a  keen  thrill 

Of  light,  she  said  within  herself,  "  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. 

Oh,  never  erewhile  had  she  dreamed  her  state 

So  great  might  be,  beneficently  great ! 

O'er  the  parched  fields  in  her  angelic  love 

She  spread  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  woods  bowed,  though  well  all  creatures  knew 

That  near  in  her,  to  every  kind  the  same, 

A  great  predestined  benefactress  came. 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  189 

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  agonizing  sweat, 

Flashed  seething  out  of  rents  amid  her  heaps 

Of  lowering  gloom,  and  thence  with  arrowy  leaps 

Hissed  jagging  downward,  till  a  sheety  glare 

Illumined  all  the  illimitable  air; 

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. 


190         CHARLES  HARPUR. 


THE  CREEK  OF  THE  FOUR  GRAVES. 

A  SETTLER  in  the  olden  times  went  forth 

With  four  of  his  most  bold  and  trusted  men 

Into  the  wilderness — went  forth  to  seek 

New  streams  and  wider  pastures  for  his  fast 

Increasing  flocks  and  herds.     O'er  mountain  routes, 

And  over  wild  wolds  clouded  up  with  brush, 

And  cut  with  marshes  perilously  deep, — 

So  went  they  forth  at  dawn ;  at  eve  the  sun, 

That  rose  behind  them  as  they  journeyed  out. 

Was  firing  with  his  nether  rim  a  range 

Of  unknown  mountains,  that  like  ramparts  towered 

Full  in  their  front ;  and  his  last  glances  fell 

Into  the  gloomy  forest's  eastern  glades 

In  golden  gleams,  like  to  the  angel's  sword, 

And  flashed  upon  the  windings  of  a  creek 

That  noiseless  ran  betwixt  the  pioneers 

And  those  new  Apennines — ran,  shaded  o'er 

With  boughs  of  the  wild  willow,  hanging  mixed 

From  either  bank,  or  duskily  befringed 

With  upward  tapering  feathery  swamp-oaks, 

The  sylvan  eyelash  always  of  remote 

Australian  waters,  whether  gleaming  still 

In  lake  or  pool,  or  bickering  along 

Between  the  marges  of  some  eager  stream. 

Before  them,  thus  extended,  wilder  grew 
The  scene  each  moment  and  more  beautiful ; 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  191 

For  when  the  sun  was  all  but  sunk  below 

Those  barrier  mountains,  in  the  breeze  that  o'er 

Their  rough  enormous  backs  deep-fleeced  with  wood 

Came  whispering  down,  the  wide  up-slanting  sea 

Of  fanning  leaves  in  the  descending  rays 

Danced  dazzlingly,  tingling  as  if  the  trees 

Thrilled  to  the  roots  for  very  happiness. 

But  when  the  sun  had  wholly  disappeared 

Behind  those  mountains — O,  what  words,  what  hues. 

Might  paint  the  wild  magnificence  of  view 

That  opened  westward  !     Out  extending,  lo  ! 

The  heights  rose  crowding,  with  their  summits  all 

Dissolving  as  it  seemed,  and  partly  lost 

In  the  exceeding  radiancy  aloft ; 

And  thus  transfigured,  for  awhile  they  stood 

I  >ike  a  great  company  of  archaeons,  crowned 

With  burning  diadems,  and  tented  o'er 

With  canopies  of  purple  and  of  gold.  -^ 


Here  halting  wearied  now  the  sun  was  set, 

Our  travellers  kindled  for  their  first  night's  camp 

A  brisk  and  crackling  fire,  which  seemed  to  them 

A  wilder  creature  than  'twas  elsewhere  wont, 

Because  of  the  surrounding  savageness. 

And  as  they  supped,  birds  of  new  shape  and  plume 

And  wild  strange  voice  came  by  ;  and  up  the  steep 

Between  the  climbing  forest  growths  they  saw, 

Perched  on  the  bare  abutments  of  the  hills, 

Where  haply  yet  some  lingering  gleam  fell  through, 

The  wallaroo  look  forth.     Eastward  at  last 

The  glow  was  wasted  into  formless  gloom. 

Night's  front ;  then  westward  the  high  massing  woods 


192  CHARLES  HARPUR. 

Steeped  in  a  swart  but  mellow  Indian  hue, 
A  deep  dusk  loveliness,  lay  ridged  and  heaped. 
Only  the  more  distinctly  for  their  shade. 
Against  the  twilight  heaven — a  cloudless  depth, 
Yet  luminous  with  sunset's  fading  glow ; 
And  thus  awhile  in  the  lit  dusk  they  seemed 
To  hang  like  mighty  pictures  of  themselves 
In  the  still  chambers  of  some  vaster  world. 
At  last,  the  business  of  the  supper  done, 
The  echoes  of  the  solitary  place 
Came  as  in  sylvan  wonder  wide  about 
To  hear  and  imitate  the  voices  strange. 
Within  the  pleasant  purlieus  of  the  fire 
Lifted  in  glee,  but  to  be  hushed  ere  long, 
As  with  the  darkness  of  the  night  there  came 
O'er  the  adventurers,  each  and  all,  some  sense 
Of  danger  lurking  in  its  forest  lairs. 


But,  nerved  by  habit,  they  all  gathered  round 

About  the  well-built  fire,  whose  nimble  tongues 

Sent  up  continually  a  strenuous  roar 

Of  fierce  delight,  and  from  their  fuming  pipes 

Drawing  rude  comfort,  round  the  pleasant  light 

With  grave  discourse  they  planned  the  next  day's  deeds. 

Wearied  at  length,  their  couches  they  prepared 

Of  rushes,  and  the  long  green  tresses  pulled 

From  the  bent  boughs  of  the  wild  willows  near ; 

Then  the  four  men  stretched  out  their  tired  limbs 

Under  the  dark  arms  of  the  forest  trees 

That  mixed  aloft,  high  in  the  starry  air, 

In  arcs  and  leafy  domes  whose  crossing  curves, 

Blended  with  denser  intergrowth  of  sprays. 


CHARLES  IIARPUR.  193 

Were  seen  in  mass  traced  out  against  the  clear 

Wide  gaze  of  heaven  ;  and  trustful  of  the  watch 

Kept  near  them  by  their  master,  soon  they  slept, 

Forgetful  of  the  perilous  wilderness 

That  lay  around  them  like  a  spectral  world  ; 

And  all  things  slept ;  the  circling  forest  tree.^, 

Their  foremost  boles  carved  from  a  crowded  mass, 

Less  visible  by  the  watch-fire's  bladed  gleams 

That  ran  far  out  in  the  umbrageous  dark 

Beyond  the  broad  red  ring  of  constant  light ; 

And  even  the  shaded  mountains  darkly  seen, 

Their  bluff  brows  looming  through  the  stirless  air, 

Looked  in  their  stillness  solemnly  asleep  ; 

Yea,  thence  surveyed — the  universe  might  have  seemed 

Coiled  in  vast  rest ;  only  that  one  dark  cloud, 

Diffused  and  shapen  like  a  spider  huge, 

Crept  as  with  crawling  legs  along  the  sky. 

And  that  the  stars  in  their  bright  orders,  slill 

Cluster  by  cluster  glowingly  revealed, 

As  this  slow  cloud  moved  on,  high  over  all. 

Peaceful  and  wakeful,  watched  the  world  below. 


Part  II. 

Meanwhile  the  cloudless  eastern  heaven  had  grown 
More  luminous,  and  now  the  moon  arose 
Above  the  hill,  when  lo  !  that  giant  cone 
Erewhile  so  dark,  seemed  inwardly  aglow 
With  her  instilled  irradiance,  while  the  trees 
That  fringed  its  outline,  their  huge  statures  dwarfed 
By  distance  into  brambles,  and  yet  all 
Clearly  defined  against  her  ample  orb, 
Out  of  its  very  disc  appeared  to  swell 
14 


194  CHARLES  HA R PUR. 

In  shadowy  relief,  as  they  had  been 
All  sculptured  from  its  surface  as  she  rose. 
Then  her  full  light  in  silvery  sequence  still 
Cascading  forth  from  ridgy  slope  to  slope, 
Chased  mass  by  mass  the  broken  darkness  down 
Into  the  dense-brushed  valleys,  where  it  crouched, 
And  shrank,  and  struggled,  like  a  dragon-doubt 
Glooming  a  lonely  spirit. 


His  lone  watch 
The  master  kept,  and  wakeful  looked  abroad 
On  all  the  solemn  beauty  of  the  world  ; 
And  by  some  sweet  and  subtle  tie  that  joins 
The  loved  and  cherished,  absent  from  our  side, 
With  all  that  is  serene  and  beautiful 
In  nature,  thoughts  of  home  began  to  steal 
Into  his  musings — v.'hen,  on  a  sudden,  hark  ! 
A  bough  cracks  loudly  in  a  neighbouring  brake  ! 
Against  the  shade-side  of  a  bending  gum. 
With  a  strange  horror  gathering  to  his  heart. 
As  if  his  blood  were  charged  with  insect  life 
And  writhed  along  in  clots,  he  stilled  himself 
And  listened  heedfully,  till  his  held  breath 
Became  a  pang.     Nought  heard  he  :  silence  there 
Had  recomposed  her  ruffled  wings,  and  now 
Deep  brooded  in  the  darkness  ;  so  that  he 
Again  mused  on,  quiet  and  reassured. 
But  there  again — crack  upon  crack  !     Aw'ake  ! 
O  heaven  !  have  hell's  worst  fiends  burst  howling  up 
Into  the  death-doomed  world  ?     Or  whence,  if  not 
From  diabolic  rage  could  surge  a  yell 
So  horrible  as  that  which  now  affiights 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  195 

The  shuddering  dark  !     Beings  as  fell  are  near ! 
Yea,  beings  in  their  dread  inherited  hate 
Awful,  vengeful  as  hell's  worst  fiends,  are  come 
In  vengeance  !     For  behold  from  the  long  grass 
And  nearer  brakes  arise  the  bounding  forms 
Of  painted  savages,  full  in  the  light 
Thrown  outward  by  the  fire,  that  roused  and  lapped 
The  rounding  darkness  with  its  ruddy  tongues 
More  fiercely  than  before,  as  though  even  it 
Had  felt  the  sudden  shock  the  air  received 
From  those  terrific  cries. 


On  then  they  came 
And  rushed  upon  the  sleepers,  three  of  whom 
But  started,  and  then  weltered  prone  beneath 
The  first  fell  blow  dealt  down  on  each  by  three 
Of  the  most  stalwart  of  their  pitiless  foes  ; 
But  one  again,  and  yet  again,  rose  up. 
Rose  to  his  knees,  under  the  crushing  strokes 
Of  huge  clubbed  nulla-nullas,  till  his  own 
AVarm  blood  was  blinding  him.     For  he  was  one 
Who  had  with  misery  nearly  all  his  days 
Lived  lonely,  and  who  therefore  in  his  soul 
Did  hunger  after  hope,  and  thirst  for  what 
Hope  still  had  promised  him,  some  taste  at  least 
Of  human  good  however  long  deferred  ; 
And  now  he  could  not,  even  in  dying,  loose 
His  hold  on  life's  poor  chances  still  to  come, 
Could  not  but  so  dispute  the  terrible  fact 
Of  death,  e'en  in  death's  presence.     Strange  it  is. 
Yet  oft  'tis  seen,  that  fortune's  pampered  child 
Consents  to  death's  untimely  power  with  less 


106  Charles  harpur. 

Reluctance,  less  despair,  than  does  the  wretch 
Who  hath  been  ever  blown  about  the  world, 
The  straw-like  sport  of  fate's  most  bitter  blasts ; 
So  though  the  shadows  of  untimely  death, 
Inevitably  under  every  stroke 
But  thickened  more  and  more,  against  them  still 
The  poor  wretch  struggled,  nor  would  cease  until 
One  last  great  blow,  dealt  down  upon  his  head 
As  if  in  mercy,  gave  him  to  the  dust, 
With  all  his  many  woes  and  frustrate  hopes. 

The  master,  chilled  with  horror,  saw  it  all; 

From  instinct  more  than  conscious  thought  he  raised 

His  death-charged  tube,  and  at  that  murderous  crew 

Firing,  saw  one  fall  ox-like  to  the  earth, 

Then  turned  and  fled.     Fast  fled  he,  but  as  fast 

His  deadly  foes  went  thronging  on  his  track. 

Fast !  for  in  full  pursuit  behind  him  yelled 

Men  whose  wild  speech  no  word  for  mercy  hath  ! 

And  as  he  fled  the  forest  beasts  as  well 

In  general  terror  through  the  brakes  ahead 

Crashed  scattering,  or  with  maddening  speed  athwart 

His  course  came  frequent.     On,  still  on,  he  flies  ; 

Flies  for  dear  life,  and  still  behind  him  hears, 

Nearer  and  nearer,  the  light  rapid  dig 

Of  many  feet,  nearer  and  nearer  still. 

Part  III. 
So  went  the  chase.     Now  at  a  sudden  turn 
Before  him  lay  the  steep-banked  mountain  creek ; 
Still  on  he  kept  perforce,  and  from  a  rock 
That  beaked  the  bank,  a  promontory  bare, 


CHARLES  HA R PUR.  197 

Plunging  right  forth  and  shooting  feet-first  down, 

Sunk  to  his  middle  in  the  flashing  stream, 

In  which  the  imaged  stars  seemed  all  at  once 

To  burst  like  rockets  into  one  wide  blaze. 

Then  wading  through  the  ruffled  waters,  forth 

He  sprang,  and  seized  a  snake-like  root  that  from 

The  opponent  bank  protruded,  clenching  there 

His  cold  hand  like  a  clamp  of  steel ;  and  thence 

He  swung  his  dripping  form  aloft,  the  blind 

And  breathless  haste  of  one  who  flies  for  life 

Urging  him  on  :  up  the  dark  ledge  he  climbed 

When  in  his  face — O  verily  our  God 

Hath  those  in  His  peculiar  care,  for  whom 

The  daily  prayers  of  spotless  womanhood 

And  helpless  infancy  are  offered  up  ! — 

There  in  its  face  a  cavity  he  felt, 

The  upper  earth  of  which  in  one  rude  mass 

Was  held  fast  bound  by  the  enwoven  roots 

Of  two  old  trees,  and  which,  beneath  the  mound, 

Over  the  dark  and  clammy  cave  below. 

Twisted  like  knotted  snakes.     'Neath  these  he  crept, 

Just  as  the  dark  forms  of  his  hunters  thronged 

The  steep  bold  rock  whence  he  before  had  plunged. 

Duskily  visible  beneath  the  moon 

They  paused  a  space,  to  mark  what  bent  his  course 

Might  take  beyond  the  stream.     But  now  no  form 

Amongst  the  moveless  fringe  of  fern  was  seen 

To  shoot  up  from  its  outline,  'mid  the  boles 

And  mixing  shadows  of  the  taller  trees, 

All  standing  now  in  the  keen  radiance  there 

So  ghostly  still  as  in  a  solemn  trance  ; 

But  nothing  in  the  silent  prospect  stirred; 

Therefore  they  augured  that  their  prey  was  yet 


198  CHARLES  HARPUR. 

Within  the  nearer  distance,  and  they  all 
Plunged  forward  till  the  fretted  current  boiled 
Amongst  their  crowding  forms  from  bank  to  bank ; 
And  searching  thus  the  stream  across,  and  then 
Along  the  ledges,  combing  down  each  clump 
Of  long  flagged  swamp  grass  where  it  flourished  high, 
The  whole  dark  line  passed  slowly,  man  by  man, 
Athwart  the  cave ! 


Keen  was  their  search  but  vain  ; 
There  grouped  in  dark  knots  standing  in  the  stream 
That  glimmered  past  them  moaning  as  it  went, 
They  marvelled ;  passing  strange  to  them  it  seemed  ; 
Some  old  mysterious  fable  of  their  race. 
That  brooded  o'er  the  valley  and  the  creek, 
Returned  upon  their  minds,  and  fear-struck  all 
And  silent,  they  withdrew.     And  when  the  sound 
Of  their  retreating  steps  had  died  away, 
As  back  they  hurried  to  despoil  the  dead 
In  the  stormed  camp,  then  rose  the  fugitive, 
Renewed  his  flight,  nor  rested  from  it,  till 
He  gained  the  shelter  of  his  longed-for  home. 
And  in  that  glade,  far  in  the  doomful  wild. 
In  sorrowing  record  of  an  awful  hour 
Of  human  agony  and  loss  extreme, 
Untimely  spousals  with  a  desert  death, 
Four  grassy  mounds  are  there  beside  the  creek, 
Bestrewn  with  sprays  and  leaves  from  the  old  trees 
Which  moan  the  ancient  dirges  that  have  caught 
The  heed  of  dying  ages,  and  for  long 
The  traveller  passing  then  in  safety  there 
Would  call  the  place — The  Creek  of  the  Four  Graves. 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  199 


A  STORM  ON  THE  ^[OUNTAINS. 

A  LONEiA'  bo\-,  for  venturing  from  home 

Out  on  the  lialf-wild  herd's  faint  tracks  I  roam  ; 

'Mid  rock-browed  mountains,  which  with  stony  frown 

GLare  into  haggard  chasms  deep  adown ; 

A  rude  and  craggy  world,  the  prospect  lies 

Bounded  in  circuit  by  the  bending  skies. 

Now  at  some  clear  pool  scooped  out  by  the  shocks 

Of  rain-floods  plunging  from  the  upper  rocks 

Whose  liquid  disc  in  its  undimpled  rest 

Glows  like  a  mighty  gem  brooching  the  mountain's  breast, 

I  drink  and  muse,  or  mark  the  wide-spread  herd, 

Or  list  the  tinkling  of  the  dingle-bird  ; 

And  now  towards  some  Avild-hanging  shade  I  stray. 

To  shun  the  bright  oppression  of  the  day ; 

For  round  each  crag,  and  o'er  each  bosky  swell. 

The  fierce  refracted  heat  flares  visible, 

Lambently  restless,  like  the  dazzling  hem 

Of  some  else  viewless  veil  held  trembling  over  them. 

^^'hy  congregate  the  swallows  in  the  air, 

And  northward  then  in  rapid  flight  repair  ? 

With  sudden  swelling  din,  remote  but  harsh. 

Why  roar  the  bull-frogs  in  the  tea-tree  marsh  ? 

Why  cease  the  locusts  to  throng  up  in  flight 

And  clap  their  gay  wings  in  the  fervent  light? 

Why  climb  they,  bodingly  demure,  instead 
The  tallest  spear-grass  to  the  bending  head  ? 


DO  CHARLES  HARPUR. 

Instinctivel)',  along  the  sultry  sky, 
I  turn  a  listless,  yet  inquiring,  eye ; 
And  mark  that  now  with  a  slow  gradual  pace 
A  solemn  trance  creams  northward  o'er  its  face  ; 
Yon  clouds  that  late  were  labouring  past  the  sun, 
Reached  by  its  sure  arrest,  one  after  one, 
Come  to  a  heavy  halt ;  the  airs  that  played 
About  the  rugged  mountains  all  are  laid  : 
While  drawing  nearer  far-off  heights  appear. 
As  in  a  dream's  wild  prospect,  strangely  near  ! 
Till  into  wood  resolves  their  robe  of  blue, 
And  the  grey  crags  rise  bluffly  on  the  view. 
Such  are  the  signs  and  tokens  that  presage 
A  summer  hurricane's  forthcoming  rage. 


At  length  the  south  sends  out  her  cloudy  heaps, 
And  up  the  glens  at  noontide  dimness  creeps  ; 
The  birds,  late  warbling  in  the  hanging  green 
Of  steep-set  brakes,  seek  now  some  safer  screen  ; 
The  herd,  in  doubt,  no  longer  wanders  wide. 
But  fast  ongathering  throngs  yon  mountain's  side, 
Whose  echoes,  surging  to  its  tramp,  might  seem 
The  mutter'd  troubles  of  some  Titan's  dream. 
Fast  the  dim  legions  of  the  muttering  storm 
Throng  denser,  or  protruding  columns  form  ; 
While  splashing  forward  from  their  cloudy  lair. 
Convolving  flames,  like  scouting  dragon'^,  glare  : 
Tow  thunders  follow,  labouring  uj)  the  sky, 
And  as  fore-running  blasts  go  blaring  by, 
At  once  the  forest,  with  a  mighty  stir. 
Bows,  as  in  homage  to  the  thunderer ! 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  201 

Hark  !  from  the  dingoes'  blood-polluted  dens, 

In  the  gloom-hidden  chasms  of  the  glens, 

Long  fitful  howls  wail  up  ;  and  in  the  blast 

Strange  hissing  whispers  seem  to  huddle  past; 

As  if  the  dread  stir  had  aroused  from  sleep, 

Weird  spirits,  cloistered  in  yon  cavy  steep, 

(On  which,  in  the  grim  jtast,  some  Cain's  offence 

Hath  haply  outraged  heaven  !)  who  rising  thence 

^Vrapped  in  the  boding  vapours,  laughed  again 

To  wanton  in  the  wild-willed  hurricane. 

See  in  the  storm's  front,  sailing  dark  and  dread, 

A  wide-winged  eagle  like  a  black  flag  spread  ! 

The  clouds  aloft  flash  doom  !  short  stops  his  flight ! 

He  seems  to  shrivel  in  the  blasting  light ! 

The  air  is  shattered  with  a  crashing  sound. 

And  he  falls,  stonelike,  lifeless,  to  the  ground. 

Now,  like  a  shadow  at  great  nature's  heart, 

The  turmoil  grows.     No  wonder,  with  a  start, 

Marks  where  right  overhead  the  storm  careers, 

Girt  with  black  horrors  and  wide-flaming  fears  ! 

Arriving  thunders,  mustering  on  his  path, 

Swell  more  and  more  the  roarings  of  his  wrath, 

As  out  in  widening  circles  they  extend. 

And  then — at  once — in  utter  silence  end. 


Portentous  silence  !     Time  keeps  breathing  past, 

Yet  it  continues!     May  this  marvel  last? 

This  wild  weird  silence  in  the  midst  of  gloom 

So  manifestly  big  with  coming  doom  ? 

Tingles  the  boding  ear  \  and  up  the  glens 

Instinctive  dread  comes  howling  from  the  wild-dog's  dens. 


202  CHARLES  HARPUR. 

Terrific  vision  !     Heaven's  great  ceiling  splits, 

And  a  vast  globe  of  withering  fire  emits, 

Which,  pouring  down  in  one  continuous  stream, 

Spans  the  black  concave  like  a  burning  beam, 

A  moment ; — then  from  end  to  end  it  shakes 

With  a  quick  motion — and  in  thunder  breaks  ! 

Peal  rolled  on  peal !  while  heralding  the  sound, 

As  each  concussion  thrills  the  solid  ground, 

Fierce  glares  coil,  snake-like,  round  the  rocky  wens 

Of  the  red  hills,  or  hiss  into  the  glens, 

Or  thick  through  heaven  like  flaming  falchions  swarm, 

Cleaving  the  teeming  cisterns  of  the  storm. 

From  which  rain-torrents,  searching  every  gash, 

Split  by  the  blast,  come  sheeting  with  a  dash. 

On  yon  grey  peak,  from  rock-encrusted  roots. 

The  mighty  patriarch  of  the  wood  upshoots. 

In  those  proud-spreading  tops'  imperial  height 

The  mountain  eagle  loveth  most  to  light ; 

Now  dimly  seen  through  tempestuous  air. 

His  form  seems  harrowed  by  a  mad  despair. 

As  with  his  ponderous  arms  uplifted  high. 

He  wrestles  with  the  storm  and  threshes  at  the  sky ! 

A  swift  bolt  hurtles  through  the  lurid  air. 

Another  thundering  crash  !  the  peak  is  bare  ! 

Huge  hurrying  fragments  all  around  are  cast. 

The  wild-winged,  mad-limbed  monsters  of  the  blast. 

The  darkness  thickens  !     With  despairing  cry 
From  shattering  boughs  the  rain-drenched  parrots  fly ; 
Loose  rocks  roll  rumbling  from  the  mountains  round, 
And  half  the  forest  strews  the  smoking  ground  \ 


CHARLES  HARPUR.  203 

To  the  bared  crags  the  blasts  now  wilder  moan, 
And  the  caves  labour  with  a  ghostlier  groan. 
Wide  ranging  torrents  down  the  gorges  flow 
Swift  bearing  with  them  to  the  vale  below 
Those  sylvan  wrecks  that  littered  late  the  path 
Of  the  loud  hurricane's  all-trampling  wrath. 

The  storm  is  past.     Yet  booming  on  afar 

Is  heard  the  rattling  of  the  thunder-car, 

And  that  low  muffled  moaning,  as  of  grief, 

Which  follows  with  a  wood-sigh  wide  and  brief. 

The  clouds  break  up  j  the  sun's  forth-bursting  rays 

Clothe  the  wet  landscape  with  a  dazzling  blaze  ; 

The  birds  begin  to  sing  a  lively  strain, 

And  merry  echoes  ring  it  o'er  again  ; 

The  clustered  herd  is  spreading  out  to  graze, 

Though  lessening  torrents  still  a  hundred  ways 

Flash  downward,  and  from  many  a  rocky  ledge 

A  mantling  gust  comes  quick  and  shining  o'er  the  edge. 

'Tis  evening ;  and  the  torrent's  furious  flow 

Runs  gentler  now  into  the  lake  below. 

O'er  all  the  freshened  scene  no  sound  is  heard, 

Save  the  short  twitter  of  some  busied  bird. 

Or  a  faint  rustle  made  amongst  the  trees 

By  wasting  fragments  of  a  broken  breeze. 

Along  the  wild  and  wreck-strewed  paths  I  wind. 

Watching  earth's  happiness  with  a  quiet  mind, 

And  see  a  beauty  all  unmarked  till  now. 

Flushing  each  flowery  nook  and  sunny  brow  ; 

Wished  peace  returning  like  a  bird  of  calm, 

Brings  to  the  wounded  world  its  blessed  healing  balm. 


204  CHARLES  HA R FUR. 

On  nerveless,  tuneless  lines  how  sadly 

Ringing  rhymes  may  wasted  be, 

While  blank  verse  oft  is  mere  prose  madly 

Striving  to  be  poetry  : 

While  prose  that's  craggy  as  a  mountain 

May  Apollo's  sun-robe  don. 

Or  hold  the  well-spring  of  a  fountain 

Bright  as  that  in  Helicon, 


CHARLES  IIARPUK. 


AN  ABORIGINx\L  MOTHER'S  LAMENT. 

Still  farther  would  I  fly,  my  child, 

To  make  thee  safer  yet, 
From  the  unsparing  white  man, 

With  his  dread  hand  murder-wet ! 
I'll  bear  thee  on  as  I  have  borne 
With  stealthy  steps  wind-fleet, 
But  the  dark  night  shrouds  the  forest, 
And  thorns  are  in  my  feet, 

O  moan  not !     I  would  give  this  braid- 

Thy  father's  gift  to  me — 
For  but  a  single  palmful 
Of  water  now  for  thee. 

Ah  !  spring  not  to  his  name— no  more 

To  glad  us  may  he  come  ! 
He  is  smouldering  into  ashes 
Beneath  the  blasted  gum  ! 
All  charred  and  blasted  by  the  fire 

The  white  man  kindled  there. 
And  fed  with  our  slaughtered  kindred 
Till  heaven-high  went  its  glare  ! 

O  moan  not !     I  would  give  this  braid- 

Thy  father's  gift  to  me — 
For  but  a  single  palmful 
Of  water  now  for  lhee» 


2o6  CHARLES  HARPUR. 

And  but  for  thee,  I  would  their  fire 

Had  eaten  me  as  fast ! 
Hark  !  hark  !     I  hear  his  death-cry 

Yet  lengthening  up  the  blast ! 
But  no — when  his  bound  hands  had  signed 

The  way  that  we  should  fly, 
On  the  roaring  pyre  flung  bleeding — 
I  saw  thy  father  die  ! 

O  moan  not !     I  would  give  this  braid- 

Thy  father's  gift  to  me — 
For  but  a  single  palmful 
Of  water  now  for  thee. 

No  more  shall  his  loud  tomahawk 

Be  plied  to  win  our  cheer, 
Or  the  shining  fish  pools  darken 
Beneath  his  shadowing  spear  ; 
The  fading  tracks  of  his  fleet  foot 

Shall  guide  not  as  before. 
And  the  mountain-spirits  mimic 
His  hunting  call  no  more  ! 

O  moan  not !     I  would  give  this  braid- 

Thy  father's  gift  to  me — 
For  but  a  single  palmful 
Of  water  now  for  thee. 


EBENEZER  STORR  V  HA  Y.  207 


ISABEL. 


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- 

Oh,  what  is  life  if  she  be  dead  ? 
A  world  with  only  sunless  skies  ! 


n. 

I  knew  her  young  and  fair  and  strong, 
And  loved  her  then,  ah  !  who  so  well  ? 

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  ; 
]My  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. 


2o8  EBENEZER  STORRY  HAY. 

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. 


V. 

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  wet. 


VI. 

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  light  from  her  sweet  eyes. 

My  darling  Isabel  is  dead, 

And  love,  too  late,  has  made  me  wise. 


EBENEZER  STORRY  HAY.  209 


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. 

Him  I  should  scorn  and  hate- 
He  treated  me  so  ill — 

Oh  !  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 ; 

Oh  !  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, 

I  must  forget  the  past ; 
It  was  all  idle  dream — 

A  dream  too  sweet  to  last. 
And  I  through  life  must  feel 

Love's  blighting,  lightning  blast. 
IS 


EBENEZER  S70RRY  HA  Y. 


IDEAL  BEAUTY. 

Absolve  me  for  a  while,  undo 

The  hnks  that  bind  me  as  your  thrall, 

So  I  be  more  myself,  more  worthy  you  ; 


Let  me  forget  you  too  in  dreams, 

Your  lang'rous  waist  and  musical 
Soft  ways,  like  cadences  of  streams 
Unlooked  for,  strange,  but  sweetly  rhythmical ; 


The  morning  freshness  of  the  rose, 
The  suave  strong  motion  of  the  sea, 
The  strenuous  splendour  and  repose 
Of  marble,  and  the  lily's  purity  ; 


All  these  are  types  that  symbolize 

The  secret  charm,  the  subtle  grace. 

The  music  as  of  paradise 

That  plays  about  your  lissom  limbs  and  face 


Let  me  forget  all  these  and  be 
Once  more  self-centred,  circumspect, 
And  of  dtedalian  longings  free, 
■  Let  me  a  fuller,  stronger  life  elect ; 


EBENEZER  STORR  Y  HAY.  211 

So  may  I  on  a  windy  shore 

See  screaming  seagulls  flying  near, 

And  hear  the  hollow  channels  roar, 

Nor  seek  in  every  breeze  your  voice  to  hear ; 

Or  where  the  glints  of  sunshine  steal 
Through  clust'ring  clematis  and  fern, 
There  let  me  roam  alone  and  feel 
The  simple  joys  of  sense  for  which  I  yearn  ; 

The  lights  and  shadows  of  the  bush, 
The  prattling  music  of  the  creek. 
The  stir  of  insects  and  the  hush 
Of  solitude — these  are  the  joys  I  seek. 


Oh  idle  words  !  since  Marsyas  died, 
How  many  has  Apollo  slain  ? 
And  ah  !  how  many  too  have  tried 
To  win  you,  or  to  shun  you — but  in  vain. 


2 1 2  T  110 MA  S  BENE  3 : 


THE  HUT  ON  THE  FLAT. 

"  You've  heard  of  Warradgery  Run,   he  said,  where  old 

Morris 
Died  a  while  back ;   I  was  stockman  there,  years  ago  now. 
Morris  had  an  old  shepherd  up  there,  God  knows  his  name, 

I  don't. 
There's  many  a  man  in  these  parts  whose  right  name  no- 
body knows. 
We  called  him  old  Jack  ;  he  wasn't  so  old,  but  quiet  and 

queer  in  his  ways, 
And  for  a  station  hand  uncommonly  steady.     You  know 
If  we  work  hard  in   the  bush,  when  we  get  a  chance  of 

enjoyment, 
We  take  our  pleasure  like  work,  as  much  as  we  can  at  a 

spell ; 
Perhaps  we'd  do  better  to   take   our  sport   as  I've  heard 

some  do  with  their  wine, 
Drinking  to  taste  and  not  to  be  drunk.      Well,  it's  our  WMy. 

Jack  had  little  to  say,  the  same  as  most  of  the  shepherds. 
Often  I've  thought  when  a  man  has  no  one  to  talk  to. 
Nothing  but  sheep  and  his  dogs  around  him  day  after  day 

and  for  ever ; 
Silence  becomes  so  familiar  at  Instj  thai  his  voice  is  strange 

to  himself. 
You  may  think  he  is  shy,  but  his  silence  is  ignorance  and 

habit, 


THOMAS  II EXE  Y.  213 

All  he  learns  is  ihe  news  of  the  run  in  a  yarn  wiih  a  stock- 
man or  rider, 

And  nought  of  the  world  '  inside '  he  knows,  save  when  he 
gets  from  a  shearer 

Or  some  of  the  station  hands  a  newspaper,  months  after 
date. 

He  doesn't  dislike  a  yarn,  but  he  must  do  most  of  the 
listening, 

That  is  the  way  with  the  most,  but  Jack  liked  to  keep  to 
himself. 

If  he  noticed  you  coming  his  way,  he  would  drive  off  the 
sheep  if  he  could  ; 

But  if  he  must  stay,  he  would  merely  answer  your  ques- 
tions. 

'  Going  wild,'  tlicy  said  on  the  run,  and  he  was  left  to  him- 
self. 

His  hut  was  out  on  Dingo  Flat,  three  miles  or  more  from 
the  station — 

A  lonely  place ;  between  the  hut  and  the  station  lived  no 
one. 

A  gunyah  of  slab  the  hut,  bark-roofed  ;  the  walls  within 
lined  with  sacking, 

Only  one  room  it  had,  and  the  fireplace  took  up  a  side. 

Opposite,  raised  on  short  posts  and  built  in  the  slabs  of  the 
wall, 

Was  a  bunk  for  his  bed,  planked  up  at  the  head  and  the  foot. 

From  the  top  of  the  bunk  to  the  wall  a  part  of  the  hut  had 
been  ceiled, 

And  in  the  loft  thus  made  he  kept  his  bridle  and  saddle. 

The  floor  was  the  earth  flattened  well  by  tramping  and 
beating. 

Under  the  window,  unglazed  and  closed  with  a  strong 
wooden  shutter, 


2 1 4  THOMA  S  BENE  Y. 

Stood  his  table,  uneven  and  rudely  made  of  deal  casing 
Supported  on  saplings  short  that  sunk  in  the  earth  of  the 

floor; 
He  had  made  it  himself;    between  table  and  fireplace  a 

campstool. 
Beside   the   window  his    cupboard  was  placed,  a  gin  case 

nailed  to  the  wall ; 
On  it  rested  some  pipes,  and  a  bushman's  various  trifles, 
Scattered  about  the  hut  were  his  simple  household  utensils, 
And  save  himself  and  his  dogs,  in  the  place  was  never  a 

living  creature. 


This  hut  stood  down  at  the  end  of  the  Flat ;  behind  it  a 

pen  for  the  sheep. 
A  hundred  yards    from  the   door  ran  a  little  creek,   and 

about  it. 
Here  and  there,  grew  a  she-oak,  tall  and  sombre  of  foliage. 
Black  and  green  wattles  and  pines  and  gum  trees  covered 

a  hillock 
With  a  thick  scrub  to  the  summit.     This  in  the  front  to  the 

east. 
Behind  the  gunyah  were  flats  with  low  bare  hills  alternated. 
Bare  were  both  flats  and  hills  save  for  here  and  there  a  huge 

gum. 
Riding  one  day  by  Warraman  Creek,  amongst  the  scrub  on 

the  hillside 
And  over  the  flats  by  the  water,  I  saw  Jack's  sheep  were 

astray. 
Neither    Jack    nor    his    dog    responded   when    loudly    I 

cooeyed, 
So  I  rode  on  to  his  hut.     The  door  was  closed  ;  not  dis- 
mounting. 


THOMAS  HENEY.  215 

I   struck   on   the   door   witli    my   stockwhip   handle    and 

Hstened — no  answer. 
Again  I  struck,  and  a  faint  voice  said,  ^  For  God's  sake, 

come  in.' 
The  door  was  locked,  and  I  broke  the  hasp  with  repeated 

blows  of  a  log, 
Entered,  and  saw  in  the  twilight  Jack  lying  still  in  his  bunk 
So  like  a  dead  man  that  at  first  I  scarcely  believed  he  was 

living. 
Shrunken  and  ghastly  pale  was  his  face,  unmoving  among 

the  blue  blankets. 
He  had  not  the  strength  to  rise,  but  when  he  saw  who  it 

was  entered 
A  change  came  on  his  face  as  he  found  relief  from  some 

terror ; 
And  when  I  stood  at  his  side  he  stretched  forth  weakly  yet 

eager 
His  wasted  hands  to  grasp  mine,  and  strove,  though  they 

could  not,  to  hold  me. 
And  sitting  beside  him  he  told  me  the  tale  I  will  tell  you. 
It  was  long  hearing  for  me ;  though  he  seemed  impatient  to 

tell  it ; 
His  strength  would  fail,  and  long  he  would  lie  unwillingly 

silent ; 
When  he  spoke  'twas  with  many  a  groan  and  pause  between 

the  words  that  he  gasped. 
'  Stay  by  me,  Jim,  for  the  time  is  not  long  to  my  death, 
A  week  have  I  lain,  and  the  sickness  threatened  before 

that. 
As  I  grew  feeble  and  worse,  fearing  my  strength  would  utterly 

fail  me, 
I  turned  the  sheep  loose;  better  lost  than  starved  in  the 

yard. 


2i6  THOMAS  HENEY, 

And  never  the  face  of  one  living  I  saw,  but  only  a  face  that 

I  wished  not ; 
For  whether  I  slept  or  whether  I  waked,  or  opened  mine 

eyes  were  or  closed, 
Ever  a  dreadful  vision  burned  through  my  sense  to  my  soul — • 
Eyes  with  a  terrible  threat  and  reproach  in  their  passionless 

sameness — • 
living  eyes  in  a  dead  wan  face  that  was  gapped  with  a  ruin- 
ous blow. 
And  I  thought  it  the  judgment  of  God,  the  face  of  my 

victim  should  haunt  me, 
And  the  eyes  of  him  whom  T  slew  should  witness  my  doom 

without  pity. 
Three  years  ago  it  is  now,  one  wild  night  a  man,  weak  and 

ailing, 
Wandered  up  to  the  hut  and  asked  shelter !     O,  God  !  that 

he  had  not  ! 
But  this  is  hell— to   do   crime  and   gain   not,    yet   never 

undo  it. 
He  entered  and  lay  that  night  in  a  bed  I  made  on  the 

hearthplace, 
He  was  worse  in  the  morning,  and  wandered  much   in  his 

mind, 
And  in  his  madness  he  talked  of  his  money,  and  bade  me 
Open  his  swag  to  be  sure  it  was  there  ;  from  that  day  I 

wished  for  his  death, 
But  I  thought  not  yet  of  a  crime,  expecting  he  would  not 

recover, 
When  the  delirium  passed  he  lay  so  feel)Ie  and  helpless, 
I  thought  some  day  to  return  and  find  he  had  died  in  his 

sleep ; 
Then  I  might  hide  hi^  sv,-ag,  and  give  t.hcm  word  ^t  tho 

station 


THOMAS  HENEY.  217 

A  sick  man  came  to  the  hut  and  after  a  day  or  two  died. 
But    one    day  he   rose    by   himself  and  thenceforth  grew 

stronger. 
He  knew  it  as  well,  and  said  that  I  would  find  he   wag 

grateful, 
"  You  will  not  lose  by  me,"  he  declared,  "  I  am  not  so  poor 

as  I  look." 
Forgetting — how  should  he  remember  ? — when  mad  alike  we 

gazed  on  his  wealth. 
And   daily  I    brooded  about   the    chance   of    his   money 

escaping. 
Though  I  tried  not  to  show  my  desire  he  might  have  per- 
ceived it, 
For  I  was  afraid  he  might  leave  some  time  and  find  his  way 

to  the  station. 
Nightly  I  brought  back  the  sheep,  and  while  I  penned  them, 

our  ration 
He  cooked  and  laid  out  our  meal ;  in  silence  we  ate  it. 
Then  he  would  sit  at  one  side  of  the  fire,  I  at  the  other, 

nor  speak. 
For  I  was  never  a  talker,  and  he  got  tired  of  everything 

soon. 
If  he  began  to  talk  Fd  say,  "aye  "or  "  no,"  and  all  tl.e 

while  I  was  thinking 
Of  the  notes  in  his  swag  I  had  seen  when  first  he  came  to 

the  hut. 
When  the  fire  burnt  down  he  went  to  the  bunk,  while  my 

bed  I  made  on  the  hearth. 
One  night,  coming  back,  I  got  tired  of  it  all ;  shall  I  wait, 

I  said  to  myself, 
Till  he  gets  strong  and  goes  off,  and  all  liis  money  goes 

with  him  ? 
You  have  a  right  to  it,  too  \  but  for  you  he  had  died  on 
the  fl^it. 


2 1 8  THOMAS  HENE  V. 

So  the  mischief  had  worked,  while  I  knew  not  whither  my 

thoughts  were  leading, 
And  the  deed  I  must  do  to  possess  his  wealth  then   first 

arose  in  my  mind  ; 
For  a  moment  I   shrank,   then   my  purpose  was  deadlier 

strengthened. 
When  he  turned  in,  I  listened  till  I  heard  his  steady,  low 

breathing, 
Then  rose,  took  the  axe,  gently  felt  in  the  dark  for  his  face, 
Struck  once,  and  he  loudly  groaned,  shuddered,  and  then  he 

lay  still. 
Mad  to  conceal  him,  then  with  the  axe  I  hewed  a  grave 

under  the  bunk. 
And  wrapping  his  body,  yet  warm,   in  the  bedclothes  he 

lay  in. 
Hurried  it  into  the  hole,  threw  the  earth  back,  and  placed 

the  box  over, 
I  burnt  the  swag,  and  his  money  you'll  find  it  all  in  the  box.' 
When  he  began,  I  thought  him  by  sickness  and  loneliness 

maddened, 
And  the  story  some  dream  of  his  fever ;    but  as  he  pro- 
ceeded 
Without  a  pause,  save  that  which  his  illness  commanded, 
In  spite  of  myself  I  believed.      When  he  ceased,  he  lay 

silent; 
Almost  I  feared  to  stay  there ;   the  murdered  man  lying 

beneath  us. 
Above  him  his  murderer  dying  at  night  in  that  hut  on  the 

flat. 
He  asked  me  for  water  at  length,  and  I  went  for  it  down  to 

the  creek  ; 
Never  did  night  seem  more  lovely  to  me,  every  star  stood  out 

from  the  blue, 


THOMAS  HENEY.  219 

There  was  no  wind,  and  the  air  was  cool  and  fresh,  and  the 

scene  most  silent — 
Perfectly  silent,  but  for  the  distant  wailing  of  curlews. 
The  very  trees  seemed  asleep,  and  my  steps  broke  harsh  on 

the  quiet. 
The  water  was  calm  as  the  air,  and  when  I  disturbed  it, 
Danced  in  the  ripples  the  shimmering  stars  as  if  delighted 

with  motion. 
There  was  no  moon,  and  the  starlight  showed  no  horizon  ; 
And  the  world  stretched  out  to  the  stars  in  that  shadowless 

landscape  of  twilight. 
Back  I  turned  to  the  hut.    I  gave  the  man  drink  and  sat  by 

his  bedside, 
And  waited  there  through  the   dreary  hours  knowing  him 

past  any  help. 
Uneasily  slept  he  a  while  with  many  a  shudder  and  groan. 
Sometimes  sobbing,  then  delirious  waked,  and  towards  the 

morning  he  died. 
All  his  face  working  and  shrieking  :   '  I  didn't  do  anything 

with  it.' 
Suddenly  broke  his  shriek  to  a  groan,  and  passed  through 

his  limbs  a  strong  shudder. 
Then  like  a  blow  from  a  hand  unseen  the  death  change 

smote  all  his  face. 
So  he  died,  and  at  once  I  rode  back  to  the  station. 
Morris  was  down  in  Melbourne,  and  I  told  the  manager 

Benson. 
At  daylight  he  sent  off  a  man  to  round  up  the  sheep,  and 

later 
He  and  I  rode  down  and  fastened  the  hut  till  a  magistrate 

came. 
Then    I  went  over  to  AV^irra,  and   Jackson  and   his  over- 
seer 


=  2  o  THOMAS  HENE  K 

Came  the  same  day  to  Warradgcry.      The  hut  never  saw- 
such  a  muster, 
For  the  story  had  spread  and  every  one  wished  to  attend. 
Below  the  bunk  the  floor  was  dug  up ;  not  four  feet  under 

the  surface 
V/e  found  what  had  been  a  man,  with  rotting  blue  blankets 

about  it. 
And  when  all  proceedings  were  over,  no  shepherd  could  be 

persuaded 
To  live  near  the  spot.     A  stranger  soon  heard  of  the  story. 
A  new  hut  was  built  farther  on,  and  the  old  one  abandoned 

left  standing. 
So  little  by  little  the  place  went  all  to  destruction, 
The  shutter  was  torn  away,  and  the  door  fell,  hung  by  one 

hinge, 
The  sacking  got  torn  away  down  within,  and  the  rain  beat 

in  through  the  cracks, 
Fallen  wholly,  one  slab  left  a  luinous  gap  in  the  front. 
The  roof  was  loosed  by  the  wind,  and  the  bark  frayed  out 

into  ribbons. 
So  looked  the  hut  on  that  desolate  flat  the  last  time  I 

saw  it, 
Fate  in  a  stormy  day  in  August ;  the  sun  was  not  sunken. 
Yet  was  the  landscape  darkened  by  cloud ;  the  creek  was 

swollen  by  rains  ; 
Over  the  flat  a  heavy  wind  blew^  and  whistled  among  the  she- 
oaks, 
Bringing  now  and  again  a  shower  of  thick  stinging  sleet. 
While  my  mare  stopped  for  a  drink,  I  turned  in  my  saddle 

and  gazed 
Ui)  to  Jack's  gunyah  standing  desolate  there  as  I  tell  you. 
I  have  seen  some  places  unholy  in  different  parts  of  th? 

country, 


THOMAS  IJEXJLY.  221 

But  the   God-forsakenest   spot    that  ever  mine  eyes  were 

set  on 
Was  the  scene   of  Jack's   crime,   tliat  stormy  evening  in 

August — 
Blasted  as  if  the  place  shared  in  the  curse  on  a  pitiless 

murder." 
Soon  after  the  coach  came  up,  and  we  set  off  again  on  our 

journey ; 
Neither  spoke  to  the  other,  each  in  a  corner   sat    dovn 

silent; 
"We  two  the  passengers  only ;  what  my  comrade  was  think- 
ing I  know  not ; 
But  the  damp  wind,  blowing  hard  through  the  trees  by  the 

roadside, 
Was  ever  in  my  sad  thoughts  as  the  moaning  wind  in  the 

she-oaks, 
And  the  driver's  song,  and  the  rhythmic  fall  of  horse's  feet 

on  the  highway, 
The  ring  of  the  wheels,  and  the  clash  of  harness,  and  sound 

of  the  threatening  whip. 
Made    an    accompaniment    to    "  I    didn't    do     anything 

with  it," 
To  the  shriek  of  a  dcathful  voice,  "  I  didn't  do  anything 

with  it." 


22  2  THOMAS  HENEY. 


THE  FLOWER  EVERLASTING, 

Shy  flower  that  aye  delights  to  grace 

A  desert  place, 
And  glorify  the  thankless  stones 
^Vith  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. 

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. 


Nature  denies  the  haunting  scent 

To  others  lent, 
Instead  she  gives  thee  longer  stay 
Than  beauties  of  a  day. 


THOMA S  BENE  Y.  223 

They  ope  and  show  their  charms  awhile, 

Their  Hfe  a  smile, 
Then  close  and  gently  die  ;  but  thou 
Death  not  so  swift  can  bow. 


:>24  P.  J.  HOLDS JVORTII. 


MY  QUEEN  OF  DREAMS. 

In  the  warm-flushed  heart  of  the  rose-red  West, 
AVhen  the  great  sun  quivered  and  died  to-day, 
You  pulsed,  O  star,  by  yon  pine-clad  crest, 
And  throbbed  till  the  bright  eve  ashened  grey. 

Then  I  saw  you  swim 

By  the  shadowy  rim 
Where  the  great  gum  dips  to  the  western  plain, 

And  you  rayed  delight 

As  you  winged  your  flight 
To  the  mystic  spheres  where  your  kinsmen  reign  I 

O  star,  did  you  see  her — my  queen  of  dreams  ? 
Was  it  you  that  glimmered  the  night  we  strayed 
A  month  ago  by  these  scented  streams, 
Half-checked  by  the  litter  the  musk-buds  made  ? 

Did  you  sleep  or  wake  ?-=- 

Ah,  for  love's  sweet  sake, 
(Though  the  world  should  fail,  and  the  soft  stars  wane!) 

I  shall  dream  delight 

Till  our  souls  take  flight 
To  the  mystic  spheres  where  your  kinsmen  reign  ! 


r.  J.  HOLDS  1 1  'OR  Til  22  s 


STATION  HUNTING  ON  THE  WARREGO. 

AN    EPISODE   OF   AUSTRALIAN    FRONTIER    LIFE. 

(y«i/  7C'/iaf  the  bushmen  told,  luhile  raging  rains 
Wliirled  tempests  round  our  hut  at  Stockyard  Flat, — 
Just  lohat  he  told  that  night — the  self-same  tale, 
Yet  710 1  the  self- same  7Uords — I  tell  to-day. 
I  change  his  rough  to  s??tooth,  and  simply  touch 
His  bare  blunt  speech  with  certain  chimes  of  verse.) 

Hedge  round  the  fire  (he  said),  and  while  yon  blasts 
Blow  out  their  gusty  summons,  friends,  give  heed  ! 
I  speak  of  griefs  and  perils  felt  and  faced 
While  station-hunting  on  the  Warrego. 

»!<  '■':•  '■',-  ;',- 

Two  seasons  had  been  parched,  sirs,  and  a  third 
Flamed,  droughtier  than  its  fellows,  till  the  grass, 
The  green,  lush  grass,  grew  spoilt  by  baneful  days 
And  nights  that  came  uncoupled  with  cool  dews. 
And  musing  much  on  decimated  flocks, 
And  gaunt  herds  thinned  by  dearth  of  sustenance, 
Paul  cried,  one  day,  to  Oscar :  "  Are  we  men  ? 
Ay,  men,  I  say,  or  marble  ?     Plagues  and  droughts 
Smite  the  sick  land  with  horrors, — yet  we  stand 
Slave-like,  and  smile  at  buffets  !     Comrade,  rouse  ! 
And,  ere  some  wide-mouthed  ruin  swallow  all. 
Let's  seek,  far  west,  some  richer  pasturing  ground  ! 

So — spurred  by  strong  compulsive  need — they  went. 

7  6 


2  26  r.  J.  HOLDS  WORTH. 

Five  days  the  comrades,  journeying  horse  by  horse, 
Passed  herbless  plains,  and  clay-flats  cracked  with  heat ; 
And  crossed  dry  blackened  beds,  where  twisting  creeks 
And  runnels  once  had  brawled.     But  loath  (stout  hearts  !) 
To  leave  that  waste  with  failure  in  their  hands, 
They  slacked  no  rein,  till,  checked  by  hostile  ground, 
Their  maimed  steeds  fell, — disabled  utterly  ! 

Now,  'mid  those  sterile  tracts  unhorsed,  and  vexed 

With  leagues  of  drought  and  travail,  toiled  the  friends, 

Till  Oscar,  though  the  brawnier-limbed,  laid  hands 

(Weak,  feverish  hands)  on  Paul,  and  groaned, — "  Enough  ! 

Slow  torpor  numbs  my  strength,  and  arduous  hours 

Seem  changes  rung  on  one  perpetual  pain. 

Were  Heaven's  pearled  gates  in  sight,  I  can  no  more  ! " 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  Paul,  "  take  heart !     To-day,  I  slew 

A  sulphur-coloured  snake  that  doubtless  slid 

Due  west,  toward  water-shallows  !     Courage,  friend." 

Courage  ?     The  phrase  fell  profitless  as  grief; 
Lost,  like  a  stream,  sand-swallowed  ;  vain  as  tears 
That  waste,  in  sleep,  when  sharp  dreams  dominate. 
Courage  the  man  possessed,  but  supple  thews 
And  sinewy  limbs,  he  lacked.     And  so,  perforce, 
They  camped  beside  some  samphire-covered  hills 
That  reddened  with  the  sunset. 

All  that  night 
Strong  fever  marshalled  hosts  of  pains,  and  plagued 
The  sick  man's  flesh  ;  and  when  next  dawn  rayed  out 
God's  liberal  light,  Paul  strode  where  lines  of  scrub 
Buttressed  with  brushwood-yellow  mounds  of  sand — • 


p.  J.  HOLDSWORTH.  227 

And  roughly  reared  a  screen  of  boughs,  to  foil 

Noon's  fiery  edge,  and  shield  his  anguished  friend. 

Six  days  Paul  watched,  slow  days  that  lagged  to  nights, 

And  loitered  into  morns ;  and,  on  the  seventh. 

When  gathering  glooms  had  sucked  light's  last  faint  flakes. 

And  keen  white  stars  crept,  palpitatingly, 

Amid  unfolding  skies,  the  sick  man  moaned  : — 

"  Comrade  !  On,  on  to  safety  !  I  am  doomed, 

Doomed  utterly  !  Forsake  me,  Paul,  and  fly  ! " 

"  May  God  forsake  me,  if  I  do  ! "  said  Paul ; 
"  Though  thirst  and  famine  come,  and  sweeping  storms 
Clamour  and  brawl,  and  shake  the  world's  four  walls, 
Paul  shall  not  blench  or  budge  !     Here  lies  my  part. 
Whatever  be  the  issue  !  " 

But  again, 
Slowly  the  faint  voice  murmured  : — "  Death  draws  nigh  ! 
Yea, — knells  his  certain  summons,  for  my  veins 
Burn,  and  grow  sapless  as  the  dead  loose  leaves 
That  clog  the  forest  aisles  in  bleak  July  ! 
Heed  dying  lips  !  turn,  Paul  !  O  turn  and  fly  !  " 

"  Nay,  turn  and  sleep  !  "  Paul  answered,  "  twice  accursed 
By  Heaven  and  Earth  are  cowards.     Sleep  !  I  say. 
May  God  forsake  me  if  I  faint  and  fly  !  " 

Thus  spoke  a  brave  heart's  friendshij") :  yet,  once  more, 
With  passionate  persistence  wailed  the  voice  : — 
"  'Mid  prosperous  realms,  and  cities  thronged  with  life. 
Where  millions  toil  and  grovel  (soul  and  flesh 
Bond-slaves  to  Belial  and  the  Hunger-God), 


2  28  P.  J.  HOLDSWORTH, 

While  Fortune's  favourites  heap  red  gold  like  mire, — ■ 
There  too,  again,  'mid  plains  that  stretch  and  show 
Illimitable  tracts,  whose  furnaced  sands 
Gasp  languidly,  and  mock  the  day  ! — alas. 
These  have  I  paced,  a  mateless,  childless  man ; 
A  solitary  soul.     For  me,  no  wife, 
(When  dry  December  scorched,  or  Augusts  wept 
Their  windy  way  through  ranks  of  rain-black  clouds) 
Cheered,  like  a  seraph,  life's  vicissitudes  : 
For  mono  babes,  with  glib  bewitching  speech, 
Lisped  the  sweet  prate  that  charms  the  silent  sire 
As  bird-psalms  charm  the  bard.     O  Paul,  O  Paul, 
On  me  these  heaven-gleams  glint  not,  but  on  you  ! 
Close-barred  from  me,  God's  largess  showers  on  you  ! 
Spare,  spare  the  guiltless  far  ones  :  pause  and  fly  !  " 


Here  first  the  stout  heart  faltered  :  for  the  thin 
Strained  voice  had  struck  one  master  chord  of  life, 
Man's  vehement  love  of  quiet  household  joys, 
His  heart  aches  for  the  witching  charms  of  home  : 
Put  Paul,  perplexed  and  tearful,  cried,  "Forbear, 
Forbear,  Heaven  frowns  when  cravens  faint  and  fly  !  " 
Now  darkness  circled  round  them  like  a  spell  : 
And  Oscar  drowsed,  while  Paul  yearned,  moodily, 
To  pierce  the  vast  void  stillness.     Fitful  winds, 
Pike  melancholy  night-gasps,  waxed,  and  then 
Waned  noiselessly,  and  timorous  brush  birds  wailed 
From  out  the  mallee-scrub  and  salt-bush  clumps 
That  flanked  the  dun  base  of  the  sand-ridge  near. 
At  times,  far  dolefuller  sounds  vexed  Paul,  for  lo, 
Sonorous  curlews  scudded  past,  with  shrieks 
And  dismal  lamentations,  wofuller 


p.  J.  HOLDS'iVORTH.  229 

Than  those  dread  groans  which  daunt  the  woodman's  heart, 
When  strong  north-easters  sweep  through  swamp-oak  groves. 
Forlornly  shrilled  these  wasteland  cries,  while  Paul 
Sat,  hour  by  hour,  and  marvelled  if  God's  Hand, 
Past  the  fierce  limits  of  that  wild  lone  land. 
Would  guide  them  to  a  havened  peace  again. 

So  passed  the  night,  that  long  and  desolate  night ! — 
Throned  'mid  its  infinite  retinues  of  stars, 
It  passed,  and  gradual  day,  with  stealthy  strides, 
Stalked  slowly,  broadly  on. 

Now  drifts  of  cloud 
Showed  dawn's  soft  rose-prints  deepening  in  the  cast. 
And  melting  mists  made  visible  far  hills. 
Huge  battlemented  crags  were  they,  whose  fronts 
And  fractured  summits,  grappled  by  ruthless  time. 
And  scarred  by  rains  and  tempests,  frov/ned  on  Paul, 
Like  hell's  grim  cliffs,  and  rocks  unscalable. 
Keen  anguish  pierced  his  soul,  that  brave  strong  sonl. 
With  toils  sore  spent,  and  vexing  vigils  wrung; 
And,  glancing  where  his  friend  supinely  lay, 
Paul  saw  the  languid  eyes  grow  luminous 
With  strange  mysterious  hght,  and  soon  the  voice 
Spake  hollowly  : — • 

(As  when,  mid  cavernous  chasms, 
Some  lost  foot-wanderer  wails  for  succouring  aid. 
Distinct  at  first,  his  shrill  vo'ce  volleying  tlies. 
Till,  checked  where  wide  rifts  gape,  and  huge  rocks  jut, 
It  wanes  and  wastes,  and  echoes  hopelessness  ; 
Meanwhile,  high  up  (a-drowsing  mid  their  Hocks), 


230  p.  J.  HOLDSWORTH. 

Dull  hinds  catch  hints  of  deep  sepulchral  cries 
That  surge  like  death-sighs  from  a  world  of  graves  : 
So  thin,  so  worn,  so  hollow,  ached  that  voice  : — ) 

"Midway  'twixt  dusk  and  dawn,"  it  wailed,  "I  heard 
The  cry  of  crested  pigeons,  wheeling  low, 
And  thrice  the  air  grew  black  with  clanging  wings, 
And  hoarse  with  marsh-fowls'  clamours ;  (Peace  !  I  know 
When  famished  spoonbills,  shrieking,  scent  lagoons  !) 
Moreover,  at  that  hour,  when  conquered  night 
Shrinks  shuddering  from  the  dawn,  cold  winds  arose, 
And  breathed  soft  benedictions,  soothing  me 
With  sounds  like  babbling  brooks ;  and  then  my  pangs 
Ceased,  for  I  heard  far  torrents  !  Paul,  be  urged  ! 
Strike  south,  and  seek  assistance  for  us  both  ! " 
So  moaned  the  dying  Oscar. 

Paul  took  up 
These  last  weak  words,  and  thus  considered  them : — 

"  Cooped  here,  man's  bones  might  bleach  till  Doom's  dead 

trump 
Thundered  confusion  on  all  flesh  that  lives  ! 
Christian,  or  Christless,  what  man  treads  these  wastes  ? 
Here  no  oases  bloom  :  no  springs  outgush  : 
Some  curse  mars  all,  and  battles  with  mankind  !  " 
So  muttering,  he  unslung  the  water- flask, 
And  drew  with  niggard  hand  their  daily  dole. 

{Ah  God  !  what  fierce  extremes  encompass  life  ! 
Note  yon  plump  Sybarite,  whose  noons  are  feasts. 
Whose  midnights  dai?ity  banquets  !     Hedged  with  gold. 


r.  J.  IIOLDSWORTir.  : 

He  sinks  ahu)idaui'e  from  t'lVik's  s/iotrs  and  seas  ; 
He  drains  I  he  wine  of  life  from  jewelled  citps^ 
And  fattens  well  for  grave-ivorms  ! 

Different  fares 
Yon  child  of  pain  that  treads  dry,  furnaced  tracts  ! 
Above,  stretch  skies  of  fire :  around  him,  plains. 
Bare,  moistiireless :  beneath  him,  earth — his  grave  ! 
For  him  no  rich  looms  play  rvith  curious  skill ; 
No  menials  crook  and  cringe ;  no  tempting  cates. 
Nor  rare  wines  glisten  ;  at  Fate's  Sibyl-hands 
He  plucks  desire,  mistrust,  hope,  fear,  and  death  ! 
Ah  God  !  what  fierce  extremes  encompass  life  I) 

Now  thirst,  that  deadly  desert-foe,  stalked  near ; 

For,  nestling  in  their  flasks,  alas,  remained 

Scarce  three  days'  water  for  the  body's  need  : 

And  Paul,  though  staid,  and  nowise  fooled  by  dreams, 

Sat  piecing  Oscar's  talk.     He  knew,  right  well, 

That  dying  eyes  have  strength  to  see  and  pierce 

Those  dim,  dark  realms,  which  border  Death,  and  knew 

That  hands,  just  loosening  from  the  world,  may  gain 

Their  firmest,  godliest,  grasp  of  things  Divine  ; 

And  thus,  perturbed  and  vexed  with  hopes  and  fears. 

He  mused,  well-nigh  to  madness. 

Soon  he  cried, 
"Turn,  or  turn  not.  Destruction  dogs  my  heels  ! 
Slow  Death  confronts,  and  Famine  follows  me, 
Till,  like  some  snared  wild  beast,  bound  limb  and  limb, 
I  fall — ignobly  trapped  !     Nay,  better,  I  say, 
To  face  my  fate  with  sinews  braced  and  set 


232  P.  J.  HOLDSWORTH. 

And  make  a  manlike  end  !     Ay,  nobler  far ! 
God  help  us  :  I  must  seek  these  water  springs  !  " 

With  that,  Paul's  heart  seemed  some  Nvhit  comforted  ; 

For  wise  resolve  both  sanctifies  and  saves  ; 

Nor  do  the  clefts  and  caves  of  legioned  hell 

Hold  souls  more  surely  damned  than  wavering  men, 

Who,  like  light  leaves  'mid  windy  buffetings, 

Whirl  restlessly,  corrupting  day  by  day  ! 

Here,  gathering  up  what  strength  lay  still  unspent 
In  nerve  and  thew,  Paul  sought  the  patch  of  scrub, 
And,  hewing  down  broad  boughs  of  close-leaved  box, 
Sped  straightway  back  : — "  Because,"  said  he,  "  rough  winds 
May  rave  and  fret  the  self-same  hour  I  go. 
And  rains,  perchance,  may  pelt  persistently 
That  white  wan  face  (ah,  horrible  rains  !)  and  so 
To  match  these  possibilities,  my  hand 
Must  weatherfend  the  vvurley  !  " 

This  he  did. 
He  bound  the  thick  boughs  close  with  bushman's  skill, 
Till  not  a  gap  was  left  where  raging  showers 
Or  gusts  might  riot.     Over  all  he  stretched 
Strong  bands  of  cane-grass,  plaited  cunningly. 

By  this  high  noon  had  passed,  and  eve's  slant  sun 
With  weak  and  yellowing  gleam  just  topped  the  west. 

Now  stayed  Paul's  hand  till  dark ; — for  restful  night, 

In  arid  regions  makes  cool  journeyings. 

While  day's  bewildering  heats  baulk  man  and  beast. 


p.  J.  IiOLDSWORTII.  233 

He  loitered,  then,  till  dusk,  and  paced  the  camp, 
With  faint  but  kindling  hope,  in  search  of  stores 
For  necessary  travel. 

As  he  turned, 
The  sick  man  thrilled  convulsively,  and  lo, 
Half  rose,  stretched  forward,  clutched  the  flagon,  poured 
Their  scant  supply  in  Paul's  own  travelling-llask, 
And  swooning,  reeled  and  fell. 

But  Paul  beheld  ! 
That  small  sublime  deceit  Paul  saw,  unseen ; 
Tears  sluiced  his  eyes,  while,  grasping  Oscar's  flask 
He  ran  the  liquid  back,  and  scarcely  kept 
(To  tread  that  trackless  wilderness)  as  much 
As,  at  a  gulp,  might  ridge  the  smooth,  soft,  throat 
Of  some  grey-breasted  plover  parched  with  thirst. 

Then,  striding  where  the  man  lay,  motionless. 
He  sobbed: — •"  If  God's  grace  guide  me — O  my  friend — 
In  yon  great  range  may  huddle  billabongs  ; 
If  not, — thy  mightier  need  confutes  mine  own  ! " 

Therewith  he  placed  the  flask  by  Oscar, — aye, — 
And  kissed  his  white  wan  brows  with  that  strained  kiss, 
His  bloodless  brows  with  that  strained  passionate  kiss, — 
Which  strong  men,  in  a  lifetime  moved,  kiss  once  : 
And,  shouldering  back  the  fringe  of  leaves,  again 
He  gazed  at  Oscar;  then  heart-agonized. 
Crossed  the  green  threshold. 

Thus  went  Paul  his  way  ! 

{^0  Sovereign  Love  I  sublime  Uivixt  man  and  maid, — 
But  Christlike,  more  august,  'trcixt  man  and  man  ! 
O  Power  that  rules  broad  realms,  and  dans,  and  creeds, 


234  P.  /.  HOLDSWORTH. 

And  makes  the  urn-Id's  heart  jiibilatit !     O  Love, 
Majestic  Love, — ^/lan's  Jioblest  attribute, — 
Ln  poor  or  rich,  how  beautiful  art  thou  ! 
Ln  hind  or  king  how  comely  I      Yea,  from  Him 
{The  sinless,  slain,  miraculous  Nazarene) 
Whose  red  blood  ransomed  Man,  to  yon  sad  wretch, 
Who,  scorned  and  squalid,  starved  and  desolate, 
Feels,  yet,  compassionate  pangs, — tnost  beautiful ! 
O  pure,  O  ?nystic  Love,  that  thrives  and  spreads 
Like  some  strange  tree,  whose  far  roots  wrap  Ma?i^s  soul ; 
On  whose  vast  boughs  croivned  Seraphs  sit ;  whose  top 
Thrones  the  veiled  splendours  of  Omnipotence  /— 
ILoiv  tvonderful  art  thou  I     LLow  wonderful !) 

Through  night's  long  hours  Paul  trod  that  hopeless  land, 
Nor  neared  the  peaks  till  dawn.     Grim  hills  were  they 
Whose  huge  piled  blocks  seemed  poised  by  giant  hands 
In  high  perpetual  menace  of  mankind  ! 

Athwart  their  base  rough  gorges  stretched,  and  past 
Precipitous  steeps,  one  large  dry  gum-creek,  paved 
With  smooth  round  boulders,  and  worn  gravel-stones. 
Its  banks  were  loose  and  blistered.     Noon's  strong  heats 
Had  sucked  the  streams  that  once  hummed  hereabout 
True  desert  music.     So  Paul  drooped,  forlorn 
(Prone  on  a  sandstone  block)  with  head  that  bent 
As  bends  some  battered  bulrush,  maimed  by  rains. 
And  sapped  by  sudden  storms. 

But  what  boots  Grief 
When  Life  craves  action  !     Therefore  Paul  arose, 
And  searched  those  stubborn  sands  Avith  hot,  keen  eyes, 
For  some  small  glimpse  of  help. 


r.  J.  HOLDSWORTH.  235 

At  length  he  scanned 
A  faint  old  sheep-trail,  trending  northwardly  ; — 
And  as  a  cave-lost  man,  mid  murk  and  gloom, 
Grows  wild  with  hope,  and  hails  some  distant  gleam, 
So  Paul  exulted  then  !     With  frenzied  eyes, 
That  often  lost,  but  swiftlier  found,  the  tracks 
And  feet  that  faltered  rarely,  on  he  pressed. 
Till  daylight  waxed  and  waned,  and  dusk  warned  "  Hold." 

AVith  night  came  coupled  Dread. 

For  merciless  thirst 
Nipt  the  worn  wanderer,  till  he  drained  the  flask, 
And  hurled  the  shell  afar.     Then  Sleep, — soft  Sleep, — 
Kind,  pitiful  Sleep — crept  drowsily,  and  wrapt 
The  tough,  racked  body  in  dreamless  rest. 

Next  morn. 
Fierce  rose  the  sun,  and  smote  him, — smote  him,  sirs, — 
Till  pains  and  throbbings  roused  him,  whereupon 
Up  gathering  to  his  feet,  he  searched  anew. 
By  noon,  the  sandwaste  altered, — for  the  ground 
Grew  strewn  with  splintered,  flint-like  stones  that  took 
A  dull  and  tawny  hue  i'  the  strong  sun's  glare. 

To  plod  long  leagues  of  sand  seemed  hard ;  but  now, 
More  terrible  toils  were  Paul's,  his  wayworn  feet 
Fared  bitterly  on  sharp,  unstable  flints, 
And  slipped,  and  stumbled,  till  by  prints  of  blood, 
His  limping  way  was  land-marked. 

Still  brave  heart. 
His  strong  will  urged  him  onward  ;  for  he  deemed 
That  flints  might  form  that  grinding  stony  zone, 


236  P.  J.  HOLDSWORTH. 

Which  oft  in  sterile  regions  belts  the  plain  ; 
(Sand  flanked  on  either  side).     He  therefore  aimed 
To  cross  that  strip  with  speed,  and  haply  reach 
More  promising  plains  beyond. 

But  hope  unhelpcd 
Soon  famishes  man's  flesh, — and,  when  Fatigue 
Strangled  the  Trust  that  homed  within  his  heart 
Like  some  supernal  guardian,  Paul's  faint  strength 
Waned  with  the  westering  sun,  whose  nether  rim 
Low-poised  and  luminous,  reddened  on  the  verge 
Of  sands  far  reaching  westward.     As  it  sank, 
Prone,  on  the  plain,  he  swooned  without  a  cry, 
And  lay,  outstretched,  till  dawn. 

Throughout  that  night. 
Cool  dews  came  sallying  on  that  rain-starved  land, 
And  drenched  the  thick  rough  tufts  of  bristly  grass, 
AVhich  stemmed  like  quills  (and  thence  termed  porcupine) 
Thrust  hardily  thin  shoots  amid  the  flints 
And  sharp-edged  stones. 

Scon  fan-shaped  spread  the  dawn  : 
And  kinglike,  pranked  witli  pomps  of  ushering  clouds, 
The  crimson  cruel  sun  arose,  and  trailed 
Swift  through  that  sterile  plain  red  skirts  of  fire  ! 
Hell's  grip  was  on  his  heart  again  ! — Paul  stirred — 
Cried  muttered  cries,  and  woke  right  wearily, 
And  seeing  those  coarse  stalks  diamonded  with  dew. 
Yea,  webbed  and  wet  with  bearded  lllameuts, 
He  grovelled  lovv',  and  scooped  his  black  burnt  mouth 
To  suck  the  dwindling  drops,  whereat,  in  truth. 
One  small  wood-swallow  scarce  could  sip. 


r.  J.  IIOLDSWORTir.  237 

Driven  \vild, 
And  desperate  in  his  life's  supremest  need, 
Once  more  he  sta«j;i;rered  on. 


And  now  tlie  sun 
Climbed  to  the  topmost  heaven,  and  steadfastly 
Shone  with  consuming  strength,  until  the  air 
Glowed  like  a  thing  incorporate  with  the  flames 
That  scorched  and  stung  Paul's  brain.     I  tell  you,  sirs, 
Through  all  earth's  myriad  tribes,  God  saw  that  day 
No  mournfuller  sight  than  him  !     At  length,  alas, 
Both  plain  and  sky  seemed  suddenly  to  swirl 
And  plunge  down  dreamless  deeps  where  Famine,  Thirst, 
And  Anguish  sank  from  sight, — far  under  worlds 
Where  death  and  silence  reigned  Lords  Paramount. 

Even  that  swoon  passed ;  for  life  was  strong: — and  tlun 
Trooped  dead  delights  which  perished  days  had  known  ! 
For  dreamscapes  came  and  went  of  years  when  life 
Was  like  some  scroll,  fast-shut,  of  wizard-lore 
Mysterious  and  unknown,  in  dim  vague  dreams, 
He  roamed,  once  more,  through  haunts  of  innocent  youth. 
He  saw  Monaro's  peaks  whose  kingly  crests 
Bulk  skyward  from  the  vales  to  glance  at  God  : — ■ 
Hills  robed  in  light,  august,  majestical, — 
And  fruitful  vales,  whose  breadths  of  delicate  green 
Are  dear  to  nibbling  flocks,  and  herds  that  browse. 
In  visioncd  vista,  too,  its  broad  rich  plains 
And  loamy  meadows  stretched, — and,  chicflicst  one 
(By  Love,  that  subtle  sleuth-hound,  tracked)  wherein 
His  father's  homestead  stood,  like  some  fair  Ark 
'Mid  seas  of  billowing  grain. 


238  p.  J.  HOLDSWORTH. 

Beguiled  he  wept. 
Anon,  with  sleep  and  memory,  strode  his  sire, — ■ 
A  gracious  man,  grave-browed  with  care,  and  crowned 
With  meditative  age's  concomitant. 
Experience  ripely-garnered.     By  his  side, 
Girt  with  serenest  grace,  the  mother  gazed 
Regardfully.     Her  eyes  (two  mournful  moons 
Made  glorious  with  the  love-light  shrined  in  them) 
Babbled  tenderly  from  fond  clear  depths  life's  first 
Unfathomable  boon, — maternal  love  :  — 
That  old  perennial  spell  which  still  outcharms 
The  spurious  lesser  loves  that  fret  mankind. 

Again  came  mortal  pangs. 

Home's  golden  dreams 
And  pageants  bulked  once  more  to  things  of  dread 
That  nightmared  Paul.     Myriads  of  monstrous  hands. 
Gaunt,  claw-tipped,  seemed  to  writhe  out  from  fierce  skies, 
And  pluck  him  back  to  life  and  agony  j — 
At  which,  with  terrible  cries,  the  swooner  woke. 
He  lay  upon  the  plain,  with  limbs  diflused  ; — 
Half-tombed  by  drifting  sands.     One  down- stretched  hand 
Had  delved  a  hollowed  place  some  four  spans  deep, 
Athirst,  perchance,  to  grasp  beneath  parched  plains, 
Coolness,  denied  above.     Or,  haply  else 
As  though  the  soul's  continual  aches  had  warned 
The  weak,  faint  frame,  to  scoop  its  grassless  grave 
Past  reach  of  kites  and  prowling  warrigals. 

His  bare  right  arm  was  flesh-torn  to  the  bone, 
As  if  by  wild  beasts'  teeth ;  and,  on  the  wounds 
Swarmed  crawling  crowds  of  small  black  ants,  that  cleansed 
The  thick  and  oozing  blood-clots.     Aye,  amid 


p.  J.  HOLDSIVORTH.  239 

Delirious  hours,  self-lacerating  teeth 

Had  gnawed  Paul's  own  shrunk  limb  j  and  famished  lips 

Had  fastened  on  impoverished  veins  and  drawn 

The  oil  that  fuelled  life's  spasmodic  flame. 

(Though  wrought  in  madness,  this  was  horrible  !) 

And,  weakening  fast,  Paul  feebly  cloaked  his  face 

And  waited  for  the  end  ! 

He  felt  that  soon 
His  white  and  graveless  bones  would  front  the  sun 
In  gleaming  accusation  of  day's  wrath  : 
That  soon  his  dust  would  whirl  unsepulchred 
Nor  requiemed,  save  by  wails  from  those  quick  winds 
That  sink  and  swell  about  the  night's  mid-heart : 
And,  crushed  by  stress  of  suffering,  he  prayed 
The  hand  of  death — of  dumb  relentless  death — • 
Might  free  his  soul 

Even  this  the  enemy  neared  : 
A  ravenous  presence — vague,  intangible — 
That  blindly  sucked  his  life.     Its  clammy  breath 
(Like  dews  that  reek  and  drip  from  charnel  vaults) 
Froze  anguish  into  stupor  ;  and  sharp  films 
Bleared  his  faint,  heavy  eyelids  as  he  gasped — ■ 
**  Mother, — farewell, — farewell,— wife, — children," — 

"  Hold  ! 
Quick — quick — my  man  !  just  tilt  that  water  flask  ! 
Leftwards  :  now  drench  him  ! — so  ;  he's  coming  to  ! " 
And  Paul  strained  up ; — beheld  strong,  bearded  men, 
Heard  helpful  words,  and  swooned  to  nothingness  ! 


240  p.  J.  HOLDSWORTIL 

Of  Oscar,  Friends,  I  kept  my  tale's  straight  inarch, 

And  so  spared  speech  of  Oscar,  yet  when  Paul 

Plucked,  from  a  three  months'  fever,  what  remained 

Of  pristine  health  and  strength, — he  told  at  large, 

Of  desperate  perils,  faced  where  seldom  rain 

Cheers  the  baked  earth ; — told,  too,  of  wastelands  strewn 

With  keen-edged  shards,  and  fragmentary  flints. 

Till  rude,  rough,  bush-hands  wept  compassionate  tears. 

Ranging,  he  spoke  of  Oscar  ;  hunger  clung 

Pjeneath  the  bough-piled  gunyah.     But,  at  this. 

The  plain  rough  listeners  shook  half-doubtful  heads 

And  shrugged  incredulous  shoulder-shrugs  and  saying — 

"  Wild  fever's  seeds  yet  linger  in  the  man  !  " 

Put  forth  no  hand  to  help. 

Yet,  sirs,  they  lie. 
Who  say  Paul  closed  with  such  cold  counsellings  ; 
I  say  they  lie  !     Through  hazardous  months  of  pain, 
Paul  sought  his  comrade's  deathplace  night  and  day — 
But  where  these  naked  bones  blanch,  God,  who  knows 
Has  kept  from  friend  and  kin. 

Sirs,  I  AM  Paul  ! 


Abrupt,  he  ceased  : — and  grave  thoughts  chained  us  all 
Till  Reed  cried,  "  Boys  !  bestir,  the  tempest's  past." 
Whereat  each  slipped  to  saddle,  and  was  gone. 

So  ran  that  tale  of  risks  and  jeopardies 
Which  menace  man  amid  our  inland  wilds ; — 
And  though  Regret  feigns  hopefuller  things  and  sigh? 
"'Twas  Well  with  Oscar's  soul,''  I  know  (alas) 


r.  J.  IIOLDSWORTH.  241 

Earth's  banefullcst  pains  and  plagues  rain  thick  on  men 
That  waste  amid  untravelled  tracts,  consumed 
By  pestilent  Thirst,  and  past-cure  maladies. 

From  which  dire  straits  protect  us,  O  our  Lord, 
Who  perished  crosswise  on  the  tree  accursed  ! 


17 


242  R.  H.  HORNE. 


FROM   THE   SOUTH   SEA   SISTERS— A   LYRIC 

MASQUE. 

AN    ABORIGINAL    SONG-DANCE. 

From  creek  of  Worooboomi — boo  ! 
And  sheep-run  Woolagoola — goo  ! 

Come  Dibble-fellow  dancing  in  fog  ! 
All  over  mount  Wooloola — yah  ! 
And  earth-holes  of  Worondi — wah  ! 

Till  he  vanish  in  the  yellow  Wog-wog  ! 

Old  chief  of  Woolonara — nah  ! 

From  the  Great  River  banks,  far,  far  ! 

Hasten  here  with  spear  and  boomerang — 
Thus  to  snowy  Woologoomerang — 

For  White  Fellow  comes  to  make  war  ! 

A  sultry  haze  broods  o'er  the  silent  bush, 

And  horse  and  ox  move  slow  through  streaming  dust ; 

In  each  man's  face  is  seen  the  feverish  flush 

Of  hope,  or  of  success  ;  the  ceaseless  thirst 

For  gold,  which  pile  on  pile  no  more  allays 

Than  cravings  of  the  gourd  are  quelled  by  desert  rays. 

Our  shining  ore 
To  England's  wondering  shore 
Deep-laden  ships  in  safety  bore ; 
And  ships  and  men  and  gold  each  day  were  more  and  more. 


K.  //.  IIORNE.  243 

Ah,  many  a  varied  song  had  they, 

As  Fortune  bless'd  or  blank'd  their  way. 

Ye  South  Sea  Sisters  !  circhng  east,  west,  north  ! 

Unite  in  Federal  bonds  for  one  fixt  power, 
So  shall  ye  find  no  sudden  evil  hour 
Darken  your  future — check  your  prosperous  growth. 
Time  at  your  roots  hath  not  one  gnawing  tooth, 
Then  wisely  cherish  each  first  fruit  and  flower ; 
And,  all  unlike  the  common  slow  degrees 
Whereby  men  build  an  empire's  central  tower, 
Ye  may  fresh  models  give  for  histories — 
Spreading  o'er  half  this  Globe  of  lands  and  seas. 
New  trades,  new  facts,  new  hopes,  new  Nationalities. 


244  JOHN  HO  WELL, 


FROM  THE  CANTATA. 

A  FEW  short  rolling  years  have  fled 

Down  time's  abysmal  track, 
Since  o'er  this  pleasant  land  was  spread 

The  wild  uncultured  black. 
Now  far  beyond  fair  Torren's  stream, 

Mid  spires  and  gilded  domes, 
Like  the  sweet  visions  of  a  dream 
Bursts  on  the  raptured  light  the  gleam 

Of  myriad  happy  homes. 

The  shades  where  earth's  primeval  cloak 

Hung  round  the  native's  lair, 
Have  vanished  neath  the  woodman's  strokQ 

Bloomed  neath  the  ploughman's  share, 
Approving  Heaven  our  efforts  crowned  \ 

Hope  pointed  to  the  goal ; 
In  faith  a  trusty  friend  we  found ; 
Prudence  with  soft  endearment  wound 

Contentment  round  the  soul. 


JOHN  L.  KELL  Y.  H5 


TUHOTU'S  VISION. 


The  night  had  fallen  soft  and  calm, 
Wairoa  lay  in  slumber  deep  ; 

I  sang  in  peace  my  evening  psalm, 
But  something  said  I  must  not  sleep. 


Wrapped  in  my  rug,  I  sat  and  read 
From  Jeremiah's  warning  page, 

Nor  knew  the  midnight  hour  had  fled. 
So  closely  did  the  theme  engage. 


O'er  Israel's  pictured  woes  I  wept, 
And  sadness  o'er  my  soul  held  sway, 

And  yearning  feelings  o'er  me  crept 
For  brethren  in  this  later  day  ; 

I  know  not  if  I  waked  or  slept — 
If  hours  or  moments  passed  away  ! 


The  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead 

Who  sleep  on  Tarawera  Hill, 
Innumerous  hovered  round  my  head  ; 

I  knew  their  presence  boded  ill ; 
But  one  was  by  my  side  who  said 

To  my  heart-throbbings,  "  Peace,  be  still 


246  JOHN  L.  KELL  V. 

I  felt  this  visit  was  the  sign 

Of  trouble  in  these  sinful  years  ; 

But  in  an  ecstasy  divine 

I  soon  forgot  earth's  cares  and  fears. 

Communing  with  my  visitants, 

No  more  my  fearful  bosom  pants  ; 

My  eyes  are  tipped  with  heavenly  light. 

And  clear  as  day  appears  the  night. 

"  Come  forth  with  us,"  the  spirits  say, 

And  in  spirit  I  haste  with  them  away  ! 

Out  'neath  the  clear  and  starlit  sky. 

With  the  villages  slumbering  peacefully 

On  the  marge  of  Tarawera  Lake, 

Our  way  through  the  pure  midnight  we  take. 

With  one  consent  we  stay  our  flight. 
And  gaze,  as  from  a  mountain  height, 
Down  on  Mahana's  steaming  flood. 
Near  that  enchanted  spot  where  stood 
Those  terraced  pathways  to  the  sky — ■ 
Twin  stairways  that  the  gods  might  mount — 
To  Kupuarangi's  cloudy  fount, 
Tarata's  pure  white  tracery  ! 

Mahana's  Lake  this  night  of  June, 
Lies  placid  beneath  the  crescent  moon 
Save  in  the  central  part,  where  sleeps 
The  taniwha,  in  troubled  dreams, 
And  ever  restless  turning,  seems 
To  agitate  the  boiling  deeps  ! 
See,  how  he  tosses  and  tumbles, 
Hark  how  he  mutters  and  grumbles. 


JOHN  L.  KELLY.  247 

And  shakes  his  clanking  chain  ! 
Wild  in  his  dream  he  is  dreaming, 
For  the  lake  is  boiling  and  steaming, 
And  hissing  and  spitting  amain  ! 

A  fiercer  struggle  and  stronger  ! 

His  bonds  contain  him  no  longer ; 

From  his  dream  the  monster  wakes — 

AV'^akes  with  a  thunderous  roar, 

Leaps  with  a  force  that  shakes 

The  lake's  firm  bottom  and  shore  ! 

Through  the  earth,  quick  cleft  in  twain 

He  sinks  to  his  fiery  home ; 

The  water  follows  amain — 

There's  a  rushing  and  gleaming  of  foam, 

And  Mahana's  Lake  so  blue 

Has  vanished  like  the  morning  dew  ! 

Yes,  the  beauteous  lake  has  for  ever  fled  : 
Where  its  waters  smiled  there  rise  instead 
Thick  clouds  of  smoke,  white  wreaths  of  steam, 
While  in  the  midst  the  red  flames  gleam. 

A  moment's  silence,  and  once  more 
Earth  trembles  to  the  monster's  roar, 

As,  bursting  from  his  den, 
He  cleaves  high  Tarawera  Hill 
To  wreak  his  wild  and  evil  will 

On  weak  and  sinful  nun  ! 

Bursts  Tarawera,  ^Vahanga, 
Bursts  Ruawahia's  height 


2  4S  JOHN  L.  KELLY. 

Into  flames  that  illume  the  night ; 
The  earth,  as  in  fits  of  anger, 
Vomits,  with  terrible  clangour, 
Mud  and  lava  and  rocks. 
While,  answering  to  the  shocks. 
The  heavens  re-bellow  in  might. 


I  see  men  wake  from  their  sleeping 
To  praying  and  cursing  and  weeping  1 
O  Heaven,  the  strong  man  falls. 
Struck  down  in  the  throes  of  death  ; 
The  child  to  the  mother  calls — 
Poor  mother  !  her  last  faint  breath 
Is  spent  in  a  fruitless  prayer 
For  the  son  of  her  love  and  care  ! 
The  sire  and  the  daughter  he  cherished- 

The  chief  and  the  crouching  slave — ■ 
The  strong  and  the  weak  have  perished, 

And  sleep  in  one  common  grave  ! 


How  sad  was  Rangihcua's  fate  ! 
(Oft  did  he  boast  with  mien  elate— 
'J'oll-taking  at  the  terrace  gate. 
Of  all  his  wealth  and  power  !) 
On  Puwai's  Isle  I  saw  him  sleep 
AVhen  hill  broke  from  the  placid  deep  j 
For  Ngatitoi  lament  and  weep  ! — 

All  perished  in  that  hour, 
When  tepid  bath  and  terraced  steep 

Were  whelmed  in  fiery  shower  ! 


JOHN  L.  KELL  V.  249 

Fell  Ruin  wraps  each  dwelling-place 

Of  people  of  my  trif)e  and  race ; 

A  hundred  of  my  kinsmen  die 

In  fear  and  mortal  agony — 

Some  gulfed  in  waves  that  boil  and  hiss, 

Some  slain  by  bolts  of  living  fire, 
Some  plunged  into  a  dark  abyss. 

While  some  of  Terror's  pangs  expire  ! 


I  gaze  upon  a  little  hut 

Where  thickest  fall  the  mud  and  rocks ; 
^\'ithin  is  one  whose  eyes  are  shut, 

Who  takes  no  note  of  Earthquake  shocks, 
Nor  seems  to  heed  the  fearful  rain 
That  on  the  groaning  roof-tree  beats. 
But  something  to  himself  repeats. 
As  one  who  wanders  in  his  brain  ! 


'Tis  weirdly  strange ;  but  as  I  look 
On  him  who  sits  and  clasps  his  book. 

My  own  the  form  and  features  seem 
The  hut  is  mine  ;  yet  am  not  I 
Out  'neath  the  lurid,  burning  sky  ? 

Am  I  awake,  or  do  I  dream  ? 


My  mind  is  dark,  I  cannot  say 
If  Fact  or  Fantasy  held  sway  ; 
I  fain  would  tell  the  wondrous  lore 
That  Arawa's  grey  fathers  told 


2SO  JOHN  L.  KELLY. 

To  me  on  Reinga's  awful  shore  ; 
All  that  shall  be,  and  was  before, 
Was  to  my  vision  clear  unrolled. 

I  live,  the  last  of  all  my  tribe, 

And  must  not  lock  within  my  breast 
The  things  they  gave  me  to  describe — 

But  leave  me  now,  for  I  would  rest. 


HENRY  KENDALL,  251 


THE  MUSE  OF  AUSTRALIA. 

Where  the  pines  with  the  eagles  are  nestled  in  rifts, 

And  the  torrent  leaps  down  to  the  surges, 
I  have  followed  her,  clambering  over  the  cliffs, 

By  the  chasms  and  moon-haunted  verges. 
I  know  she  is  fair  as  the  angels  are  fair, 

For  have  I  not  caught  a  faint  glimpse  of  her  there, 
A  glimpse  of  her  face  and  her  glittering  hair, 

And  a  hand  with  the  Harp  of  Australia  ? 
I  never  can  reach  you  to  hear  the  sweet  voice 

So  full  with  the  music  of  fountains  ! 
Oh,  when  will  you  meet  with  that  soul  of  your  choice 

Who  will  lead  you  down  here  from  the  mountains  ? 
A  lyre-bird  lit  on  a  shimmering  space,' 

It  dazzled  mine  eyes,  and  I  turned  from  the  place 
And  wept  in  the  dark  for  a  glorious  face 

And  a  hand  with  the  Harp  of  Australia. 


252  BENRV  KENDALL. 


MOUNTAINS. 

Rifted   mountains,    dad   with   forests,    girded   round    by 

gleaming  pines, 
Where    the    morning,    like    an    angel,    robed   in    golden 

splendour  shines ; 
Shimmering  mountains,  throwing  downward  on  the  slopes  a 

mazy  glare, 
Where  the  noonday  glory  sails  through  gulfs  of  calm  and 

glittering  air ; 
Stately  mountains,  high  and  hoary,  piled  with    blocks  of 

amber  cloud. 
Where   the   fading   twilight    lingers   when    the   winds    are 

wailing  loud  ; 
Grand  old  mountains,  overbeetling   brawling   brooks   and 

deep  ravines. 
Where  the  moonshine,  pale  und  mournful,  flows  on  rocks 

and  evergreens. 
Underneath   these   regal    ridges, — underneath   the    gnarly 

trees, 
I  am  sitting,  lonely-hearted,  listening  to  a  lonely  breeze  ! 
Sitting  by  an  ancient  casement,  casting   many  a  longing 

look 
Out  across  the  hazy  gloaming — out  beyond  the  brawling 

brook ; 
Over   pathways   leading   skyward— over  crag  and  swelling 

cone. 
Past  long  hillocks  looking  like  to  waves  of  ocean  turned  to 

stone ; 


HENR  y  KENDALL.  253 

Yearning   for   a   bliss    unworldly,  yearning  for   a   brighter 

change, 
Yearning  for  the  mystic  Aidcnn  built  beyond  this  mountain 

range. 


Happy  years,  amongst  these  valleys,  happy  years  have  come 

and  gone, 
And  my  youthful  hopes  and  friendships  withered  with  them 

one  by  one  ; 
Days   and   moments   bearing  onward  many  a  bright  and 

beauteous  dream — 
All  have  passed  me  like  to  sunstreaks  flying  down  a  distant 

stream. 
Oh,  the  love  returned  by  loved  ones  !     Oh,  the  faces  that  I 

knew  ! 
Oh,  the  wrecks  of  fond  affection  !     Oh,  the  hearts  so  warm 

and  true  ! 
But  their  voices  I  remember,  and  a  something  lingers  still, 
Like  a  dying  echo  roaming  sadly  round  a  far-off  hill. 


I  would  sojourn  here  contented,  tranquil  as  I  was  of  yore. 
And  would  never  wish  to  clamber,  seeking  for  an  unknown 

shore ; 
I  have  dwelt  within  this  cottage  twenty  summers,  and  minj 

eyes 
Never  wandered  erewhile  round  in  search  of  undiscovered 

skies  ; 
But  a  Spirit  sits   beside  me,  veiled  in  robes  of  dazzling 

white. 
And  a  dear  one's  whisper  wakens  with  the  symphonies  of 

night ; 


254  HENR  V  KENDA LL. 

And  a  low  sad  music  cometh,  borne  along  on  windy  wings, 
Like  a  strain  familiar  rising   from  a  maze  of  slumbering 
springs. 


And  the  Spirit,  by  my  window,  speaketh  to  my  restless  soul, 

Telling  of  the  clime  she  came  from,  where  the  silent 
moments  roll; 

Telling  of  the  bourn  mysterious,  where  the  sunny  summers 
flee. 

Cliffs  and  coasts,  by  man  untrodden,  ridging  round  a  ship- 
less  sea. 

There  the  years  of  yore  are  blooming,  there  departed  life- 
dreams  dwell ; 

There  the  faces  beam  with  gladness  that  I  loved  in  youth 
so  well ; 

There  the  songs  of  childhood  travel  over  wave-worn  steep 
and  strand, 

Over  dale  and  upland  stretching  out  behind  this  mountain 
land. 


Lovely  Being,  can  a  mortal,  weary  of  this  changeless  scene. 
Cross  these  cloudy  summits  to  the  land  where  man  hath 

never  been  ? 
Can  he  find  a  pathway  leading  through  that  wildering  mass 

of  pines. 
So  that   he  shall  reach  the  country  where   ethereal   glory 

shines  ; 
So  that  he  may  glance  at  waters  never  dark  with  coming 

ships  ; 
Hearing  round  him  gentle  language  floating  from  angelic 

lips; 


HENRY  KENDALL.  255 

Casting  off  his  earthly  fetters,  Hving  there  for  evermore ; 
All  the  blooms  of  beauty  near  him,  gleaming  on  that  quiet 

shore  ? 
**  Ere  you  quit  this  ancient  casement,  tell  me,  is  it  well  to 

yearn 
For  the  evanescent  visions  vanished  never  to  return  ? 
Is  it  well  that  I  should  wish  to   leave  this  dreary  world 

behind, 
Seeking  for  your  fair  Utopia,  which  perchance  I  may  not 

find? 
Passing  through  a  gloomy  forest,  scaling  steeps  like  prison 

walls, 
Where  the  scanty  sunshine  wavers,  and  the  moonlight  seldom 

falls  ? 
Oh,  the   feelings   reawakened !     Oh,  the    hopes   of  loftier 

range  ! 
Is   it   well,  thou   friendly  Being,  well   to  wish    for  such   a 

change  ?  " 
But  the  Spirit  answers  nothing  !     And  the  dazzling  mantle 

fades, 
And  a  wailing  whisper  wanders  out    from   dismal  sea- side 

shades ! 
*'  Lo  the  trees  are  moaning  loudly,  underneath  their  hood-like 

shrouds. 
And    the    arch   above    us    darkens,    scarred    with    ragged 

thunder-clouds  ! " 
But  the  Spirit  answers  nothing  !     And  I  linger  all  alone. 
Gazing  through  the  moony  vapours  where  the  lovely  Dream 

has  flown ; 
And  my  heart  is  beating^  sadly,  and    the   music   waxeth 

faint. 
Sailing  up  to  holy  heaven,  like  the  anthems  of  a  saint. 


>S(}  HENRY  KENDALL. 


THE  RAIN  COMES  SOBBINCz  TO  THE  DOOR. 

The  night  grows  dark,  and  weird,  and  cold ;  and  thick  drops 

patter  on  the  pane  ; 
There  comes  a  waihng  from  the  sea ;  the  wind  is  weary  of 

the  rain. 
The  red  coals  click  beneath  the  flame ;  and  see,  with  slow 

and  silent  feet, 
The  hooded  shadows  cross  the  woods  to  where  the  twilight 

waters  beat ! 
Now   fanwise    from   the    ruddy   fire,    a    brilliance   sweeps 

athwart  the  floor, 
As,  streaming  down  the  lattices,  the  rain  comes  sobbing  to 

door  : 

As,  streaming  down  ihe  lattices. 
The  rain  comes  sobbing  to  the  door. 


Dull  echoes  round  the  casement  fall,  and  through  the  empty 

chambers  go. 
Like  forms  unseen  whom  we  can  hear  on  tip-toe  stealing  to 

and  fro ; 
But  fill  your  glasses  to  the  brim,  and,  through  a  mist  of 

smiles  and  tears, 
Our  eyes  shall  tell  how  much  we  love  to  toast  the  shades  of 

other  years  ! 
And  hither  they  will  flock  again,  the  ghosts  of  things  that 

are  no  more, 


UENR  Y  KENDALL.  257 

While,  streaming  down  the  lattices,  the  rain  comes  sobbing 
to  the  door  : 

While,  streaming  down  the  lattices, 
The  rain  comes  sobbing  to  the  door. 

The  tempest-trodden  wastelands  moan,  the  trees  are  thresh- 
ing at  the  blast, 

And   now   they  come,  the   pallid   shapes  of  dreams   that 
perished  in  the  past ; 

And,  when  we  lift  the  windows  up,  a  smothered  whisper 
round  us  strays, 

Like  some  lone  wandering  voice  from  graves  that  hold  the 
wrecks  of  bygone  days. 

I  tell  you  that  I  love  the  storm,  for  think  we  not  of  tJwughts 
of  yore, 

When,  streaming  down  the  lattices,  the  rain  comes  sobbing 
to  the  door? 

When,  streaming  down  the  lattices, 
The  rain  comes  sobbing  to  the  door  ? 

We'll  drink  to  those  we  sadly  miss,  and  sing  some  mournful 

song  we  know'. 
Since  they  may  chance  to  hear  it  all,  and  mUse  on  friends 

they've  left  below. 
Who  knows — if  souls  in  bliss  cah  leave  the  borders  of  their 

Eden-home — 
But  that  some  loving  one  may  now  about   the  ancient 

threshold  roam  ? 
Oh  !  like  an  exile,  he  would  hail  a  glimpse  of  the  familiar  floor, 
Though,  streaming  down  the  lattices,  the  rain  comes  sobbing 
to  the  door. 

Though,  streaming  down  the  lattices, 

The  rain  comes  sobbing  to  the  doon 

18 


2  5  8  HENR  V  KENDA  LL. 


PREFATORY   SONNE  FS. 


I  PURPOSED  once  to  take  my  pen  and  write, 
Not  songs,  like  some,  tormented  and  a\Yry 
With  passion,  but  a  cunning  harmony 

Of  words  and  music  caught  from  glen  and  height, 

And  lucid  colours  born  of  woodland  light. 

And  shining  places  where  the  sea-streams  lie ; 

But  this  was  when  the  heat  of  youth  glowed  white, 
And  since  I've  put  the  faded  purpose  by. 

I  have  no  faultless  fruits  to  offer  you 

Who  read  this  book;  but  certain  syllables 
Herein  are  borrowed  from  unfooted  dells 

And  secret  hollows  dear  to  noontide  dew ; 

And  these  at  least,  though  far  between  and  few, 
May  catch  the  sense  like  subtle  forest  spells. 


II. 

So  take  these  kindly,  even  though  there  be 
Some  notes  that  unto  other  lyres  belong, 
Stray  echoes  from  the  elder  sons  of  song  ; 

And  think  how  from  its  neighbouring  native  sea 

The  pensive  shell  doth  borrow  melody. 
I  would  not  do  the  lordly  masters  wrong 
By  filching  fair  words  from  the  shining  throng 

Whose  music  haunts  me  as  the  wind  a  tree ! 


HENR  V  KENDALL.  2  5  9 

Lo,  when  a  stranger,  in  soft  Syrian  glooms 

Shot  through  with  sunset,  treads  the  cedar  dells, 
And  hears  the  breezy  ring  of  elfin  bells 

Far  down  by  where  the  white-haired  cataract  booms, 
He,  faint  with  sweetness  caught  from  forest  smells, 

Bears  thence,  unwitting,  plunder  of  perfumes. 


26o  HENRY  KENDALL. 


SITTING   BY  THE   FIRE. 

Ah  !  the  solace  in  the  sitting, 

Sitting  by  the  fire, 
When  the  wind  without  is  calhng, 
And  the  fourfold  clouds  are  falling, 
With  the  rain-racks  intermitting 

Over  slope  and  spire. 
Ah  !  the  solace  in  the  sitting, 

Sitting  by  the  fire. 

Then,  and  then,  a  man  may  ponder, 

Sitting  by  the  fire, 
Over  fair  far  days,  and  faces 
Shining  in  sweet-coloured  places 
Ere  the  thunder  broke  asunder 

Life  and  dear  Desire. 
Thus,  and  thus,  a  man  may  ponder, 

Sitting  by  the  fire. 

Waifs  of  song  pursue,  perplex  me, 
Sitting  by  the  fire  : 

Just  a  note,  and  lo,  the  change  then  ! 

Like  a  child,  I  turn  and  range  then. 

Till  a  shadow  starts  to  vex  me — 
Passion's  wasted  pyre. 

So  do  songs  pursue,  perplex  me, 
Sitting  by  the  fire. 


HENRY  KENDALL.  261 

Night  by  night,  the  old,  old  story, 

Sitting  by  the  fire ; 
Night  by  night  the  dead  leaves  grieve  me  ; 
Ah  !  the  touch  when  youth  shall  leave  me, 
Like  my  fathers,  shrunken,  hoary. 

With  the  years  that  tire. 
Night  by  night,  that  old,  old  story, 

Sitting  by  the  fire. 

Sing  for  slumber,  sister  Clara, 

Sitting  by  the  fire. 
I  could  hide  my  head  and  sleep  now, 
Far  from  those  who  laugh  and  weep  now. 
Like  a  trammelled,  faint  wayfarer, 

'Neath  yon  mountain-spire. 
Sing  for  slumber,  sister  Clara, 

Sitting  by  the  fire. 


262  HENRY  KENDALL. 


"THE  WARRIGAL"  (WILD    DOG). 

Through  forest  boles  the  storm-wind  rolls, 

Vext  of  the  sea-driven  rain, 
And  up  in  the  clift,  through  many  a  rift, 

The  voices  of  torrents  complain. 
The  sad  marsh-fowl  and  the  lonely  owl 

Are  heard  in  the  fog-wreaths  grey, 
When  the  Warrigal  wakes,  and  listens,  and  takes 

To  the  woods  that  shelter  the  prey. 

In  the  gully-deeps  the  blind  creek  sleeps, 

And  the  silver,  showery  moon 
Glides  over  the  hills  and  floats  and  fills, 

And  dreams  in  the  dark  lagoon  ; 
While  halting  hard  by  the  station  yard. 

Aghast  at  the  hut-flame  nigh, 
The  Warrigal  yells,  and  the  flats  and  fells 

Are  loud  with  his  dismal  cry. 

On  the  toj^most  peak  of  mountains  bleak 

The  south  wind  sobs,  and  strays 
Through  moaning  pine  and  turpentine 

And  the  rippling  runnel  ways ; 
And  strong  streams  flow,  and  great  mists  go. 

Where  the  Warrigal  starts  to  hear 
The  watchdog's  bark  break  sharp  in  the  dark, 

And  flees  like  a  phantom  of  Fear  ! 


HENRY  KENDALL.  263 

The  swift  rains  beat,  and  the  thunders  fleet 

On  the  wings  of  the  fiery  gale, 
And  down  in  the  glen  of  pool  and  ^cxs. 

The  wild  gums  whistle  and  wail, 
As  over  the  plains,  and  past  the  chains 

Of  waterholes  glimmering  deep, 
The  Warrigal  flies  from  the  shepherd's  cries 

And  the  clamour  of  dogs  and  sheep. 

The  A\'arrigars  lair  is  pent  in  bare 

Black  rocks  at  the  gorge's  mouth  ; 
It  is  set  in  ways  where  Summer  strays 

With  the  sprites  of  flame  and  drouth  ; 
But  when  the  heights  are  touched  with  lights 

Of  hoarfrost,  sleet,  and  shine, 
llis  bed  is  made  of  the  deatl  grass-blade 

And  the  leaves  of  the  windy  pine. 

He  roves  through  the  lands  of  sultry  sand.^, 

He  hunts  in  the  iron  range, 
Untamed  as  the  surge  of  the  far  sea  verge, 

And  fierce  and  fickle  and  strange. 
The  white  man's  track  and  the  haunts  of  the  black 

He  shuns,  and  shudders  to  see  ; 
For  his  joy  he  tastes  in  lonely  wastes, 

Where  his  mates  are  torrent  and  tree. 


2  64  IlEXRV  KENDALL, 


BELL-BIRDS. 

By  the  channels  of  coolness  the  echoes  are  calling, 
And  down  the  dim  gorges  I  hear  the  creek  falling ; 
It  lives  in  the  mountain  where  moss  and  the  sedges 
Touch  with  their  beauty  the  banks  and  the  ledges. 
Through  breaks  of  the  cedar  and  sycamore  bowers 
Struggles  the  light  that  is  love  to  the  flowers  ; 
And,  softer  than  slumber,  and  sweeter  than  singing, 
The  notes  of  the  bell-birds  are  running  and  ringing. 

The  silver-voiced  bell-birds,  the  darlings  of  day-time. 
They  sing  in  September  their  songs  of  the  May-time  ; 
When  shadows  wax  strong,  and  thunder-bolts  hurtle, 
They  hide  with  their  fear  in  the  leaves  of  the  myrtle ; 
When  rain  and  the  sunbeams  shine  mingled  together, 
They  start  up  like  fairies  that  follow  fair  weather ; 
And  straightway,  the  hues  of  their  feathers,  unfolden 
Are  the  green  and  the  purple,  the  blue  and  the  golden. 

October,  the  maiden  of  bright  yellow  tresses, 
Loiters  for  love  in  these  cool  wildernesses  ; 
Loiters,  knee-deep,  in  the  grasses  to  listen, 
Where  dripping  rocks  gleam  and  the  leafy  pools  glisten 
Then  is  the  time  when  the  water-moons  splendid 
Break  with  their  gold,  and  are  scattered  or  blended 
Over  the  creeks,  till  the  woodlands  have  warning 
Of  songs  of  the  bell-bird  and  wings  of  the  moraing. 


HENR  V  KENDALL.  265 

Welcome  as  waters  unkissed  by  the  summers 
Are  the  voices  of  bell-birds  to  thirsty  far-comers. 
When  fiery  December  sets  foot  in  the  forest, 
And  the  need  of  the  wayfarer  presses  the  sorest, 
Pent  in  the  ridges  for  ever  and  ever, 
The  bell-birds  direct  him  to  spring  and  to  river, 
With  ring  and  with  ripple,  like  runnels  whose  torrents 
Are  toned  by  the  pebbles  and  leaves  in  the  currents. 

Often  I  sit,  looking  back  to  a  childhood 

Mixt  with  the  sights  and  the  sounds  of  the  wildwood. 

Longing  for  power  and  the  sweetness  to  fashion 

Lyrics  with  beats  like  the  heart-beats  of  passion  ; — 

Songs  interwoven  of  lights  and  of  laughters 

Borrowed  from  bell-birds  in  far  forest  rafters  ; 

So  I  might  keep  in  the  city  and  alleys 

The  beauty  and  strength  of  the  deep  mountain  valleys, 

Charming  to  slumber  the  pain  of  my  losses 

With  glimpses  of  creeks  and  a  vision  of  mosses. 


2  66  HENRY  KENDALL. 


AT  EUROMA. 

They  built  his  mound  in  the  rough  red  ground 

By  the  dip  of  a  desert  dell, 
Where  all  things  sweet  are  killed  by  the  heat, 

And  scattered  o'er  flat  and  fell. 
In  a  burning  zone  they  left  him  alone, 

Past  the  uttermost  western  plain  ; 
And  the  nightfall  dim  heard  his  funeral  hymn 

In  the  voices  of  wind  and  rain. 

The  songs  austere  of  the  forests  drear, 

And  the  echoes  of  clift  and  cave, 
When  the  dark  is  keen  where  the  storm  hath  been, 

Fleet  over  the  far  away  grave. 
And  through  the  days  when  the  torrid  rays 

Strike  down  in  a  coppery  gloom, 
Some  spirit  grieves  in  the  perished  leaves 

Whose  theme  is  that  desolate  tomb. 

No  human  foot  or  paw  of  brute 

Halts  now  where  the  stranger  sleeps  ; 
But  cloud  and  star  his  fellows  are. 

And  the  rain  that  sobs  and  weeps. 
The  dingo  yells  by  the  far  iron  fells, 

The  plover  is  loud  in  the  range, 
But  they  never  come  near  the  slumberer  here, 

W^hose  rest  is  a  rest  without  change. 


HENR  y  KENDA LL.  267 

Ah  !  in  his  life  had  he  mother  or  wife 

To  wait  for  his  steps  on  the  floor  ? 
Did  beauty  wax  dim  while  watching  for  him 

Who  passed  through  the  threshold  no  more  ? 
Doth  it  trouble  his  head  ?  He  is  one  with  the  dead  ; 

He  lies  by  the  alien  streams  ; 
And  sweeter  than  sleep  is  death  that  is  deep 

And  unvexed  by  the  lordship  of  dreams. 


J 68  HENR  Y  KENDALL, 


SEPTEMBER  IN  AUSTRALIA. 

Grey  winter  hath  gone  hke  a  wearisome  guest, 

And,  behold,  for  repayment, 
September  comes  in  with  the  wind  of  the  west, 

And  the  spring  in  her  raiment  ! 
The  ways  of  the  frost  have  been  filled  of  the  flowers, 

While  the  forest  discovers 
Wild  wings,  with  the  halo  of  hyaline  hours. 

And  the  music  of  lovers. 

September,  the  maid  with  the  swift,  silver  feet. 

She  glides,  and  she  graces 
The  valleys  of  coolness,  the  slopes  of  the  heat, 

With  her  blossomy  traces. 
Sweet  month,  with  a  mouth  that  is  made  of  a  rose, 

She  lightens  and  lingers 
In  spots  where  the  harp  of  the  evening  glows, 

Attuned  by  her  fingers. 

The  stream  from  its  home  in  the  hollow  hill  slips 

In  a  darling  old  fashion  ; 
And  the  day  goeth  down  with  a  song  on  its  lips 

Whose  key-note  is  passion. 
Far  out  in  the  fierce,  bitter  front  of  the  sea 

I  stand,  and  remember 
Dead  things  that  were  brothers  and  sisters  of  thee, 

Resplendent  September. 


HENR  Y  KENDALL.  269 

The  west,  when  it  blows  at  the  fall  of  the  noon, 

And  beats  on  the  beaches, 
Is  filled  with  a  tender  and  tremulous  tune 

That  touches  and  teaches  ; 
The  stories  of  Youth,  of  the  burden  of  Time, 

And  the  death  of  devotion, 
Come  back  with  the  wind,  and  are  themes  of  the  rhyme 

In  the  waves  of  the  ocean. 


We,  having  a  secret  to  others  unknown 

In  the  cool  mountain  mosses, 
May  whisper  together,  September,  alone 

Of  our  loves  and  our  losses. 
One  word  for  her  beauty,  and  one  for  the  grace 

She  gave  to  the  hours  ; 
And  then  we  may  kiss  her,  and  suffer  her  face 

To  sleep  with  the  flowers. 

High  places  that  knew  of  the  gold  and  the  white 

On  the  forehead  of  morning, 
Now  darken  and  quake,  and  the  steps  of  the  Night 

Are  heavy  with  warning  ! 
Her  voice  in  the  distance  is  lofty  and  loud, 

Through  its  echoing  gorges  ; 
She  hath  hidden  her  eyes  in  a  mantle  of  cloud, 

And  her  feet  in  the  surges  ! 

On  the  top  of  the  hills,  on  the  turreted  cones — 

Chief  temples  of  thunder — 
The  gale,  like  a  ghost  in  the  middle  watch  means, 

Glidincr  over  and  under. 


270  HENRY  KENDALL. 

The  sea,  flying  white  through  the  rack  and  the  rain, 

Leapeth  wild  to  the  forelands  ; 
And  the  plover,  whose  cry  is  like  passion  with  pain, 

Complains  in  the  moorlands. 

Oh,  season  of  changes,  of  shadow  and  shine, 

September  the  splendid  ! 
My  song  hath  no  music  to  mingle  with  thine, 

And  its  burden  is  ended  ; 
But  thou,  being  born  of  the  winds  and  the  sun, 

By  mountain,  by  river, 
May  lighten  and  listen,  and  loiter  and  run, 

With  thy  voices  for  ever. 


HENR  V  KENDAL  L  271 


MOONI. 

(Wiiitcn  in  ih.e  shadow  of  1S72.) 

Ah,  to  be  by  Mooni  now  ! 
Where  the  great  dark  hills  of  wonder, 
Scarred  with  storm  and  cleft  asunder 
By  the  strong  sword  of  the  thunder, 

Make  a  night  on  morning's  brow  ! 
Just  to  stand  where  Nature's  face  is 
Flushed  with  power  in  forest  places — 
A\'here  of  God  authentic  trace  is — 

Ah,  to  be  by  Mooni  now  ! 

Just  to  be  by  Mooni's  springs  ! 
""J'here  to  stand,  the  shining  sharer 
Of  that  larger  life,  and  rarer 
Beauty,  caught  from  beauty  fairer 

Than  the  human  face  of  things  ! 
Soul  of  mine,  from  sin  abhorrent. 
Fain  would  hide  by  flashing  current, 
Like  a  sister  of  the  torrent, 

Far  away  by  Mooni's  springs. 

He  that  is  by  Mooni  now 
Sees  the  water  sapphires  gleaming 
Where  the  river  spirit,  dreaming. 
Sleeps  by  fall  and  fountain  streaming. 

Under  lute  of  leaf  and  bough  ! 


?72  HENRY  KENDALL, 

Hears,  where  stamp  of  storm  with  stress  is, 
Psalms  from  unseen  wildernesses, 
Deep  amongst  far  hill-recesses — 
He  that  is  by  Mooni  now. 


Yea,  for  him  by  Mooni's  marge 
Sings  the  yellow-haired  September, 
With  the  face  the  gods  remember 
When  the  ridge  is  burnt  to  ember, 

And  the  dumb  sea  chains  the  barge  ! 
Where  the  mount  like  molten  brass  is, 
Down  beneath  fern-feathered  passes, 
Noonday  dew  in  cool  green  grasses 

Gleams  on  him  by  Mooni's  marge. 


Who  that  dwells  by  Mooni  yet 
Feels,  in  flowerful  forest  arches 
Smiting  wings  and  breath  that  parches 
Where  strong  summer's  path  of  march  is, 

And  the  suns  in  thunder  set  ? 
Housed  beneath  the  gracious  kirtle 
Of  the  shadowy  water-myrtle, 
Winds  may  hiss  with  heat,  and  hurtle — ■ 

He  is  safe  by  Mooni  yet ! 


Days  there  were  when  he  who  sings 
(Dumb  so  long  through  passion's  losses) 
Stood  where  Mooni's  water  crosses 
Shining  tracts  of  green-haired  mosses, 

Like  a  soul  with  radiant  wings  j 


HENR  y  KENDA  LL,  273 

Then  the  psahii  the  wind  rehearses — 
Then  the  song  the  stream  disperses 
Lent  a  beauty  to  his  verses 
Who  to-night  of  Mooni  sings. 


Ah,  the  theme — the  sad,  gray  theme  ! 
Certain  days  are  not  above  me, 
Certain  hearts  have  ceased  to  love  me, 
Certain  fancies  fail  to  move  me 

Like  the  affluent  morning  dream. 
Head  whereon  the  white  is  stealing, 
Heart,  whose  hurts  are  past  all  healing, 
Where  is  now  the  first  pure  feeling  ? 

Ah,  the  theme — the  sad,  gray  theme  ! 


Sin  and  shame  have  left  their  trace  ! 
He  who  mocks  the  mighty,  gracious 
Love  of  Christ,  with  eyes  audacious, 
Hunting  after  fires  fallacious, 

\Vears  the  issue  in  his  face. 
Soul  that  flouted  gift  and  giver. 
Like  the  broken  Persian  river. 
Thou  hast  lost  thy  strength  for  ever  ! 

Sin  and  shame  have  left  their  trace. 


In  the  years  that  used  to  be 
When  the  large,  supreme  occasion 
Brought  the  life  of  inspiration 
Like  a  God's  transfiguration. 

Was  the  shining  change  in  me. 
19 


2  74  HENR  V  KENDALL. 

Then,  where  Mooni's  glory  glances 
Clear,  diviner  countenances 
Beamed  on  me  like  blessed  chances 
In  the  years  that  used  to  be. 

Ah,  the  beauty  of  old  ways  ! 
Then  the  man  who  so  resembled 
Lords  of  light  unstained,  unhumbled, 
Touched  the  skirts  of  Christ,  nor  trembled 

At  the  grand  benignant  gaze  ! 
Now  he  shrinks  before  the  splendid 
Face  of  Deity  offended  ; 
All  the  loveliness  is  ended  ! 

All  the  beauty  of  old  ways  ! 

Still  to  be  by  Mooni  cool — 
Where  the  water-blossoms  glister, 
And  by  gleaming  vale  and  vista, 
Sits  the  English  April's  sister, 

Soft  and  sweet  and  wonderful  ! 
Just  to  rest  beyond  the  burning 
Outer  world — its  sneers  and  spurning — 
Ah,  my  heart — my  heart  is  yearning 

Still  to  be  by  Mooni  cool ! 

Now,  by  Mooni's  fair  hill  heads, 
Lo,  the  gold  green  lights  are  glowing 
Where,  because  no  wind  is  blowing, 
Fancy  hears  the  flowers  growing 

In  the  herby  watersheds  ! 
Faint  it  is — the  sound  of  thunder 
From  the  torrents  far  thereunder, 


HENRY  KENDALL.  275 

Where  the  meeting  mountains  ponder — 
Now,  by  Mooni's  fair  hill  heads. 

Just  to  be  where  Mooni  is  ! 
Even  where  the  fierce  fall  races 
Down  august  unfathomed  places, 
Where  of  sun  or  moon  no  trace  is, 

And  the  streams  of  shadow  kiss  ! 
Have  I  not  an  ample  reason 
So  to  long  for — sick  of  treason — ■ 
Something  of  the  grand  old  season  ? 

Just  to  be  where  Mooni  is  ? 


2  7  6  HENR  Y  KENDALL. 


FROM  COORANBEAN. 

Years  fifty,  and  seven  to  boot,  have  smitten  the  children  of 

men 
Since  sound  of  a  voice  or  a  foot  came  out  of  the  head  of 

that  glen. 
The  brand  of  black  devil  is  there— an  evil  wind  nioaneth 

around — 
There  is  doom,  there  is  death  in  the  air ;  a  curse  groweth 

up  from  the  ground  ! 
No  noise  of  the  axe  or  the  saw  in  that  hollow  unholy  is 

heard, 
No  fall  of  the  hoof  or  the  paw — no  whirr  of  the  wing  of  the 

bird ; 
But  a  gray  mother  down  by  the  sea,  as  wan  as  the  foam  of 

the  strait, 
Has  counted  the  beads  on  her  knee,  these  forty-t^ine  winters 

and  eight. 

Whenever  the  elder  is  asked—a  white-headed  filSft  of  the 

woods — 
Of  the  ternble  mystery  mdsked  where  the  dark  everlastingly 

broods. 
Be  sure  he  will  turn  to  the  bay,  with  his  back  to  the  glen 

in  the  range, 
And  glide  like  d.  jjhantoitt  away,  with,  a  countenance  pallid 

with  change. 


HENRy  KENDALL.  277 

From  the  line  of  dead  timber  that  hes  supine  at  the  foot  of 

the  glade, 
The   fierce-featured  eagle-hawk  flies — afraid    as  a  dove  is 

afraid  ; 
But  black  in  that  wilderness  dread  are  a  fall  and  the  forks  of 

a  ford — 
AJi !  pray  and  uncover  your  head,  and  lean  like  a  child  on  the 

Lord, 


A  sinister  fog  at  the  wane — at    the  change  of  the   noon 

Cometh  forth, 
Like  an  ominous  ghost  in  the  train  of  a  bitter,  black  storm 

of  the  North  ! 
At  the  head  of  the  gully  unknown,  it  hangs  like  a  spirit  of  bale. 
And  the  noise  of  a  shriek  and  a  groan  strikes  up  in  the  gusts 

of  the  gale. 
In  the  throat  of  a  feculent  pit  is  the  beard  of  a  bloody-red 

sedge  ; 
And  a  foam  like  the  foam  of  a  fit  sweats  out  of  the  lips  of 

the  ledge. 
But  down  in  the  water  of  death,  in  the  livid,  dead  pool  at  the 

base — 
Bow  low,  with  inaudible  breath :  beseech  with  the  hands  to  the 

face  I 

A  furlong  of  fetid,  black  fen,  with  gilded  green  patches  of 

pond, 
Lies  dumb  by  the  horns  of  the  glen — at  the  gates  of  the 

horror  beyond ; 
And  those  who  have  looked  on  it,  tell  of  the  terrible  growths 

that  are  there — 
The   fiowcrage  fostered  by  Hell — the  I)lossoms  tliat  startle 

and  scare  \ 


2  78  HENRY  KENDALL. 

If  ever  a  wandering  bird  should  light  on  Gehennas  Hke  this, 
Be  sure  that  a  cry  will  be  heard,  and  the  sound  of  the  flat 

adder's  hiss. 
But  hard  by  the  jaws  of  the  bend  is  a  ghastly  Thing  matted 

with  moss — 
Ah,  Lord  !  be  a  father,  a  friend,  for  the  sake  of  the  Christ 

on  the  cross. 


Black  Tom,  with  the  sinews  of  five — that  never  a  hangman 

could  hang — 
In  the  days  of  the  shackle  and  gyve,  broke  loose  from  the 

guards  of  the  gang. 
Thereafter,  for  seasons  a  score,  this  devil  prowled  under  the 

ban  : 
A  mate  of  red  talon  and  paw — a  wolf  in  the  shape  of  a 

man. 
But,  ringed  by  ineffable  fire,  in  a  thunder  and  wind  of  the 

North, 
The  sword  of  Omnipotent  ire — the  bolt  of  high  heaven  went 

forth  ! 
But,  wan  as  the  sorrowful  foam,  a  gray  mother  waits  by  the  sea 
For  the  boys  that  have  never  come  home  these  fifty-four 

winters  and  three. 


From  the  folds  of  the  forested  hills  there  are  ravelled  and 

roundabout  tracks, 
Because  of  the  terror  that  fills  the  strong-handed  men  of  the 

axe  ! 
Of  the  workers  away  in  the  range,  there  is  none  that  will 

wait  for  the  night, 
When  the  storm-stricken  moon  is  in  change,  and  the  sinister 

fog  is  in  sight. 


HENR  Y  KENDALL.  2  7  9 

And  later    nnd   deep   in   the  dark,   ^\•hen    the  bitter   wind 

whistles  about, 
There  is  never  a  howl  or  a  bark  from  the  dog  in  the  kennel 

without, 
But  the  white  fathers  fasten  the  door,  and  often  and  often 

they  start 
At  a  sound,  like  a  foot  on  the  floor,  and  a  touch  like  a  hand 

on  the  heart. 


:  8o  HENR  Y  KENDALL, 

ORARA. 

A    TRIBUTARY    OF   THE   CLARENCE   RIVER. 

The  strong  sob  of  the  chafing  stream, 

That  seaward  fights  its  way 
Down  crags  of  ghtter,  dells  of  gleam, 

Is  in  the  hills  to-day. 

But  far  and  faint,  a  grey-winged  form 
Hangs  where  the  wild  lights  wane — 

The  phantom  of  a  bye-gone  storm, 
A  ghost  of  wind  and  rain. 

The  soft  white  feet  of  afternoon 

Are  on  the  shining  meads  ; 
The  breeze  is  as  a  pleasant  tune 

Amongst  the  happy  reeds. 

The  fierce,  disastrous,  flying  fire, 
That  made  the  great  caves  ring. 

And  scarred  the  slope,  and  broke  the  spire, 
Is  a  forgotten  thing. 

The  air  is  full  of  mellow  sounds  ; 

The  wet  hill-heads  are  bright ; 
And,  down  the  fall  of  fragrant  grounds. 

The  deep  ways  flame  with  light. 

A  rose-red  space  of  stream  I  see. 

Past  banks  of  tender  fern  ; 
A  radiant  brook,  unknown  to  me, 

Beyond  its  upper  turn. 


HENR  V  KENDALL.  2 8 1 

The  singing  silver  life  I  hear, 

Whose  home  is  in  the  green, 
Far-folded  woods  of  fountains  clear, 

^^'here  I  have  never  been. 


Ah,  brook  above  the  upper  band, 

I  often  long  to  stand, 
Where  you  in  soft,  cool  shades  descend 

From  the  untrodden  land. 


Ah,  folded  woods,  that  hide  the  grace 
Of  moss  and  torrents  strong, 

I  often  wish  to  know  the  face 
Of  that  which  sings  your  song  ! 


But  I  may  linger  long,  and  look, 

Till  night  is  over  all ; 
My  eyes  will  never  see  the  brook, 

Or  strange,  sweet  waterfall. 


The  world  is  round  me  with  its  heat, 
And  toil,  and  cares  that  tire ; 

I  cannot  with  my  feeble  feet 
Climb  after  my  desire. 


But,  on  the  lap  of  lands  unseen, 

Within  a  secret  zone. 
There  shine  diviner  gold  and  green 

Than  man  has  ever  known. 


282  HENRY  KENDALL. 

And  where  the  silver  waters  sing, 
Down  hushed  and  holy  dells, 

The  flower  of  a  celestial  spring — ■ 
A  tenfold  splendour  dwells. 


Yea,  in  my  dream  of  fall  and  brook 
By  far  sweet  forests  furled, 

I  see  that  light  for  which  I  look 
In  vain  through  all  the  world. 


The  glory  of  a  larger  sky. 

On  slopes  of  hills  sublime, 
That  speak  with  God  and  Morning,  high 

Above  the  ways  of  Time  ! 

Ah  !  haply,  in  this  sphere  of  change, 
Where  shadows  spoil  the  beam, 

It  would  not  do  to  climb  the  range, 
And  test  my  radiant  Dream. 


The  slightest  glimpse  of  yonder  place, 

Untrodden  and  alone, 
Might  wholly  kill  that  nameless  grace. 

The  charm  of  the  Unknown. 


And  therefore,  though  I  look  and  long, 

Perhaps  the  lot  is  bright. 
Which  keeps  the  river  of  the  song 

A  beauty  out  of  sight. 


HENRY  KENDALL.  283 


LEICHHARDT. 

Lordly  harp,    by  lordly   masters  wakened  from   majestic 

sleep, 
Yet  shall  speak  and  yet  shall  sing  the  words  which  make 

the  fathers  weep — 
Voice  surpassing  human  voices — high  unearthly  harmony — 
Yet  shall  tell  the  tale  of  hero,  in  exalted  years  to  be  ! 
In  the  ranges,  by  the  rivers,  on  the  uplands,  down  the  dells, 
Where  the  sound  of  wind  and  wave  is,  where  the  mountain 

anthem  swells, 
Yet  shall  float  the  song  of  lustre,  sweet  with  tears  and  fair 

with  flame, 
Shining  with  a  theme  of  beauty — holy  with  our  Leichhardt's 

name  ! 
Name  of  him  who  faced  for  Science  thirsty  tracts  of  bitter 

glow- 
Lurid  lands  that  no  one  knows  of — two   and  thirty  years 

ago. 


Rom  by  hills  of  hard  grey  weather,  far  beyond  the  northern 

seas, 
German  mountains  were  his  "  sponsors,"  and  his  mates  were 

German  trees. 
Grandeur  of  the  old-world  forests  passed  into  his  radiant 

soul, 
With  the  song  of  stormy  crescents,  where  the  mighty  waters 

roll. 


2  8  4  HENR  Y  KENDALL, 

Thus  he  came  to  be  a  brother  of  the  river  and  the 
wood — 

Thus  the  leaf,  the  bird,  the  blossom,  grew  a  gracious  sister- 
hood ; 

Nature  led  him  to  her  children,  in  a  space  of  light 
divine — • 

Kneeling  down,  he  said — "  My  mother,  let  me  be  as  one  of 
thine  !  " 

So  she  took  him — thence  she  loved  him— lodged  him  in 
her  home  of  dreams — 

Taught  him  what  the  trees  were  saying,  schooled  him  in  the 
speech  of  streams. 


For  her  sake  he  crossed  the  waters — loving  her,  he  left  the 

place 
Hallowed  by  his  father's  ashes  and  his  human  mother's 

face  ; 
Passed  the  seas  and  entered   temples  domed  by  skies  of 

deathless  beam — 
Walled  about  by  hills  majestic — stately  spires  and  peaks 

supreme  ! 
Here  he  found  a  larger  beauty — here  the  lovely  lights  were 

new, 
On  the  slopes  of  many  flowers,  down  the  gold  green  dells  of 

dew. 
In  the  great  august  cathedral  of  his  holy  Lady  he 
Daily  worshipped  at  her  altars,  nightly  bent  the  reverent 

knee — 
Heard  the  hymns  of  night  and  morning,  learned  the  psalm 

of  solitudes ; 
Knew  that  God  was  very  near  him — felt  His  presence  in  the 

wQods> 


HENRY  KENDALL.  285 

But  the  starry  angel,  Science,  from  the  home  of  ghttering 

wings, 
Came  one  day  and  talked  to  Nature  by  melodious  mountain 

springs  : 
"  Let  thy  son  be  mine,"  she  pleaded;  "  lend  him  for  a  space," 

she  said, 
"  So  that  he  may  earn  the  laurels,  I  have  woven  for  his 

head  ! " 
And  the  Lady,  Nature,  listened  ;  and  she  took  her  loyal  son 
From  the  banks  of  moss  and  myrtle — led  him  to  the  shining 

One, 
Filled  his  lordly  soul  with  gladness — told  him  of  a  spacious 

zone 
Eye  of  man  had  never  looked  at — human  foot  had  never 

known. 
Then  the  angel,  Science,  beckoned,  and  he  knelt  and  whis- 
pered low — 
"  I  will  follow  where  you  lead  me  " — two  and  thirty  years  ago. 


On  the  tracts  of  thirst  and  furnace — on  the  dumb,  blind, 

burning  plain, 
Where  the  red  earth  gapes  for  moisture,  and  the  wan  leaves 

hiss  for  rain. 
In  a  land  of  dry  fierce  thunder,  did   he  ever  pause  and 

dream 
Of  the  cool  green  German  valley,  and  the  singing  German 

stream  ? 
Where  the  sun  was  as  a   menace,    glaring  from  a    sky  of 

brass, 
Did  he  ever  rest  in  visions,  on  a  lap  of  German  grass  ? 
Past  the  waste  of  thorny  terrors,  did  he  reach  a  sphere  of  rills. 
In  a  region  yet  untravelled,  ringed  by  fair  untrodden  hills  ? 


286  HENR  V  KENDALL. 

Was  the  spot  where  last  he  rested  pleasant  as  an  old-world 

lea? 
Did  the  sweet  winds  come  and  lull  him  with  the  music  of 

the  sea  ? 


Let  us  dream — let  us  hope  so  !    Haply,  in  a  cool  green 

glade, 
Far  beyond  the  zone  of  furnace,  Leichhardt's  sacred  shell  was 

laid! 
Haply  in  some  leafy  valley,  underneath  blue  gracious  skies, 
In  the  sound  of  mountain  water,  the  heroic  traveller  lies  ! 
Down  a  dell   of  dewy  myrtle,  where  the  light  is  soft  and 

green, 
And   a   month,  like    English    April,   sits — an    immemorial 

queen. 
Let  us  think  that  he  is  resting — think  that  by  a  radiant 

grave 
Ever  come  the  songs  of  forest  and  the  voices  of  the  wave  i 
Tims  we  want  our  sons  to  find  him — find  him  under  floral 

bowers, 
Sleeping  by  the  trees  he  loved  so — covered  with  his  darling 

flowers  ! 


HENR  V  KENDAL  L.  287 


"AFTER  MANY  YEARS." 

The  song  that  once  1  dreamed  about, 

The  tender,  touching  thing, 
As  radiant  as  the  rose  without — 

The  love  of  wind  and  wing ; 
The  perfect  verses  to  the  tune 

Of  woodland  music  set, 
As  beautiful  as  afternoon, 

Remain  unwritten  yet. 

It  is  too  late  to  write  them  now — 

The  ancient  fire  is  cold  ; 
No  ardent  lights  illume  the  brow, 

As  in  the  days  of  old. 
I  cannot  dream  the  dream  again  ; 

But,  when  the  happy  birds 
Are  singing  in  the  sunny  rain, 

I  think  I  hear  its  words. 

I  think  I  hear  the  echo  still 

Of  long  forgotten  tones. 
When  evening  winds  are  on  the  hill, 

And  sunset  fires  the  cones. 
Lut  only  in  the  hours  supreme, 

With  songs  of  land  and  sea. 
The  lyrics  of  the  leaf  and  stream 

This  echo  comes  to  me. 


2SS  HENRY  KENDALL 

No  longer  doth  the  earth  reveal 

Her  gracious  green  and  gold  ; 
I  sit  where  youth  was  once,  and  feel 

That  I  am  growing  old. 
The  lustre  from  the  face  of  things 

Is  wearing  all  away  ; 
Like  one  who  halts  with  tired  wings, 

I  rest  and  muse  to-day. 

There  is  a  river  in  the  range 

I  love  to  think  about ; 
Perhaps  the  searching  feet  of  change 

Have  never  found  it  out. 
Ah !  oftentimes  I  used  to  look 

Upon  its  banks,  and  long 
To  steal  the  beauty  of  that  brook 

And  put  it  in  a  song. 

I  wonder  if  the  slopes  of  moss, 
In  dreams  so  dear  to  me — 

The  falls  of  flower  and  flower-like  floss- 
Are  as  they  used  to  be  ! 

I  wonder  if  the  waterfalls, 
The  singers  far  and  fair, 

That  gleamed  between  the  wet,  green  walls, 
Are  still  the  marvels  there  ! 

Ah  !  let  me  hope  that  in  that  place 

The  old  familiar  things 
To  which  I  turn  a  wistful  face 

Have  never  taken  wins:s. 


HENR  V  KENDALL.  2  S 9 

Let  me  retain  the  fancy  still, 

That,  past  the  lordly  range. 
There  always  shines,  in  folds  of  hill. 

One  spot  secure  from  change  ! 


I  trust  that  yet  the  tender  screen 

That  shades  a  certain  nook 
Remains,  with  all  its  gold  and  green, 

The  glory  of  the  brook. 
It  hides  a  secret  to  the  birds 

And  waters  only  known — 
The  letters  of  two  lovely  words — 

A  poem  on  a  stone. 

Perhaps  the  lady  of  the  past 

Upon  these  lines  may  light, 
The  purest  verses  and  the  last 

That  I  may  ever  write. 
She  need  not  fear  a  word  of  blame  ; 

Her  tale  the  flowers  keep  ; — 
The  wind  that  heard  me  breathe  her  name 

Has  been  for  years  asleep. 

But  in  the  night,  and  when  the  rain 

The  troubled  torrents  fills, 
I  often  think  I  see  again 

The  river  in  the  hills  : 
And  when  the  day  is  very  near. 

And  birds  are  on  the  wing, 
My  spirit  fancies  it  can  hear 

The  song  I  cannot  sing. 
20 


290  JANE  DE   IK  KNOX. 


THE  OLD  LOVE. 

Your  hand  is  cold  and  your  lips  are  white, 
You  shrink  from  my  touch  with  cruel  pain  ; 

What  love  you  gave  me  has  died  to-night, 
And  the  old  love  lives  in  your  heart  again. 

Dear,  when  you  met  her  to-night,  I  knew 

That  your  old  love  for  her  had  but  slept,  not  died, 

Tho'  she  had  been  false,  you  still  were  true. 
For  love  is  not  always  killed  by  pride. 

She  stood  before  you  queenly  fair, 

In  shimmering  satin  and  soft  white  lace, 

With  the  light  of  opals  amid  her  hair. 

And  the  light  of  love  on  her  pale,  proud  face. 

She  spoke  :  and  her  voice  was  faint  with  tears. 
And  your  eyes  grew  dark  with  the  passionate  pain 

That  came  with  the  thought  of  the  vanished  years. 
Which  the  sound  of  her  voice  had  recalled  again. 

She  spoke  :  and  the  present  was  but  a  dream. 
You  were  again  in  the  dear  old  land ; 

It  was  spring-time,  by  a  shaded  stream, 

Where  you  and  she  wandered  hand  in  hand. 


JANE  DE    W.  KNOX.  291 

You  heard  the  far  ocean's  softened  roar, 

And  the  voice  of  the  bell-bird  among  the  trees, 

And  the  scent  of  the  wattle-flower  once  more 
Came  to  you  borne  on  the  summer  breeze. 

You  saw  your  love  as  she  used  to  be, 

Dressed  in  her  girlish  muslin  dress  ; 
Her  sun-kissed  brown  hair  floating  free 

Round  a  face  so  bright  one  could  not  but  bless. 

You  woke:  she  was  standing  before  you  there 
In  her  shimmering  satin  and  soft  white  lace, 

With  the  light  of  opals  amid  her  hair. 

And  the  light  of  love  in  her  pale,  proud  face. 

She  had  been  false,  and  you  thought  love  dead, 
Dead  long  years  ere  you  called  me  wife. 

But  at  the  very  fiirst  word  she  said, 
The  sleeping  love  awoke  to  life — 

You  forgave  the  past,  what  did  it  ween 
That  she  had  bartered  her  love  for  gold, 

For  the  glitter  of  gems  and  satin's  sheen. 
She  loved  you  now  as  in  days  of  old  ! 


2  9  2  JOHN  D  UN  MO  RE  LANG. 


D'ENTRECASTEAUX'  CHANNEL,  Vx\N 
DIEMAN'S  LAND. 

See  !  D'Entrecasteaux'  Channel  opens  fair, 

And  Tasman's  Head  lies  on  the  starboard  bow. 

High  rocks  and  stunted  trees  meet  you  where'er 
You  look  around,  'tis  a  bold  coast  enow. 

With  foul  wind  and  crank  ship  'twere  hard  to  wear ; 
A  reef  of  rocks  lies  westward,  long  and  low. 

At  ebb  tide  you  may  see  th'  Actaeon  lie 

A  sheer  hulk  o'er  the  breakers  high  and  dry. 

'Tis  a  most  beauteous  strait !     The  great  South  Sea's 
Proud  waves  keep  holiday  along  its  shore ; 

And  as  the  good  ship  glides  before  the  breeze, 

Broad  bays  and  aisles  appear  and  steep  cliffs  hoar, 

With  groves  on  either  hand  of  ancient  trees, 
Planted  by  Nature  in  the  days  of  yore  ; 

Van  Dieman's  on  the  left,  and  Bruny's  Isle 

Forming  the  starboard  shore  for  many  a  mile. 

But  all  is  still  as  death  !     Nor  voice  of  man 
Is  heard,  nor  forest  warbler's  tuneful  song ; 

It  seems  as  if  this  beauteous  world  began 

To  be  but  yesterday,  and  th'  earth  still  young 

And  unpossessed.     For  tho'  the  tall  black  swan 
Sits  on  her  nest  and  sails  stately  along, 

And  the  green  wild-doves  their  fleet  pinions  ply, 

And  the  grey  eagle  tempts  the  azure  sky ; 


JOHN  D  UNMORE  L  ANG.  293 

Yet  all  is  still  as  death  !     Wild  solitude 

Reigns  undisturbed  along  the  voiceless  shore, 

And  every  tree  seems  standing  as  it  stood 

Five  thousand  years  ago.     The  loud  wave's  roar 

Were  music  in  these  wilds  !     The  wise  and  good 
That  wont  of  old  as  hermits  to  adore 

The  God  of  nature  in  the  desert  drear, 

Might  sure  have  found  a  fit  sojourning  here ! 


294  CAROLINE  LEAKEY. 


ENGLISH  WILD  FLOWERS. 

I. 

Ye  may  tell  me  of  flowers  bright  and  gay, 
Blooming  in  Eastern  lands  away, 
And  of  climes  beyond  the  beautiful  sea. 
Where  all  fair  things  and  glad  may  be ; 
Where  the  tropical  sun  shines  ever  light, 
And  flowers  seem  born  to  dazzle  the  sight. 
Ye  may  boast  of  beauties  across  the  main. 
But  give,  oh  !  give  me,  from  England  again. 
The  wild  red  rose,  as  it  used  to  bloom 
Round  my  father's  door,  with  its  sweet  perfume. 

II. 
Ye  may  tell  me  of  flowers  of  crimson  liue. 
And  glorious  tints  of  gold  and  blue, 
That  sunnier  heavens  have  brought  to  birth, 
And  strewed  like  gems  o'er  thankless  earth ; 
Where  the  sevenfold  dye  of  the  rainbow  rests 
On  starried  crowns  and  glowing  crests. 
But  oh  !  for  the  meadows  of  England's  green, 
Set  thick  with  the  golden  kingcup's  sheen  ; 
That  the  grass  might  seem  a  hidden  deep, 
Where  the  gods  of  Nature  their  treasure  keep. 

III. 
But  oh  !  for  the  daisy  of  English  ground. 
That  loves  to  grow  on  churchyard  mound ; 


CAROLINE  LEAKEY.  295 

For  the  primrose  that  looks  up  everywhere, 
From  bowery  lanes  to  the  scented  air  ; 
For  the  flower  that  hangeth  so  wavily 
Its  own  soft  silver  tracery, 
And  calleth  the  bee  from  afar  to  sip 
Nectar  wliich  hangs  on  its  delicate  lip ; 
And  bring  me  the  bright-berried  eglantine 
To  weave  mc  tlic  wreath  that  I  used  to  twine. 

IV. 

Oil  !  dearer  to  me  are  the  sweet  wild  flowers, 

A  hand  unseen  on  England  showers  ; 

That  are  born  unknown,  and  all  unknown  fade. 

Far  and  away  in  woodland  shade  ; 

And  dearer  to  me  are  those  lesser  gems, 

Peeping  from  earth  on  tiny  stems, 

Than  the  vaunting  glow  of  rare  Eastern  lands, 

And  the  gorgeous  show  which  in  proud  pomp  stands  ; 

For  they  have  a  voice,  and  they  speak  to  me, 

^\'ith  their  eyes  so  full  of  Love's  mystery  ! 


2y6     FRANCES  SESCADAROWNA  LEWIN. 


THE  STORY  OF  ABEL  TASMAN. 

Bold  and  brave,  and  strong  and  stalwart, 

Captain  of  a  ship  was  he, 
And  his  heart  was  proudly  thrilling 

With  the  dreams  of  chivalry. 
One  fair  maiden,  sweet  though  stately, 

Lingered  in  his  every  dream, 
Touching  all  his  hopes  of  glory 

With  a  brighter,  nobler  gleam. 

Daughter  of  a  haughty  father, 

Daughter  of  an  ancient  race. 
Yet  her  wilful  heart  surrendered. 

Conquered  by  his  handsome  face  ; 
And  she  spent  her  days  in  looking 

Out  across  the  southern  seas, 
Picturing  how  his  bark  was  carried 

Onward  by  the  favouring  breeze. 

Little  wonder  that  she  loved  him, 

Abel  Tasman,  brave  and  tall ; 
Though  the  wealthy  planters  sought  her, 

He  was  dearer  than  them  all. 
Dearer  still  because  her  father 

Said  to  him,  with  distant  pride, 
"  Darest  thou,  a  simple  captain, 

Seek  my  daughter  for  thy  bride  ?  " 


FRANCES  SESCADAR  0  WNA  LE  WIN.    2  9  7 

But  at  length  the  gallant  seaman 

^Von  himself  an  honoured  name  ; 
When  again  he  met  the  maiden, 

At  her  feet  he  laid  his  fame  : 
Said  to  her,  "  My  country  sends  me, 

Trusted  with  a  high  command, 
With  the  Zeehan  and  the  Heemskirk, 

To  explore  the  southern  strand."' 


"  I  must  claim  it  for  my  country, 

riant  her  flag  upon  its  shore; 
But  I  hope  to  win  you,  darling, 

When  the  dangerous  cruise  is  o'er." 
And  her  haughty  sire  relenting, 

Did  not  care  to  say  him  nay : 
Flushing  high  with  love  and  valour, 

Sailed  the  gallant  far  away. 

And  the  captain,  Abel  Tasman, 

Sailing  under  southern  skies. 
Mingled  with  his  hopes  of  glory 

Thoughts  of  one  with  starlike  eyes. 
Onward  sailed  he,  where  the  crested 

^Vhite  waves  broke  around  his  ship, 
With  the  lovelight  in  his  true  eyes. 

And  the  song  upon  his  lip. 


Onward  sailed  he,  ever  onward, 
Faithful  as  the  stars  above  ; 

Many  a  cape  and  headland  pointing 
'I'ells  the  legend  of  his  love  : 


;98      FRANCES  SESCADAROWNA  LEWIN. 

For  he  linked  their  names  together, 
Speeding  swiftly  o'er  the  wave — 

Tasman's  Isle  and  Cape  Maria, 
Still  they  bear  the  names  he  gave. 


Toil  and  tempest  soon  were  over, 

And  he  turned  him  home  again. 
Seeking  her  who  was  his  guiding 

Star  across  the  trackless  main. 
Strange  it  seems  the  eager  captain 

Thus  should  hurry  from  his  prize, 
AVhen  a  thousand  scenes  of  wonder 

Stood  revealed  before  his  eyes. 

But  those  eyes  were  always  looking, 

Out  toward  the  Java  seas. 
Where  the  maid  he  loved  was  waiting — 

Dearer  prize  to  him  than  these. 
But  his  mission  was  accomplished. 

And  a  new  and  added  gem 
Sparkled  with  a  wondrous  lustre 

In  the  Dutch  king's  diadem. 

Little  did  the  gallant  seaman 
Think  that  in  the  days  to  be, 

England's  hand  should  proudly  wrest  it 
From  his  land's  supremacy. 


E.  B.  LOUGHRAN.  299 


DEAD  LEAVES. 


A   SONG. 


When  these  dead  leaves  were  green,  love, 

November's  skies  were  blue, 
And  summer  came  with  lips  aflame. 

The  gentle  spring  to  woo  ; 
And  to  us,  wandering  hand  in  hand. 

Life  was  a  fairy  scene, 
That  golden  morning  in  the  woods 

When  these  dead  leaves  were  srreen  ! 


How  dream-like  now  that  dewy  morn. 
Sweet  with  the  wattle's  flowers, 

When  love,  love,  love  was  all  our  theme. 
And  youth  and  love  were  ours  ! 

Two  happier  hearts  in  all  the  land 
There  were  not  then,  I  ween, 

Than  those  young  lovers — yours  and  mine- 
When  these  dead  leaves  were  green. 


How  gaily  did  you  pluck  these  leaves 

From  the  acacia's  bough, 
To  mark  the  lyric  we  had  read — 

I  can  repeat  it  now  ! 


E.  B.  LOUGHRAN. 

While  came  the  words  hke  music  sweet, 
Your  smihng  hps  between — 

"  So  fold  my  love  within  your  breast," 
When  these  dead  leaves  were  green  ! 


How  many  springs  have  passed  since  then  ? 

Ah,  wherefore  should  we  count, 
The  years  have  sped,  like  waters  fled 

From  Time's  unceasing  fount  ? 
We've  had  our  share  of  happiness, 

Our  share  of  care  have  seen ; 
But  love  alone  has  never  flown 

Since  these  dead  leaves  were  green. 


Your  heart  is  kind  and  loving  still, 

Your  face  to  me  as  fair. 
As  when,  that  morn,  the  sunshine  played 

Amid  your  golden  hair. 
So,  dearest,  sweethearts  still  we'll  be, 

As  we  have  ever  been. 
And  keep  our  love  as  fresh  and  true 

As  when  these  leaves  were  sreen. 


E.  B.  LOUGHRAN.  301 


THE  ABANDONED  SHAFT. 

A  DANGER  to  unwary  feet 

(But  few  feet  travel  hither) 
It  lies,  a  rifled  treasure  house, 

The  treasure  vanished — whither  ? 
Dark  spreads  below  its  yawning  depth, 

By  plank  or  fence  unguarded — 
How  easy  access  to  it  now, 

That  once  so  well  was  warded. 

With  heaps  of  dirt,  cast  all  about, 

'Tis  no  inviting  spectacle  ; 
Yet  once  it  was  of  well-based  hopes 

The  highly-prized  receptacle  ! 
How  eagerly  Jim  worked  below 

To  bare  its  close-hid  treasure, 
While  at  the  windlass  laboured  Joe — 

A  toil  assuaged  by  pleasure  ! 

And  here  the  windlass — broken — lies ; 

Could  ever  sight  be  sadder  ? 
But  those  who  rise  to  wealth,  we  know, 

Of  course  kick  down  the  ladder. 
(And  sure  a  windlass  scarce  expect 

To  share  a  fate  less  dire  would  ? 
It  really  shows  some  gratitude 

It  was  not  burnt  for  firewood  !) 


302  E.  B.  LOUGHRAN. 

I  trace  their  pathway  to  the  creek — 

x^h,  theirs  were  "  pleasant  ways  "  then  ! 
When  once  a  pair  had  bottomed  rich, 

How  swiftly  sped  the  days  then  ! 
The  creek  the  shaft's  sad  lot  had  shared, 

Now  flowing  dull  and  solus, 
That  once  was  thronged  with  anxious  men. 

And  yielded  like  Pactolus. 

Where  now  are  Jim  and  Joe  and  all — 

The  thriftless  and  the  thrifty — 
Who  filled  this  long  forgotten  rush 

In  stirring  Three  and  Fifty  ? 
Their  latest  "claim"  have  most  "  pegged  out," 

Some  poor  and  old  still  linger. 
Some,  old  and  rich,  drive  "Rotten  Row," 

And  court  the  public  finger. 


And  one  of  these  I  yesterday 

Saw  in  his  "  crested  "  carriage, 
A  fair  young  girl  beside  him  sat. 

His  own  by  purch — hum — marriage. 
Lord  !  how  patrician  he  did  look, 

How  high  his  head  did  carry  ! 
Could  he  have  been  that  raw-boned  lad 

Who  hailed  from  wild  Glengarry  ? 

Could  he  have  e'er  fought  Yankee  Bill, 
The  camp's  sarcastic  joker  ? 

Could  he  have  lost  his  six  months'  pile 
In  one  brief  night  at  poker  ? 


E.  n.  LOUGHRAN.  303 

Now  he's  a  pillar  of  the  kirk, 

Has  built  an  institution, 
Swears  "liberal  "spells  "communist," 

"Reform  "  red  "  revolution." 


Ah,  "  Tcmpora,  mutajitur ;   nos 

Mutamur  et  in  ill  is  !  " 
How  the  erst  rushing  current  creeps, 

When  gruesome  age  doth  chill  us  ! 
The  poker  of  wild  Fifty  Three 

Is  now  mild  "  speculation," 
Our  golden  claims,  suburban  lots, 

In  some  desired  location  ! 


J)esertcd  shaft,  who  wcrt  my  theme, 

I  fear  I'm  from  thee  wandering. 
Or  lose  the  parallels  I'd  draw 

O'er  old  times  vainly  pondering. 
No  doubt,  if  thou  could'st  speak,  thould'st  say. 

How  base  it  was  to  leave  thee. 
When  Jim  and  Joe  had  gathered  all 

Of  which  they  could  bereave  thee. 

But  know,  my  fiiend,  thou  only  shar'st 

The  fate  of  all  creation 
(Though  this,  'tis  true,  at  best  is  but 

A  sorry  consolation). 
The  bees  buzz  round  about  the  flowers 

Till  they've  got  all  the  honey. 
And  Jim  and  Joe  are  flush  of  friends, 

But  while  they're  flush  of  money. 


304  E.  B.  LOUGHRAN. 

And  just  like  thine  (proud  cavity  !) 

The  lot  of  poets,  sages, 
Since  our  old  earth  began  to  turn 

And  measure  out  the  ages. 
The  "  many-headed  "  swallows  all 

Their  music  or  their  learning, 
Nought  more  to  gain,  its  idols  leaves, 

With  no  thoughts  of  returning. 


But  though  they  may  neglected  die, 

The  years  of  triumph  ended, 
Their  thoughts  and  words  still  light  tlie  world 

As  with  a  a  sunrise  splendid. 
And  thou,  take  comfort  that  thy  gifts 

O'er  earth  and  ocean  flying. 
Fill  Commerce'  sails,  turn  Trade's  loud  wheels, 

Though  thou'rt  deserted  lying. 


G.  G.  McCRAE, 


o'-'o 


FROM  THE  STORY  OF  BALLADEADRO. 

KoLORKOR  (Hot  Blood). 

KoLORKOR  rose,  Mirbango's  king — 

And  thus  address'd  the  Hstening  ring  : — 

"  Sirs  !  Warriors  !  Children  !  hearken  well 

To  all  your  king  has  come  to  tell. 

Our  fathers'  spirits,  ill  at  rest, 

Flit  nightly  o'er  the  mountain's  breast ; 

Yon  stream  is  troubled,  and  the  flood 

'Neath  last  night's  moon  seem'd  curdling  blood, 

Birds  of  ill  omen  croaked  on  high, 

The  eagle  swooning  fled  the  sky. 

Oh,  would  the  oracles  withheld 

The  meaning  sought  by  seers  of  eld, 

Strange  portents  dire  of  varied  mien 

Presage  such  ill  as  ne'er  hath  been. 

Last  night  there  crept  athwart  my  frame 

A  shuddering  sense  of  woe  and  shame ; 

Something — oh,  would  it  were  forgot — 

'Tis  day,  and  yet  it  leaves  me  not. 

I  sprang  from  out  the  evil  dream. 

And  saw — extended  through  the  beam. 

The  red  moon  cast  upon  the  coals — 

Consuming  slow  their  burning  souls — 

Two  giant  hands — one  dark  as  night, 

The  other,  "stained  with  blood,"  was  white; 

21 


5o6  G.   G.  McCRAE. 

Opposed  as  "twere  in  equal  strife, 
And  nerved  to  struggle  for  the  life. 
The  dark  hand  hovered  o'er  my  head, 
And  all  my  trembling  fears  lay  dead. 
When  sudden  came  within  my  clasp. 
The  spear  you  now  behold  me  grasp. 
I  poised  the  reed  ;  but  ere  I  hurled. 
The  white  hand  vanished  from  the  world ; 
And  I,  without  the  slumbering  camp. 
Shook  from  my  brow  big  drops  of  damp. 
Then,  as  morn's  blossom  burst  the  bud, 
I  saw,  oh  horror  ! — gouts  of  blood — 
Blood  on  my  hands,  and  woman's  hair, 
Blood  fastened  to  my  trusty  spear." 
He  sate,  and  seemed  beside  the  fire 
Some  victim  of  supernal  ire  ; 
But  ghostly  terror  had  not  quenched 
His  soul,  nor  yet  his  visage  blenched. 

Wadaro. 

Wadaro  rose,  "of  rugged  face," 
Chief  of  the  tall  Darakong  race  ; 
And  gathering  on  his  arm  his  cloak, 
To  King  Kolorkor  fiercely  spoke  : — 
"  You  marked,  Kolorkor,  ere  v.-as  hurled 
The  spear  sent  from  the  spirit  world, 
The  hand  had  vanished  ;  but  the  blood — ■ 
'Twas  ours — 'twill  surely  swell  the  flood 
That  yet  must  with  its  darkening  stain 
Our  greenest  forest  glades  engrain. 
Pour,  mingled  tide,  thy  kindred  flood, 
Darakons;  and  Mirbango  blood  ! 


G.   G.  McCRAE.  307 

Join  the  hot  flow,  red  Tapook  rill ! 
And  drink,  war  demon,  drink  thy  fill ! 
Haste,  twin-born  tribes  ! — yon  king,  and  I, 
Across  the  hills  must  quickly  fly ; 
And  o'er  our  heads  the  darker  hand 
Shall  point  the  way  to  Tapook  land. 
We'll  send  the  war-sign  through  their  camp, 
And  flat  their  turf  with  dancing  tramp. 
Speed  thee,  Ganook,  with  these  swift  spears — 
This  fire-brand  weeping  fiery  tears  ; 
And  take  this  quandang's  double  plum, 
'Twill  speak  alliance  tho'  'tis  dumb. 


Ganook  (or  the  Swift  Messenger). 

The  Ganook  danced  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

Ascending,  toiled,  "  ran  down  like  rain," 

Nor  paused  till  at  the  Tapook's  feet 

He  laid  the  brand  aglow  with  heat. 

So  swept  across  yon  purple  plains, 

At  night  o'ers^iread  with  starry  chains, 

Karakorok,  the  sacred  crow. 

That  first  brought  fire  to  realms  below. 

And  carried  blazing  in  his  bill 

The  brand  that  lights  our  camp  fires  still. 


The  Tapook's  Reception  of  the  Messenger. 

The  lazy  Tapook  raised  his  head. 
Regarding,  as  he  gazed,  the  red. 
Whose  warlike  flash  suffused  each  lim]->, 
That  flamed  like  fiery  Seraphim 


3o8  G.   G.  McCRAE. 

The  tinge  of  war,  the  tinct  of  blood 

Figured  the  tide  of  ruby  flood, 

And  called  as  loud  as  symbol  rnight, 

For  helping  hand  in  heady  fight. 

Alas  !  ere  this  the  white  man's  dole, 

Had  bought  the  slavish  Tapook's  soul, 

Who  lost  the  dotted  plains  that  spread 

From  Wando's  mouth  to  fountain-head — 

From  those  stern  crags  whence  springs  Matar 

To  ocean's  tumbling  waves  afar, 

Which,  lost  in  distance,  sun,  and  spray, 

Melt  mist-like  into  heaven  away  ! 

The  pale  face  brought  his  bartering  bread. 

The  Tapook  gave  him  land  instead ; 

Green  hills,  and  hunting  grounds,  and  vales. 

Lakes  virgin  yet  from  ships  and  sails, 

AVere  his  for  robing,  raiment,  food, 

And  axe  of  steel  that  felled  the  wood. 

The  faithful  harbinger  fell  back, 

But  king  Kolorkor  on  the  track 

Not  far  behind,  with  flaming  brand. 

And  polished  lance  in  either  hand, 

Came  stalking  tow'rds  the  royal  Tapook, 

As  erst  the  swift  but  mute  Ganook  : — 

"  Tried  ally  (he  began)  of  ours, 

'Mid  crash  of  clubs  and  spear-shafts  showers — 

Our  stout  and  brave  would  join  thy  bold. 

And  mass  their  ranks  on  this  green  wold. 

See  !  stout  Wadaro's  warriors  near. 

Me  and  my  brave  Mirbangos  here, 

Be  't  thine  to  lead  thy  stalwart  clan — 

A  thousand,  numbered  man  for  man." 

To  him  the  Tapook,  turning,  sighed, 

And  with  but  half  his  soul  replied. 


G.  G.  McCRAE.  309 

"  What  need  of  all  these  marshall'd  ranks  ? 

Our  nation  owes  the  stranger  thanks. 

Our  food,  our  shelter,  is  prepared, 

His  very  blanket  robes  arc  shared 

With  us ;  and  as  for  roots,  instead 

He  sows  broad-cast  among  us  bread. 

But  tarry,  brother  king,  awhile, 

And  rest,  for  many  a  weary  mile 

Hath  plucked  the  sinews  from  thy  heel, 

And  stiffened  all  thy  nerves  of  steel." 

The  Tarkving  in  the  Tapook's  Land. 

Moons  waned,  and  suns  successive  steered 
Their  course  toward  west  horizon  weird, 
Yet  no  alliance  made  nor  planned 
Against  the  white  aggressive  hand. 
No  warriors  fought — the  sport  and  hunt, 
Made  all  their  battle  weapons  blunt ; 
And  each  returning  from  the  chase. 
With  slower  and  spoil-burdened  pace, 
Cast  longing  eyes  on  Tapook  maids. 
That  lay  beneath  the  lengthening  shades  ; 
And  many  a  brave  transgressed  the  rule. 
Framed  in  their  twin-blood-allied  school, 
And,  mating  with  the  maid  he  chose, 
Sought  her  green  roof  to  find  repose. 
Kolorkor,  one  of  these  the  first, 
A  fiercely-burning  passion  nurst ; — 
Balladeadro  fired  his  brain — 
Balladeadro  with  a  chain 
Unconscious  bound  his  bursting  heart, 
And  barred  his  wishes  to  depart. 


3IO  G.  G.  McCRAE. 

Kolorkor's  Wooing. 

To  her  it  seemed  an  easy  thing — 
Herself  the  daughter  of  a  king — 
To  dally  with  Tangola's  guest ; 
But  when  his  suit  with  warmth  he  pressed, 
She  turned  her  laughing  face  away, 
Heedless  of  all  his  love  could  say. 
Then  would  Kolorkor's  anger  rise, 
And  flash  like  lightning  from  his  eyes  ; 
But,  past  the  pang  of  wounded  pride, 
He  sate  him  silent  by  her  side, 
Like  some  huge  thunder-cloud  expended. 
The  calmer  when  the  storm  is  ended. 
'Twas  thus  for  days  and  afternoons, 
For  many  waxing,  waning  moons. 
Half  trusted  hope  his  only  wage, 
Neglect  still  spurred  him  on  to  rage  j 
And  so  the  monarch's  wooing  sped. 
With  giddy  brain  and  heart  like  lead. 

Wadaro's  Counsel. 

One  day  it  chanced,  in  pensive  mood. 
He  sought  Wadaro  in  the  wood  ; 
And  finding  him,  his  counsel  sought. 
With  heart,  and  brain,  and  soul  distraught. 
"  Kolorkor,"  thundered  forth  the  king, 
"You  make  yourself  a  little  thing; 
And  me,  your  friend,  a  thing  still  less  ; 
In  counsel  grave  on  nothingness. 
Remember,  who  our  tribes  would  rule, 
Can  never  mate  him  with  a  fool ! 


G.  G.  McCRAE.  311 

Are  not  our  maidens  fair  as  they  ? 
And  formed  from  quite  as  pure  a  clay  ? 
Their  eyes,  their  hair,  their  winning  looks. 
Are  more  than  match  for  these  Tapooks. 
Besides  our  wise  ancestral  laws 
Bid  all  our  manlier  ones  to  pause, 
Ere  stepping  o'er  the  sacred  bounds 
That  mark  our  ancient  hunting  grounds  ; 
And  seek  amid  our  virgins  fair. 
The  solace  sent  to  soothe  our  care." 
To  him  Kolorkor  thus  replied, 
In  phrase  that  reason's  front  defied  : — 
"  Wadaro,  what  I've  said,  I've  said  ; 
The  rest — be  that  upon  my  head." 

Time  with  his  train  rolled  on,  and  all 
That  paved  the  way  towards  his  fall, 
His  warrior  ways  were  all  forgot, 
His  weapons  now  he  heeded  not. 
Laid  by  some  reedy  river's  brink, 
Musing,  he'd  watch  the  bell-bird  drink  ; 
Thence  rising,  pace  the  pebbly  marge, 
Till  dying  day  had  dropped  his  targe, 
And  sinking  with  his  latest  blood 
He  reddened  all  the  trembling  flood ; 
Till  night  drew  near  and  closed  his  eye. 
And  spread  her  mantle  tenderly 
Across  his  darkening  rayless  face. 
And  hid  him  in  his  resting-place. 
Whilst  wind-waved  reeds  his  reiiuiem  sighed, 
In  waihnu  accents  o'er  the  tide. 


i 


312  G.  G.  McCRAE. 

Time's  waters  rolled  towards  the  sea 

(Dim  ocean  of  eternity), 

And  hurried  with  the  current  all 

That  presaged  proud  Kolorkor's  fall ; 

Each  pebble  bandied  by  the  stream, 

That  caught  betimes  a  golden  gleam, 

Seem'd  some  event  by  prescience  willed — ■ 

Some  ancient  prophecy  fulfilled. 

Straight  through  his  breast  a  sadness  crept, 

And  as  he  mused  Kolorkor  wept ; 

He  saw  in  every  sinking  targe, 

That  lit  the  river's  shimmering  marge, 

The  funeral  of  his  hopes  and  fears — 

The  grave  of  unrewarded  years. 

Tangola's  Refusal. 

At  sunset  sad,  at  dawning  wild. 

His  brain  with  failing  plans  he  piled, 

Till,  tired  with  unavailing  care, 

He  sought  the  father  of  the  fair — 

Sought  him,  who  sold  his  birth-right  land, 

And  sued  him  for  his  daughter's  hand. 

He  paused  : — Tangola  silence  broke. 

And  to  the  suitor  thus  he  spoke  : — 

"Seest  thou  above  with  silvery  sheen. 

The  evening  star,  pale  MIRGABEEN  ? 

She  looks  with  saddening  eye  towards  earth. 

Which  holds  the  secret  of  her  birth.  J 

Couldst  thou  from  heaven  pluck  out  yon  star,  1 

That  shines  upon  us  from  afar. 

And  lay  her  in  her  beauty's  pride 

Between  me  and  my  own  fire-side — • 


G.  G.  McCRAE. 

I'd  not  yield  up  my  daughter  fair, 

With  flashing  eyes  and  raven  hair. 

And  know,  proud  king,  that  threats  arc  vain — 

Tho'  spears  should  fall  like  summer  rain, 

Deem  not  Balladeadro's  sire 

Yet  wanting  all  his  ancient  iire. 

Up,  go  thy  way,  hot-blooded  chief, 

And  seek  at  other  hands  relief. 

Go  get  some  mild  Mirbango  mate 

To  rear  an  heir  to  rule  thy  state ; 

As  for  Balladeadro  rare, 

No  stranger  may  that  jewel  wear ; 

A  father's  joy,  a  camp-fire's  pride. 

To  alien  ne'er  can  be  allied." 

Murder  ok  Tangola. 

Short  time  for  parley  now  remained, 

The  madden'd  chief  his  feet  regained, 

Fierce  hate  from  both  his  eyeballs  gleamed, 

A  fiend  in  all  his  wrath  he  seemed, 

"  Take  this,"  he  hissed,  and  raising  high 

The  spear  to  his  unerring  eye 

He  hurled,  and  all  his  muscles  shook. 

As  pierced  his  lance  the  tall  Tapook  ; 

Who,  bowing  sudden  to  his  fate. 

Fell  forward  on  his  grizzled  pate. 

No  time  was  lost — as  quick  as  thought 

The  virgin  to  his  arms  he  caught ; 

Then  dragged  her  to  Trelinnay's  bower, 

And  charged  him  with  the  new-plucked  flower, 

Fit  gaoler  !  less  of  man  than  creature, 

And  hard  as  flint  in  face  and  feature. 


314  G.   G.  McCRAE. 

Balladeadro  in  Captivity. 

There  flitted  o'er  the  luckless  maid 

Th'  uncertain  wav'ring  dappled  shade, 

As  toyed  the  breeze  with  every  flower 

And  leaf  that  decked  the  captive's  bower, 

With  sad  tho'  joyous-seeming  face. 

And  artless  art  dissembling  grace, 

She  wrought  in  silence  blues  with  greens, 

And  scarlet  in  her  gilburneens  ; 

Thus  would  she  sit,  and  work  and  muse. 

From  morning's  dawn  till  evening  dews. 

While  singing  ever  by  her  side, 

Sat  grim  Trelinnay's  ancient  bride. 

She  weaved,  and  weaving  trolled  her  song, 

Sang  on  and  weaved  the  rushes  long. 

And  cast  at  times  a  furtive  glance 

From  eyes  that  pierced  like  pointed  lance  ; 

Outwards  and  toward  where  stranger's  tread 

Was  heard,  she  raised  her  grisly  head. 

O,  tyrant  sex  !  to  thine  the  same 

'Neath  tropic  sunbeam's  burning  flame, 

As  where  the  arctic  ice  and  snow 

Baulk  the  swift  river  in  its  flow. 

Give  ye  to  guard  a  sister  charge. 

And  say  : — Who'll  overstep  the  marge  ? 

Mora-Mora    (surna.med   the   Ganook   or   Swift 
Messenger). 

Hard  by  the  bower  that  held  the  maid, 
Beneath  the  same  dark  forest's  shade. 
Through  which  the  slanting  sunbeam  shot, 


G.  G.  McCRAE.  315 

Stood  Mora-Mora's  sylvan  cot. 
This  youth,  whose  skill  with  axe  of  stone 
Had  made  his  fother's  badge  his  own, 
Sate  there  amid  the  hunting  gear 
Repairing  broken  net  and  spear. 
Oft  passing  westward  to  the  chase 
The  captive  maiden's  sadden'd  face 
Would  haunt  the  hunter  as  he  walked, 
And  trip  him  while  his  game  he  stalked. 
His  hand  had  lost  (so  many  deemed) 
Its  cunning  since  those  eyes  had  beamed 
Their  first  bright  rays  into  his  own, 
And  taught  him  that  he  dwelt  alone. 
Henceforth,  with  throbbing  heart  on  fire, 
Possession  was  his  sole  desire  ; 
And  if  love's  eyes  a  language  speak 
The  same  to  Roman,  Celt,  or  Greek — 
The  same  in  France,  or  sunny  Spain, 
On  Tartar  steppes  or  Afric's  plain — 
Such  flashed  from  captive  maid  to  man, 
And  thus  their  burning  loves  began. 
But  still  the  king  with  stately  'tread, 
And  heron  feathers  in  his  head, 
Approached  at  noon  with  presents  rare, 
To  woo  his  drooping  prisoner  fair. 
Kind  his  entreaty — half  forlorn — 
His  only  meed  was  smiling  scorn. 
Thus  hours  of  unavailing  praise. 
With  prayers,  made  up  the  sum  of  days. 
And  still  nor  hope  nor  joy  beguiled 
The  suitor  of  the  orphaned  child. 
She,  when  her  tongue  the  silence  broke, 
These  burning  words  in  anguish  spoke  : — 


31 6  G.  G.  McCRAE. 

"  Strike,  murd'rer,  home  !  she  fears  no  pain 

Whose  father  throbs  in  every  vein  ! 

What  !  crouched  at  thy  false  feet  to  lie 

Thy  wife  ! — thy  prisoner  first  she'd  die  ! 

Avaunt !  begone  !  away,  away — 

With  words  that  lie,  and  hands  that  slay." 

Kolorkor's  brow  a  cloud  o'ercast, 

H^'s  breath  was  coming  "  thick  and  fast," 

And  fanned  his  anger-burning  cheek, 

As  thus  the  chief  essayed  to  speak  : 

Kolorkor's  Threat, 

"  Not  by  this  spear,  that  lately  stood 
A  sapling  in  Tor's  sacred  wood, 
But  by  the  keener  point  unseen 
Of  shaft  whose  bark  ne'er  budded  green, 
Hurled  by  the  might  of  wizard  spell. 
With  force  resistless,  fierce  and  fell — 
Mine  now  the  lock  you  lost  when  fright 
Had  mastered  all  your  senses  quite. 
'Tis  mine  !  but  Kolpo's  be  the  charge 
To  weave  the  spell,  and  grave  the  targe. 
To  symbol  forth  those  pliant  limbs, 
Depict  each  orb  in  tears  that  swims, 
And  trace  the  darkly  flowing  hair, 
Forced  gage  to  passion  from  despair  ! 
Such  be  his  play  at  dead  of  night 
When  the  fair  figure,  fixed  upright, 
Shall  fade  and  wither  'fore  the  fire. 
While  Kolpo  sings  Kolorkor's  ire  ; 
And  in  the  weird  night-air  shall  wave 
Thy  hair  from  poison-dripping  stave. 


G.   G.  McCRAE.  317 

Nor  dream,  fond  maid,  of  hope,  escape, 
Nor  aid  nor  help  in  any  shape. 
Kolorkor  swears  !     His  heart  is  steeled  ! 
And  thou,  thine  awful  doom  is  sealed. 
Pity — forgiveness — hence  ! — remorse, 
Farewell  ! — until  thy  withered  corse 
Shall  rot  upon  the  arid  plain. 
And  whiten  in  the  sun  and  rain. 
There  never  shall  the  Raven  stoop 
With  shifting  eye  and  quivering  swoop  ; 
The  birds,  the  very  beasts  of  prey. 
Awestruck,  shall  shivering  turn  away  ; 
And  grass  beneath  and  leaves  above, 
Shall  wither  with  Kolorkor's  love." 
He  turned,  and  turning,  swiftly  fled 
Into  the  gloom  the  forest  shed. 
Nor  paused  till  well  beneath  the  roof 
Whence  all  the  tribe  most  held  aloof. 
And  sought  the  ghoul  whose  peering  eye 
Seemed  tracing  out  some  mystery. 

Incantation  of  Kolpo  the  Wizard. 

Within  the  wood,  by  weird  fire-light 
The  Wizard  plied  his  art  at  night ; 
And  sitting  with  his  palms  outspread, 
And  palsied,  forward-bending  head, 
Sang  to  the  flames  a  dreamy  stave, 
That  sounded  like  a  half-spent  wave. 
"  Lambent  tongues  of  sacred  fire, 
That  own  the  burning  sun  as  sire  ; 
And  thou,  O  sun  !  whose  kindling  ray, 
Drives  forth  the  night,  begets  the  day  ; 


f 


318  G.  G.  McCRAE. 

Whose  red  and  ever-glowing  hearth, 
Plundered  for  shivering  suns  of  earth, 
Conceived  the  heat  that  warms  our  hands 
With  blazing  heav'n-enravished  brands  — 
Assist  our  spell — our  incantation, 
Nor  heed  a  lover's  lamentation. 

Bat  and  Bird, 

Lizard,  Owl, 

Crow  and  Snake 

AVith  hooded  cowl, 
Cast  with  me  malignant  eyes 
On  Kolpo's  symboll'd  sacrifice  ; 
Circle,  flit  about  the  flames  ; 
Fan  the  fire  that  aids  our  aims. 
Night-jar,  owl,  and  fluttering  bat 
Sail  ye  round  and  round.     That  fat 
Came  from  a  warrior's  cloven  side, 
Grim  trophy  of  a  victor's  pride  : 
This,  and  poison  from  the  snake. 
With  juice  of  deadly  herb,  I  take, 
And,  breathing  wizard's  withering  curse, 
Anoint  the  targe  and  work  for  worse. 
Eat  her,  '  Pudgill,' — gnaw  her  frame  : 
Burn  her,  leprous  tongues  of  flame  ; 
Wrinkle  all  of  her  that's  round. 
Nor  leave  a  single  sinew  sound ; 
So  shall  each  supple  limb  give  way. 
And  shrink  into  a  shrivelled  spray ; 
So  shall  dull  death,  by  slow  degrees, 
Her  heart's  swift-bounding  current  freeze. 
Blast  the  twin  blossoms  of  her  breast. 
Burn  and  gnaw — 'tis  our  behest. 
Quench  yon  two  stars — our  sacrifice 


G.  G.  McCRAE.  319 

Demands  the  light  of  beauty's  eyes." 

-\-  -I;  :;:  :::  * 

'Twas  thus  the  palsied  wizard  sang, 

As  Mora-Mora  on  him  sprang. 

All  that  long  night  he'd  watched  the  ghoul, 

The  lizard,  bat,  and  large-eyed  owl : 

Had  seen  the  raven  fan  the  flame 

That  flickered,  leapt,  and  went  and  came : 

Had  marked,  with  swift-increasing  ire, 

The  loathsome  hell-craft  by  the  fire. 

No  longer  to  be  held,  he  swung 

His  club  aloft ;  it  hissed  and  sung. 

As  falling  on  the  wizard's  pate, 

It  turned  the  wavering  scale  of  fate. 

The  Broken  Spell. 

Thus  the  destroying  Kolpo  fell, 
As  all  the  camp  traditions  tell ; 
And  Mora-Mora  stooped  to  stretch 
Across  the  quivering  prostrate  wretch. 
And  snatched,  with  all  a  lover's  care, 
The  streaming  lock — the  maiden's  hair  ; 
O'erturned  the  targe  and  quenched  the  fire. 
And  'venged  the  maid,  though  not  the  sire. 

The  Return,  and  the  Full-Moon  Dance. 

To  gain  the  camp,  one  day  and  night. 
He  westward  sped  on  limbs  of  might ; 
And  found  the  tribes  with  spear  and  lance 
Preparing  for  the  "  full-moon  "  dance  ,' 


320  G.   G.  McCRAE. 

And  tho'  half-weary  from  the  race, 
He  painted  o'er  his  anxious  face, 
And  joined  the  dancing  joyous  throng, 
With  mazy  tread  and  sounding  song. 
The  crowd  advanced,  the  crowd  retired, 
In  martial  rank  by  music  fired ; 
Anon  sank  softly,  as  the  strain 
Subsiding  like  the  slumbrous  main 
Which,  murmuring  gently  on  the  beach, 
Breathes  to  the  sky  its  failing  speech. 

The  Tidings  of  Revenge. 

When  all  was  still — and  man  and  maid 
Well  wearied,  wandered  through  the  glade, 
Or  sought  the  hut  and  warm  fireside 
To  rest  awhile  in  painted  pride — 
Then  Mora-Mora  found  the  cot, 
Seeming  as  tho'  he  sought  it  not, 
The  one  that  held  his  maiden's  charms, 
All  trembling  there  with  love's  alarms; 
And  clasping  her  with  wild  embrace 
He  kissed  the  big  tears  from  her  face. 
Short  were  their  whispered  words  and  few, 
Beneath  the  bower-leaves  wet  with  dew. 
Swift  he  restored  the  ravished  lock, 
And  'gan  the  wizard's  art  to  mock  : 
"  Our  tribe,  my  girl — will  arm  anon, 
And  thou  must  all  thy  bravery  don, 
To  fly  with  me  when  all  is  won. 
Or  see  me  die  ere  next  the  sun 
Shall  crown  yon  mountain's  sombre  brow, 
And  seal  or  loose  our  plighted  vow." 


G.  G.  McCRAE. 


The  Battle  by  Moonlight. 

The  song  waxed  loud — the  dancers  flew, 
As  Mora-Mora  backwards  drew, 
Stealing  towards  the  rocky  ledge. 
That  fenced  the  towering  plateau's  edge ; 
Thence  beckoning  to  his  trusty  clan, 
He  posted  warriors,  man  by  man. 
"  I  go,"  he  cried,  "  to  join  the  king, 
But  when  you  hear  my  war-club  ring 
Against  his  shield,  rush  every  man 
Into  the  battle's  bristling  van, 
And  where  you  note  the  curlew's  cry, 
Press  forward  to  the  fray  ! — 'tis  I  !  " 


The  shield  was  struck  !     The  king  amazed. 
Upon  the  painted  stripling  gazed, 
Then  rushed  upon  him  with  the  spear, 
But  found  the  foe  devoid  of  fear ; 
Raised  his  stout  arm,  and  thundered,  "  Die 
When  rose  to  heaven  the  curlew's  cry, 
And  braves  in  masses  forward  press'd 
With  levelled  spear  and  fluttering  crest ; 
And  lo  !  aloft,  a  giant  arm. 
Whose  mailed  might  with  starry  charm, 
Was  studded  o'er  at  every  joint, 
That  blazed  with  many  a  rivet  point. 
It  held  the  moon  !  a  silver  shield 
Outstretched  above  their  battle-field, 
And  legioned  stars  in  bright  array, 
Seem'd  waiting  for  the  coming  fray  \ 


;2  2  G.  G.  McCRAE. 

Thence  glanced  the  star-shaft  launched  in  vain, 
Thence  it  reeled  wildering  o'er  the  plain, 
As  point  from  boss  was  harmless  turned, 
And  death  impending  swiftly  spurned. 

:;:  ;;:  :;:  *  * 

The  heavens  knelled  back  the  shouts  and  cries 

Of  warriors  in  their  agonies  ; 

And  through  the  star- lit  blue  vault  rang 

The  din  of  arms — tlie  battle  clang. 

Host  forth  to  host  defiance  hurled, 

As  the  stern  conflict  shook  the  world ; 

The  hissing  spears  sped  on  like  levin, 

Obscuring  in  their  fliglit  the  heaven  ; 

While  circling  thro'  the  air  there  sang, 

The  swift  careering  boomerang. 

The  Death  of  Mora-Mor.4. 

The  victors  left  the  mangled  dead, 

Unburied,  as  they  onward  sped 

To  gain,  ere  earliest  matin  ray. 

The  track  that  marked  their  homeward  way. 

But  ere  the  braves  had  cleared  the  wood, 

Or  made  their  victor  footing  good, 

The  king  stole  round,  and  blocked  the  pass, 

Where,  hid  behind  the  tufted  grass. 

He  rallied  soon  a  faithful  few, 

To  charge  the  foe  that  rose  to  view. 

Onward  in  warlike  rank  they  came, 

With  arms  and  limbs  of  symboUed  flame ; 

But  ah  !  too  soon  that  marching  throng, 

Disordered,  changed  their  triumph  song 


G.  G.  McCRAE.  323 

To  one  of  wailing,  woe,  and  grief. 
When  spear-transfixed  their  gallant  chief. 
Fell  to  the  turf  with  heavy  sound, 
And  all  his  blood  bedewed  the  trround. 


Death  of  Balladeadro. 

Kolorkor's  vengeance  nigh  complete. 

He  hurled  again,  and  at  the  feet 

Of  bleeding  Mora-Mora  fell 

The  maiden  both  had  loved  so  well. 

The  shaft  he  urged,  by  fury  prest. 

Had  pierced  the  virgin's  yielding  breast ; 

There  the  reed,  blood-stained,  trembling  hunj 

As  died  these  last  words  on  her  tongue  :  — 

"  Alas  !  I  die  !  and  well  'tis  so, 

Since  blood  and  love  commingled  flow  ! 

Smile,  Father  !  on  this  marriage-bed, 

And  bless  the  pair  that  death  has  wed. 

Ah  !  happier  thus  by  spearman's  point 

To  fall,  than  wither  root  and  joint, 

A  victim  to  the  wizard's  spell, 

Insidious,  cruel,  dark,  and  fell  !  " 

She  folded  in  her  last  embrace 

Her  lord,  and  laid  her  dying  face 

Against  his  cheek,  with  eyes  upcast. 

And  thus  two  loving  spirits  passed. 

She  fell  !     Another  spear  in  rest 
Wrought  the  avenger's  stern  behest ; 
But  whether  this  were  deed  of  chance, 
Or  of  some  destined,  chosen  lance, 


G.  G.  iMcCiiAE. 

None  knows,  or  no  one  cares  to  tell, 

Save  that  the  proud  Kolorkor  fell. 

This  much  is  known  : — 'tis  breathed  by  night, 

By  many  a  dying  camp-fire's  light, 

By  watchers  as  they  while  away 

The  hours  that  usher  in  the  day, 

Or  tell  the  children  round  the  fires — 

How  trembled  once  their  stalwart  sires, 

To  find  no  kingly  corpse  next  day, 

Among  the  common  warrior  clay. 

How  from  on  high  a  bleeding  owl, 

With  glaring  eyes  and  snowy  cowl. 

Gazed  on  that  field  with  fixed  despair, 

Shrieked,  and  so  vanished  into  air  ! 

But  when  the  child  makes  bold  to  ask 

Some  crone  the  mystery  to  unmask. 

She  only  answers — "  Trim  the  fire, 

Or,  pile  the  sticks  a  little  higher, 

And  cuddle  closer  while  we  sing 

A  story  of  some  other  king." 


QEORGU:  McHENRY,  325 


THE  AUSTRALIAN  EMIGRANT'S  SONG. 

Let  us  haste  in  the  prime  of  our  youth, 

To  the  land  that  is  fairest  on  earth ; 

There  estabhsh  our  altar  and  hearth, 
And  an  empire  build  in  the  south. 
Jjut  it  is  not  that  Albion  we  fly ; 

For  our  countr)-,  wherever  we  rove. 

In  our  hearts  we  will  carry,  as  Love 
Bore  his  Psyche  aloft  to  the  sky. 

Like  the  Trojan,  to  found  a  new  home, 
When  called  by  command  of  his  god, 
Deserted  his  native  abode, 

And  raised  in  the  wilderness  Rome  : 

So  impelled  by  the  fiat  of  fate, 

And  led  by  a  sure  guiding  hand. 
We  abandon,  like  him,  our  own  land, 

To  establish  a  nation  as  great. 

But  more  happy  than  he  was,  a  state 
^^'e'll  erect,  where  never  the  free, 
If  wealthy,  oppressors  can  be, 

Or  if  poor,  can  be  slaves  to  the  great ; 

Where  Liberty  monarch  shall  reign, 

But  her  mjnister,  Justice,  shall  rule ; 
Where  no  tyrants  can  lord  o'er  the  foolj 

Nor  men  indict  wrongs  upon  nien. 


326  GEORGE  McHENRY. 

It  is  not  misfortune  compels, 

Nor  oppression,  nor  insult  incites, 
But  a  voice  in  the  breeze  that  invites 

Our  departure,  and  destiny  tells ; 

And  it  whispers  while  filling  the  sails 

Of  our  joy-bounding  ship  on  its  way, 
As  it  ploughs  without  furrow  the  spray. 

To  our  fancy  delighted  strange  tales. 

It  whispers,  'twill  lead  us  to  shores, 

Where  the  vine  and  the  pomegranate  bloom, 
And  censers  of  frankincense  fume 

From  the  sandalwood  trees  in  the  moors; 

Where  the  wattle  the  precipice  crowns, 
And  her  fountain  the  fat  olive  yields, 
Where  sleek  herds  crop  the  flesh  of  the  fields, 

And  silken-wooled  flocks  graze  the  downs. 

Where  the  emu  stalks  over  the  lea, 

And  the  kangaroo  bounds  through  the  dale ; 

Where  rich  harvests  o'er  mountain  and  vale 
Extend,  like  a  topaz-gemmed  sea ; 
And  where  Nature  has  sown  all  the  soil. 

Like  a  husbandman,  broadcast  with  gold ; 

Still  teeming  with  treasures  untold, 
To  reward  our  adventurous  toil. 

Though  the  springs  of  the  clouds  be  all  dry, 
And  the  earth  be  baked  to  a  clod, 
AVe  will  trust  in  a  merciful  God, 

\\'ho  will  open  the  flood-gates  on  high. 

And  answer  our  fever-struck  cry  : 

"  O  ye  of  faint  heart  and  weak  faith, 
Walk  safe  through  the  shadows  of  death  ! 

Hark  the  rush  of  the  rain  in  the  sky." 


ANNE  PA  TCHE  TT  MA R  TIN.  3  2  7 


THE  OLD  WORLD  AND  THE  NEW. 

In  the  mother-country,  hoary  and  old, 
With  its  snowy  cliffs  and  its  misty  sky, 

The  heart  beats  slow,  and  the  blood  runs  cold, 
And  it  does  not  seem  so  hard  to  die. 

There  the  chill  rain  drips  on  the  chill  grey  stones, 
In  the  damp  churchyards  where  the  dead  men  lie  ; 

Till  it  soaks  through  the  sod  to  the  bleaching  bones, 
While  "  Dust  to  dust !  "  is  the  preacher's  cry. 

But  here,  in  the  glow  of  the  tropic  sun, 

"  Here  lies  Barbara,  aged  sixteen  ]  " 
And  I  stand  by  the  grave  of  this  unknown  one. 

And  sadly  muse  on  the  "might  have  been." 

A  fair  young  life  in  a  fair  young  land, 

I  had  sighed  for  oft  in  that  northern  clime. 

Where  the  pale  cliffs  girdle  the  wave-worn  strand 
Of  the  old-world  island  grown  grey  with  time. 

And  this  was  the  greeting  that  met  mine  eyes, 
As  they  opened  wide  on  the  glad  new  scene, 

But  to  read  with  a  shock  of  sad  surprise, 
"  Here  lies  Barbara,  aged  sixteen  ! " 


32  8  ANNE  PA  TCHE  TT  MAR  TIN, 

In  vain  did  the  feathery  wattles  wave. 

And  the  gum-tree  scatter  its  rich  perfume  ; 

Nought  could  I  heed  but  that  girlish  grave, 
With  its  pitiful  legend  of  early  doom. 

Till  my  heart  was  heavy  and  sore  the  while, 
Like  a  weary  bird  with  a  woundedwing  ; 

And  I  grew  to  long  for  the  grey  old  isle, 

Where  death  and  decay  seemed  a  fitting  thing, 

I  had  forgotten  that  rest  remains 

After  the  tomb  to  the  seekers  for  Truth, 

In  that  distant  country  where  ever  reigns 
Eternal  summer,  eternal  youth. 

Where  we  sicken  no  more  with  our  discontent 
Of  the  years  too  short,  or  the  days  too  long, 

And  the  mournful  minor  of  Earth's  lament, 
Merges  into  the  key-note  of  Heaven's  song  ! 


dRTIJUR  PATCimTT  MAR2IN,  329 


THE  CYNIC  OF  THE  WOODS. 

I  COME  from  busy  haunts  of  men, 

With  Nature  to  commune, 
Which  you,  it  seems,  observe,  and  then 

Laugh  out  like  some  buffoon. 

You  cease,  and  through  the  forest  drear 

I  pace  with  sense  of  awe, 
When  once  again  upon  my  ear 

Breaks  in  your  harsh  guffaw. 

I  look  aloft,  to  yonder  place 

^^'here  placidly  you  sit, 
And  tell  you  to  your  very  face, 

I  do  not  like  your  wit. 

I'm  in  no  mood  for  blatani  jest, 

I  hate  your  mocking  song, 
j\Iy  weary  soul  demands  the  rest 

Denied  to  it  so  long. 

Besides,  there  passes  through  my  brain 

The  poet's  love  of  fame — 
Why  should  not  an  Australian  straia 

Immortalize  my  name.? 


330  ARTHUR  PATCHETT  MARTIN. 

And  so  I  pace  the  forest  drear, 
Filled  with  a  sense  of  awe, 

When  louder  still  upon  my  ear 
Breaks  in  your  harsh  guffaw. 


Yet  truly,  Jackass,  it  may  be, 

My  words  are  all  unjust : 
You  laugh  at  what  you  hear  and  see, 

And  laugh  because  you  must. 


You've  seen  Man,  civilized  and  rude, 

Of  varying  race  and  creed, 
The  black-skinned  savage,  almost  nude, 

The  Englishman  in  tweed. 

And  here  the  lubra  oft  has  stayed 

To  rest  beneath  the  boughs. 
Where  now,  perchance,  some  fair-haired  maid 
May  hear  her  lover's  vows. 


While  you,  from  yonder  lofty  height. 
Have  studied  human  ways, 

And  with  a  satirist's  delight 
Dissected  hidden  traits. 


Laugli  on,  laugh  on  !     Your  rapturous  shout 

Again  on  me  intrudes; 
But  I  have  found  your  secret  out, 

O  Cynic  of  the  Woods. 


A  R  THUR  PA  TCHE  TT  MAR  TIN.  3  3  r 

AVcll  !  I  confess,  grim  mocking  elf, 

Howc'er  I  rhapsodize, 
That  I  am  more  in  love  with  self 

Than  with  the  earth  and  skies. 


So  I  will  lay  the  epic  by 

That  I  had  just  begun ; 
Why  should  I  scribble?     Let  me  lie 

And  bask  here  in  the  sun. 


And  let  me  own,  were  I  endow'd 
With  your  fine  humorous  sense, 

I,  too,  should  laugh — aye,  quite  as  loud, 
At  all  Man's  vain  pretence. 


2,12,  ARTHUR  PATCHETT  MARTIN, 


A  ROMANCE  IN  THE  ROUGH. 

A  STURDY  fellow,  with  a  sunburnt  face, 
And  thews  and  sinews  of  a  giant  mould  ; 

A  genial  mind,  that  harboured  nothing  base,— 
A  pocket  void  of  gold. 

The  rival's  years  were  fifty  at  the  least — 
Withered  his  skin,  and  wrinkled  as  a  crone  ; 

But  day  by  day  his  worldly  goods  increased, 
Till  great  his  wealth  had  grown. 

And  she,  the  lady  of  this  simple  tale, 

Was  tall  and  straight,  and  beautiful  to  view  ; 

Even  a  poet's  burning  words  would  fail 
To  paint  her  roseate  hue. 

The  suitors  came,  the  old  one  and  the  young, 
Each  with  fond  words  her  fancy  to  allure. 

For  which  of  them  should  marriage  bells  be  rung^ 
The  rich  one  or  the  poor? 

She  liked  the  young  one  with  his  winning  ways, 
He  seemed  designed  to  be  her  future  mate— - 

Besides,  in  novels  and  romantic  plays 
l^ove  has  a  youthful  gait-. 


ARTHUR  PATCHETT  MARTIX.  ■ 

But  well  she  knew  that  poverty  was  hard, 

And  humble  household  cares  not  meant  for  her  ; 

Nor  cared  she  what  the  sentimental  bard 
Might  warble  or  infer. 

She  made  her  choice,  the  wedding  bells  rang  clear ; 

The  aged  bridegroom  figured  in  the  Times. 
The  young  man,  after  some  superfluous  beer, 

"Went  forth  to  foreign  climes. 

And  this  is  all  I  ever  chanced  to  know, 

Told  by  my  mate  while  digging  on  the  Creek, 

Who  ended  with  his  handsome  face  aglow, 
And  with  a  verse  in  Greek. 


ARTHUR  PArCHETT  MARTIN. 


A  BUSH  STUDY,  A  LA    WATTE AU. 

He. 

See  the  smoke-wreaths  how  they  curl  so  hghtly  skyward 
From  the  ivied  cottage  nestled  in  the  trees  : 

Such  a  lovely  spot — I  really  feel  that  I  would 
Be  happy  there  with  children  on  my  knees. 

She. 
No,  you  wouldn't.     These  arc  merely  idle  fancies 

Of  a  gentleman  much  given  to  day-dreams. 
Tlicse  chimneys  always  smoke,  and,  then  the  chance  is 

You  would  have  a  scolding  wife  and  babe  that  screams. 

He. 

Ah  !  but  look  !  just  there,  above  that  lowly  cottage, 
Birds  are  flitting  in  the  sunlight  clear  and  pure ; 

And  the  three-score  years  and  ten — man's  poor  allottage— 
Might  be  passed  away  with  pleasure  there,  I'm  sure. 

She. 
Now,  pray  listen,  oh,  vain  wanderer  from  the  city, 

And  look  bravely  up  and  meet  my  searching  eyes : 
Would  you  give  up  all  your  town  life,  bright  and  witty, 

Just  because  the  cottage  smoke  curls  to  the  skies  ? 

He. 
I  regret  to  find  you're  one  of  those  young  ladies — • 

Pet  productions  of  this  artificial  age  : 
Rural  solitude  to  you  is  simply  Hades, 

And  your  paradise  the  ballroom  or  the  stage. 


ARTHUR  PATCH ETT  MARTIN.  335 

She. 
Yes,  forsooth  !  and  wliy  ?     Because,  my  airy  dreamer, 

I  can  use  my  eyes  as  well  as  gaily  dance — 
See  the  Husband,  Wife,  the  Lover,  Dupe  and  Schemer, 

All  whirling  past  and  weaving  a  romance. 

He. 
You  think,  then.  Miss,  such  dreadful  social  questions 

Are  like  cards,  designed  to  pass  away  the  time ; 
Do  you  not  perceive  that  all  these  pseudo-Christians 

Are  but  moths  that  flutter  round  the  candle  Crime? 

She. 
At  the  play,  too,  wlicre  I  oft  with  dear  mamma  go, 

There's  the  drama  being  acted  on  the  boards ; 
And  Othello,  Desdemona,  and  lago 

In  the  boxes,  p'raps,  without  the  paint  and  swords. 

He. 

Well,  that  may  be,  but  the  life  of  show  and  fashion 
You  so  prize  above  the  simple  joys  around. 

Is  all  false  ;  more  noble  manhood  and  true  passion 
In  the  daily  lives  of  rustics  may  be  found. 

She. 
Think  you  then  that  those  who  dwell  in  rural  places 

Arc  quite  free  from  every  evil  thought  and  deed  ? 
Pray  speak  unto  the  swain  who  hither  paces 

With  slow  steps,  as  though  in  ]_)ain,  across  the  mead. 

He. 
If  you  will  not  sneer,  I'll  ask  him  for  his  story; 

But  expect  not  that  his  daily  life  shall  be 
Full  of  famous  deeds ;  he  careth  not  for  glory, 

But  lives  by  honest  labour,  pure  and  free. 


336  Arthur  PATCHETT  MARTIN. 

She. 
Speak  on  ;  speak  !  and  let  me  hear  this  modern  idyll 

From  the  lips  of  yonder  heavy-footed  swain ; — 
By-the-bye,  his  wild,  erratic  sort  of  sidle 

Seems  to  indicate  that  he  the  bowl  doth  drain. 

He. 

Hush — he'll  overhear.  .  .  .  O  tell  me,  gentle  cottaf, 
Dwellest  thou  here  remote  from  carking  care  and  strife? 

Sundowner. 

What's  that  to  you  ?     Are  you  a  bloated  squatter  ? 
Better  clear,  old  man  [hie]  'companied  by  your  wife. 

He. 
Thou  mistakest  me,  thou  toil-worn  man  and  humble ; 

I  own  no  lands  where  graze  the  peaceful  sheep. 
Thou  art  stirred  with  deep  emotion,  and  dost  mumble — • 

Speak  up  bravely,  brother  man,  and  do  not  weep. 

Sundowner. 
Hot  to-day,  guv'nor  \  let's  go  and  have  a  liquor ; 

Lady  take  anything  ? — Bless  you  I  can  pay — 
Haven't  had  one  yet,  and  nothing  makes  me  sicker 

Than  abstaining  altogether  such  a  day. 

Shearing  sheep  is  dry  work, 
Kissing  girls  is  sly  work  ; 
But  drinking  deep  is  my  work  \ 
So,  let's  drink,  boys,  drink  ! 


ARTHUR  PATCHETT  MARTIN.  337 

He. 

Come,  Mabel,  come.     He  is  worse  than  Turk  or  Bulgar, 
And  his  presence  doth  the  verj'  air  pollute. 

She. 
Well,  I  must  confess  he  is  a  trifle  vulgar ; 
But  what  say  you  now,  my  dreamer? 

He. 

I  am  mule. 


23 


338  ARTHUR  PA TCHE TT  MARTIN. 


THE  STORM. 

Aye,  not  a  doubt  'twas  dark  \Yithout, 

Dark  and  drear,  and  bitterly  cold  ; 

But  we,  within  that  quaint  old  inn. 

Were  out  of  the  blast  like  sheep  in  the  fold. 

There  sat  we,  old  comrades  three. 

Telling  our  stories  and  singing  our  staves ; 

Little  we  recked  that  the  sky  was  flecked 

With  the  lightning's  fury — light-hearted  knaves. 

It  was  not  far  to  the  harbour  bar. 

Where  groaned  in  anguish  a  noble  ship. 

And  a  lady  there,  of  beauty  rare. 

Gazed  into  the  darkness  with  quivering  lip. 

In  sight  of  the  town  the  ship  went  down — • 

Went  down,  though  they  lifted  up  praying  hands, 

And  at  break  of  day  all  stark  they  lay. 

Those  storm-tossed  ones,  on  the  glittering  sands. 

While  there  sat  we,  old  comrades  three. 
Till  one,  with  the  love-light  fresh  in  his  eyes. 
Sang,  "The  morning  breaks,  and  each  bird  wakes, 
And  to-day  my  bird  to  my  bosom  flies." 
But  the  townsmen  pale  spake  of  wreck  and  gale, 
As  we  sauntered  out  of  the  tavern  door, 
And  the  ebbing  tide  showed  his  fair  young  bride. 
And  he  swooned  on  her  breast  by  the  hard,  bleak 
shore. 


AR  THUR  PA  TCHE  TT  MARTIN.  3  3  9 


MY   COUSIN  FROM  PALL  MALL. 

There's  nothing  that  exasperates  a  true  Australian  youth, 
Whatever  be  his  rank  in  Hfe,  be  he  cultured  or  uncouth, 
As  the  manner  of  a  London  swell.     Now  it  chanced,  the 

other  day, 
That  one  came  out,  consigned  to  me — a  cousin,  by  the  way. 

As  he  landed  from  the  steamer  at  the  somewhat  dirty  pier. 
He  took  my  hand  ;  and  lispingly  remarked,    "  How    very 

queer  I 
I'm  glad,  of  course,  to  see  you — but  you  must  admit  this 

place. 
With  all  its  mixed  surroundings,  is  a  national  disgrace." 

I  defended  not  that  dirty  pier,  not  a  word  escaped  my  lips ; 

I  pointed  not — though  well  I  might— to  the  huge  three- 
masted  ships ; 

For,  although  with  patriotic  pride  my  soul  was  all  aglow, 

I  remembered  TroUope's  parting  words,  "  Victorians  do  not 
blow." 

On  the   morrow   through  the  city  we   sauntered,  arm   in 

arm  ; 
I  strove  to  do  the  cicerone — my  style  was  grand  and  calm. 
I  showed  him  all  the  lions — but  I  noted  with  despair 
His  smile,  his  drawl,  his  eye-glass,  and  his  supercilious  air. 


340  ARTHUR  PATCHETT  MARTIN. 

As  we  strolled  along  that  crowded  street,  where  Fashion 

holds  proud  sway, 
He  deigned  to  glance  at  everything,  but  not  one  word  did  say ; 
I  really  thought  he  was   impressed    by  its    well-deserved 

renown 
Till  he  drawled,  ''  Not  bad — not  bad  at  all — for  a  provincial 

town." 


Just  as  he  spoke  there  chanced  to  pass  a  most  bewitching 

girl, 
And  I  said,  "  Dear  cousin,  is  she  not  fit  bride  for  any  earl?" 
He   glanced,    with   upraised   eyebrows   and   a   patronizing 

smile, 
Then  lisped,  "  She's  pretty,  not  a  doubt,  but  what  a  want 

of  style  ! " 

We   paused   a  moment  just   before   a   spacious   House  of 

Prayer \ 
Said  he,   "  Dear  me  !     Good  gracious  !     What's  this  ugly 

brick  affair— 
A  second-rate  gin-palace  ? '"'     "  Cease,  cease,"  I  said  ;  "  you 

must — 
O  spare  me," — here  my  sobs  burst  forth.     I  was  humbled 

to  the  dust. 


But,   unmindful  of   my  agonies,    in    the   slowest   of   slow 

drawls, 
He  lisped  away  for  hours  of  the  Abbey  and  St.  Paul's, 
Till  those  grand  historic  names  had  for  me  a  hateful  sound, 
And  I  wished  the  noble  piles  themselves  were  levelled  to 

the  ground. 


ARTHUR  PATCHETT  MARTIN.  341 

My  young  bright  life  seemed  blasted,  my  hopes  were  dead 

and  gone, 
No  blighted  lover  ever  felt  so  gloomy  and  forlorn ; 
I'd  reached  the  suicidal  stage — and  the  reason  of  it  all, 
This  supercilious  London  swell,  his  eye-glass  and  his  drawl. 

But,  though  hidden,  still  there's  present,  in  our  darkest  hour 

of  woe, 
A  sense  of  respite  and  relief,  although  we  may  not  know 
The  way  that  gracious  Providence  will  choose  to  right  the 

wrong. 
So  I  forthwith  ceased  my  bitter  tears — I  suffered  and  was 

strong. 

Then  we  strolled  into  the  Club,  where  he  again  commenced 
to  speak, 

But  I  interrupted,  saying,  "  Let  us  leave  town  for  a  week, 

I  see  that  JMelbourne  bores  you — nay,  nay,  I  know  it's 
true  ; 

Let  us  wander  'midst  the  gum-trees,  and  observe  the  kan- 
garoo." 

My   words   were    soft   and   gentle,    and   none  could  ha\'e 

discerned 
How,  beneath  my  calm  demeanour,  volcanic  fury  burned. 
And  my  cousin  straight  consented,  as  his  wine  he  slowly 

sipped, 
To  see  the  gay  Marsupial  and  the  gloomy  Eucalypt. 

Ah  !  who  has  ever  journeyed  on  a  glorious  summer  night 
Through  the  weird  Australian  bush-land  without  feeling  of 
delight  ? 


342  AR  THUR  PA  TCHE  TT  MAR  TIN. 

The  dense  untrodden  forest,  in  the  moonhght  coldly  pale, 
Brings  before  our  wondering  eyes  again  the  scenes  of  fairy 

tale. 


No  sound  is  heard,  save  where  one  treads  upon  the  lonely 

track ; 
\\Q.  lose  our  dull  grey  manhood,  and  to   early  youth  go 

back — 
To  scenes  and  days  long  passed  away,  and  seem  again  to 

greet 
Our   youthful    dreams,   so    rudely  crushed    like   the  grass 

beneath  our  feet. 


'Twas  such  a  night  we  wandered  forth ;  we  never  spoke  a 

word 
(I  was  too  full  of  thought  for  speech — to  him  no  thought 

occurred) 
When,  gazing  from  the  silent  earth  to  the  star-lit  silent  sky, 
My  cousin  in  amazement  dropped  his  eye-glass  from  his  eye. 


At  last,  I  thought  his  soul  was  moved  by  the  grandeur  of  the 

scene 
(As  the  most  prosaic  Colonist's   I'm  certain   would    have 

been), 
Till  he  replaced  his  eye-glass,  and  remarked — "  This  may 

be  well, 
Lut  one  who's  civilized  prefers  the  pavement  of  Pall  Mall." 


ARTHUR  PATCHETT  MARTIN.  343 

I  swerved  not  from  that  moment  from  my  purpose  foul  and 

grim  ; 
I  never  deigned  to  speak  one  word,  nor  even  glanced  at 

him ; 
But  suddenly  1  seized  his  throat,  ...  he  gave  one  dreadful 

groan, 
And  I,  Avho  had  gone  forth  with  him,  that  night  returned 

alone. 


344  /•  L,  MICHAEL. 


FROM  "JOHN  CUMBERLAND," 

Oh  !  the  gentle  moonlight  shining  on  the  branches  inter- 
twining ! 
Oh,  the  lovely  moonlight  sleeping  in  the  hollows  of  the 
hill ! 
On  the  river  silver-crested,  on  the  mountain  purple-breasted, 
With  the  midnight  stillness  echoing  the  murmur  of  the 
rill; 
And  the  sedge-bird  in  the  marshes,  and  the  rustling  in  the 
larches, 
And  the  dark  tips  looking  frosted  on  the  edges  of  the 
pine, 
And  the  ripple  on  the  rivers,  where  the  moonlight  shakes 
and  shivers. 
To  the  nightingale's   clear   music,   and   the   housedog's 
distant  whine. 
Oh  !  the  soft  night  breezes  creeping,  and  the  dreary  moou' 
beam  sleeping, 
And  the  stars  like  jewels  glittering  in  the  water's  quiet 
breast, 
And  the  distant  echo  dying,  and  the  distant  hills  replying  ] 
And  oh  !  the  heart  grows  placid  with  the  sentiment  of 
rest. 
God  imposed  it  as  a  duty,  when  He  bathed  the  world  in 
beauty, 
That  ive  should  learn  to  love  Him  through  the  glory  of 
His  works; 


/  L.  MICHAEL.  345 

Make  the  moonbeam  calm  and  tender,  rolled  the  sun  in 
light  and  splendour, 
That  we  might  read  the  lesson  in  all  loveliness  that  lurks  ; 
That  mankind  might  know  the  story  of  His  goodness  and 
His  glory, 
Set  before  them,  plainly  written,   in   all   places,  in   all 
time ; 
In  the  spirit  and  the  letter  telling  this  world  of  a  better. 
Free  from  death  and  from  temptation,  free  from  wretched- 
ness and  crime  ; 
Peace  beyond  all  earthly  measure,   riches  past  all  earthly 
treasure — 
If  God  hath  made  this  world  so  fliir  for  Adam's  fallen 
race. 
What  shall  be  the  joy  up-springing,  when  the  seraph  hosts 
bow  singing, 
And  the  suns  are  sickly  tapers  to  the  glory  of  His  face  ? 
There  are  tones  the  heart  will  hush  to ;  there  are  sounds  the 
cheek  will  flush  to; 
There  are  litde  lovely  glimpses  that  speak  strangely  to 
the  soul ; 
When  the  arching  boughs  meet  o'er  us,  and  the  landscape 
breaks  before  us — 
Revelation  speaks  in  flashes,  and   a   part   declares   the 
whole. 
Underneath  the  lightning  flashing,  underneath  the  thunder 
crashing, 
Or  the  cataract  that  tumbles  white  with  wild  and  stream- 
ing hair. 
In  the  strong  wind's  day  of  battle,  in  the  tempest's  scream 
and  rattle. 
Goaded  thought  leaps  up  in  sparkles  that  we  seek  in  vain 
elsewhere  3 


346  /.  Z.  MICHAEL. 

To  all  ages  hath  He  spoken,  lest   the  burdened  back  be 
broken, 
So  that  sight  and  sound  may  take  away  the  pressure  of 
the  years  : 
And  almighty  to  deliver,  hath  set  free  our  souls  for  ever, 
When  the  darkness  set  on  Calvary,  and  veiled  immortal 
tears. 
Shall  He  not  of  right  be  jealous,  as  He  bade  His  prophets 
tell  us, 
Lest  His  creatures  offer  otherwhere  the  praise  that  is  His 
own  ? 
When   He  wrote   on  all   creation    His  great   mandate — • 
adoration  ; 
That  all  peoples  and  all  languages  might  bow  before  His 
throne ; 
In  bereavement  and  in  sorrow  tells  the  heart  of  a  to-morrow, 
That  we  walk  together  comforted   through  trouble  and 
through  pain ; 
Gave  His  word  to  priest  and  poet,  that  the  listening  world 
might  know  it, 
And  purge  itself  of  folly  and  return  to  Him  again. 
Such  the  thoughts  that  we  four  pondered,  in  the  moonlight 
as  we  wandered  \ 
And  peace  rose  out   of  loveliness   and   slept  upon  my 
breast ; 
And   love   rose  out  of   the  heather,  as  we  wended   home 
together, 
And  bound  us  four  in  unity— and  all  my  heart  had  rest. 


E.  G.  MILLARD.  347 


HOW    WE    RAN     IN    THE     BLACK    WARRIGAL 
HORSE,  "THE  PET  OF  THE  PRAIRIES." 

You  must  let  me  have  Topsail  to-day,  boss, 
If  we're  going  for  that  Warrigal  mob. 
And  let  Edwin  ride  Bunyip,  the  bay  'oss, 
And  put  Miller  on  Rory  the  cob. 
Poor  old  Zillah's  as  stiff  as  a  poker, 
Or  we'd  give  her  a  bit  of  a  show  ; 
So  let  Arthur  ride  steady  old  Stoker, 
Who  can  last  tho'  he  is  a  bit  slow. 
You've  got  Mischief  in  very  good  fettle, 
And,  by  Jove,  he'll  be  tried  well  to-day, 
For  them  flyers  will  sound  all  our  mettle, 
And  we  shan't  have  it  all  our  own  way. 
Last  night  I  was  bilin'  the  billy 
When  I  see  the  whole  lot  sailing  past ; 
In  the  lead  was  that  mealy-nosed  filly, 
And,  by  gosh,  boss,  that  filly  is  fast  ! 
The  "  Pet  of  the  Prairies  "  looked  awfully  grand 
Spieling  well  out  on  the  wing. 
With  five  mares  without  ever  a  brand 
Loping  in  to  the  "  Warrigal  Spring." 
Next  morning  was  plenty  of  bustle, 
And  tackling  was  carefully  placed 
On  beauties  with  bone  and  with  muscle. 
Whose  sires  and  whose  dams  had  all  raced. 
We  soon  sighted  "The  spring,"  and  the  pipe 
Was  by  one  and  by  all  being  lit, 


34S  ^.  G.  Millard, 

When  M'Dermott  (of  bushman  a  type) 

Said  he'd  ride  up  the  rise  just  a  bit. 

From  a  shout  he  could  scarcely  refrain, 

Then  slipped  off  as  though  he'd  been  shot, 

And  whispered,   "  They're  on  the  big  plain, 

And,  by  Jingo,  we'll  bag  the  whole  lot !  " 

"  Now,  boys,  are  you  ready  ?  keep  cool  and  ride  steady, 

The  beggars  don't  dream  we  have  found  'em. 

Boss  and  Ned  to  the  right,  keep  well  out  of  sight — ■ 

We'll  make  a  big  try  to  get  round  'em. 

And,  Arthur  and  Miller,  you  see  that  big  wilier 

In  the  gorge  by  the  Currajong-hill  ? 

To  make  that  is  your  dart — sneak  round  and  look  smart, 

Till  I  signal  you,  keep  there  quite  still, 

And  I'll  make  a  sweep  until  I  can  creep 

To  '  The  Spring '  right  round  the  outside ; 

Then,  when  you  see  smoke  by  the  forky  she-onk, 

You  can  ride  as  you  never  did  ride." 

We  put  back  our  pipes  in  their  cases, 
And  paired  off,  as  old  Jack  had  said. 
With  the  fire  of  the  sport  in  our  faces, 
For  we  all  were  colonial  bred. 
And  now  we  have  all  reached  our  cover, 
We  can  see  the  black  horse  sniff  the  breeze  \ 
No  maiden  e'er  looked  for  her  lover 
More  than  we  for  that  smoke  by  the  trees. 
See  at  last  the  smoke  curls  up — hurrah  ! 
They  see  it  as  soon  as  we  do ; 
Jack's  close  on  their  heels  with  "  houp-la  !  " 
And  we  echo  his  rally-cry,  too  ; 
Straight  down  the  big  plain  all  together, 
Then  their  necks  are  craned  straight  for  the  hills. 
Now,  Bunyip,  just  let  us  see  whether 


E.  G.  MILLARD,  349 

You  can  come  in  a  pace  which  kills. 

Yes  !  Edwin  has  turned  them — cleverly  done; 

Once  more  towards  the  station  we  hit, 

The  mob  shows  distress,  five  miles  have  we  run, 

And  they're  trying  their  hardest  to  split. 

Now  we  streak  through  a  forest  of  box, 

Leaving  shreds  of  our  shirts  in  our  train  ; 

Now  flounder  o'er  smooth  granite  rocks, 

Now  o'er  fissures  cut  deep  by  the  rain. 

Poor  old  Stoker  goes  straight  at  a  whopper, 

But  the  old  horse  is  killed  by  the  pace. 

And  Arthur  comes  down  such  a  cropper 

That  he  is  put  out  of  the  race. 

And  Miller  on  Rory  is  tailing  ; 

This  game  is  too  fast  for  a  hack, 

Even  Bunyip's  endurance  is  failing. 

So  it's  left  to  the  boss  and  old  Jack. 

They  tackle  the  "  Pet  of  the  Prairies," 

They  must  have  him  dead  or  alive  ; 

They  rally  him  right  down  the  level 

That  leads  to  the  Warrigal  "  drive." 

How  he  rushes  and  dodges  and  twists. 

How  vainly  he  tries  to  clear  out ; 

But  behind  him  are  muscles  and  wrists. 

And  men  who  know  what  they're  about. 

See  at  last  he  grows  blinded  and  fagged, 

They  hustle  him  down  the  home  track. 

So  the  "  Pet  of  the  Prairies  "  is  bagged, 

And  is  now  Elliot's  favourite  hack. 

And  on  grog  nights  we  yarn  of  that  run, 

As  we  sit  by  the  old  fireside, 

And  talk  tall  of  the  deeds  that  were  done 

In  that  wonderful  'WairiLral  ride. 


350  AGNES  NEALE. 


AUSTRALIA. 

All  the  things  that  have  been  done,  and  all  the  things  that 

are  to  be ; 
All  the  wonders  wrought  on  land,  and  all  the  wonders  on 

the  sea ; 
All  the  victories  of  nations,  all  the  triumphs  of  mankind ; 
All  the  grand  and  bold  achievements  over  matter  won  by 

mind ; 
That  which  stirs  and  thrills  our  spirits  in  the  closings  of  to- 
day; 
Words  that  sweep  the  world  like  fire,  acts  that  all  the  nations 

sway, 
When  to-morrow's  sun  has  risen,  smiling  from  the  glittering 

sea. 
All  are  with  the  dead  past  ages,  parts  of  life's  long  history  ; 
Wrought  into  the  grand  mosaic  lying  down  the  course  of 

Time; 
Bits  caught  up  from  all  the  nations,  lights  and  shades  from 

every  clime. 
Rise  and  fall  of  every  nation,  origin  of  empires  vast. 
Trace  we  back  through  creeping  decades  to  the  dim  and 

shadowy  past ; 
Every  great  majestic  river  flowing  on  to  meet  the  sea. 
Bearing  on  its  stately  bosom  many  a  gallant  argosy, 
Owes  its  proud,  resistless  volume  to  ten  thousand  tiny  rills. 
Takes  its  rise  in  some  low  wood-spring  hidden  in  the  quiet 

hills; 
So  through  dimness  and  through  darkness  rose  our  infant 

colony 
On  a  continent  of  beauty,  sleeping  on  a  southern  sea, 


AGNES  NEALE,  351 

Lying  all  at  rest  and  silent,  never  dreaming  what  should  be, 
Never  looking  through  the  future  to  the  wonders  that  we 

see. 
Many  a  battle  has  been  fought,  and  many  a  victory  has  been 

won, 
Since  first  the  sable  warrior  drew  the  blood  of  England's 

gallant  son  ; 
Many  a  deed  of  blood  has  reddened,  many  a  cry  gone  up 

to  God, 
Since  first  this  southern  land  of  light  was  by  the  foot  of 

white  man  trod. 
Still  through    all,   through    fights   and   bloodshed,    inward 

strife  and  inward  fear. 
Through  the  wearying  disappointments  always  coming  year 

by  year ; 
Through  it  all  with  dauntless  courage,  inborn  power  and 

inbred  might. 
Like  the  grass  in   spring-time  pushes  through  the  earth's 

crust  into  light, 
Through  intrigues   of  legislators,   faction    fight  and   party 

strife. 
Bravely  did  the  nation  struggle,  upv.-ard,  onward,  into  life. 
Bravely  fought  and  fairly  conquered  till  to-day  we  see  her 

stand. 
Not  a  tiny  scarce-known  handful,  but  a  rich   and  mighty 

land  ; 
Strong,  with  all  the  strength  that  youth  has  Time"s  unending 

war  to  wage, 
^Mighty  with  the  might  of  ages,  hers  by  right  of  heritage. 
Rich  with  stores  of  mineral  wealth,  and  flocks  and  herds  by 

land  and  sea, 
Lo  !  her  white-winged  messengers  are  sweeping  over  every 

sea. 


352  AGNES  NEALE. 

Lo  !  a  young  world,  lo  !  a  strong  world,  rises  in  this  distant 

clime, 
Destined  to  increase  and  strengthen  to  the  very  end  of 

time. 
Here  through  veins  with  young  life  swelling,  rolls  the  blood 

that  rules  the  world ; 
Here  as  hers,  and  dear  as  honour,  England's  banner  floats 

unfurled. 
Oh,  Australia  !  fair  and  lovely,  empress  of  the  southern  sea, 
What  a  glorious  fame  awaits  thee  in  the  future's  history. 
Land  of  wealth,  and  land  of  beauty,  tropic  suns  and  arctic 

snows. 
Where   the   splendid   noontide   blazes,    where    the   raging 

storm-wind  blows ; 
Be  thou  proud,  and  be  thou  daring,  ever  true  to  God  and 

man  ; 
In  all  evil  be  to  rearward,  in  all  good  take  thou  the  van  ! 
Only  let  thy  hands  be  stainless,  let  thy  life  be  pure  and 

true, 
And  a  destiny  awaits  thee  such  as  nations  never  knew ! 


AGNES  iS'EALiJl.  353 


THE  BLUE  LAKE^^IOUNT  GAMBIER. 

Lying  asleep  in  the  golden  light 

Fringed  with  a  setting  of  emerald  green, 
Crowned  with  a  majesty  peerless  and  grand, 

Nature  has  surely  made  thee  her  queen. 
The  clouds  that  gathered  above  in  the  air 

Mirror  themselves  in  thy  sparkling  eye, 
Sending  their  beauty  to  swell  thy  store, 

Till  we  scarce  can  tell  the  lake  from  the  sky. 

Lying  asleep  in  the  shining  light ; 

Silent  and  calm  as  befits  a  queen  ; 
Like  a  giant  sapphire,  limpid  and  pure. 

Set  in  a  border  of  golden  green ; 
How  wondrous  calm  and  fair  it  must  be 

Here  when  the  glorious  moonbeams  lie 
In  silver  floods  on  thy  shining  face 

And  the  soft  winds  wander  in  whispers  by— 

When  the  long  fantastic  shadows  creep  out 

And  wander  about  in  their  silent  way, 
Giving  a  beauty  weird  and  strange 

That  will  fade  in  the  sober  light  of  day. 
And  then  in  the  solemn  stillness  of  night. 

When  the  white  stars  burn  from  their  thrones  on  high, 
Does  ever  a  moan  steal  up  from  thy  heart 

To  the  far-off  arcli  of  the  listening  sky  ? 
24 


354  AGNES  NEALE. 

Down  in  that  wonderful  heart  of  thine, 

Does  some  awful  secret  of  suffering  lie — - 
Some  tale  of  a  dreadful  tragedy, 

Wrought  in  the  years  that  have  long  gone  by? 
O,  beautiful  picture  of  calmness  and  peace, 

I  can  see  in  fancy  a  terrible  day, 
When  the  very  fiend  of  the  bottomless  pit 

In  thy  quiet  nest  held  riotous  sway. 


When  a  bubbling  cauldron  of  molten  fire 

Seethed  where  thou  sleepest  in  beauty  now, 
And  a  storm-cloud  blacker  than  midnight  dark 

Hung  low  on  the  shuddering  mountain's  brow 
When  the  lurid  glare  of  destruction's  light 

Flared  red  and  wild  in  the  face  of  heaven, 
And  the  trembling  earth  in  her  agony 

By  mighty  earthquakes  was  rocked  and  riven 


When  here,  where  the  grass  is  velvet  now, 

And  the  radiant  golden  sunlight  lies, 
A  torrent  of  living  fire  swept  down, 

And  darkened  the  face  of  the  noontide  skies, 
And  the  mountain  reeled  in  the  demon's  clutch 

As  he  belched  forth  scorching  fire  for  breath. 
And  wherever  his  scathing  footsteps  trod 

There  fell  the  shadow  of  darkness  and  death. 
And  when  the  rage  of  the  fiend  was  spent. 

And  the  awful  work  of  the  day  was  done, 
I  can  see  the  blackened  and  blasted  land 

Lie  stricken  and  dead  in  the  light  of  the  sun. 


AGNES  NEALE.  355 

The  land  is  smiling  and  emerald  now, 

And  the  glorious  sunlight's  golden  gleam 
Lies  warm  on  the  stern  old  mountain's  side, 

And  the  past  seems  only  a  hideous  dream. 
But  that  vision  of  horror  is  real  and  true — • 

As  real  as  this  lovely  summer  scene — 
Real  as  this  mount  with  its  sapphire  heart, 

And  its  delicate  border  of  golden  green. 


But  why  art  thou  lying  there,  O  gem — 

Lying  so  solemn,  and  calm,  and  still  ? 
Dost  thou  hold  in  thy  beautiful  azure  bonds 

The  strength  of  the  raging  fire-fiend's  will  ? 
No  hand  but  the  hand  of  the  Lord  of  Heaven 

Could  have  laid  thee  here  in  thy  quiet  nest, 
Could  have  cradled  thee  deep  in  a  mountain's  heart, 

With  the  sunlight  kissing  thy  radiant  breast. 

A\'as  it  for  this  that  He  set  thee  here. 

To  work  out  in  silence  His  mighty  will  ? 
So  that  the  earth  from  her  trouble  should  rest, 

And  the  scetliing  tempest  of  fire  lie  still  ? 
^\'as  it  for  this  thou  art  cradled  here  ? 

Or  art  thou  the  wonderful  well  of  truth, 
Or  the  fabled  fountain  whose  waters  hold 

The  priceless  treasure  of  fadeless  youth  ? 


Art  thou  only  the  v.-ork  of  enchantment?     Say, 

Has  thy  beauty  been  wrought  by  some  magic  spell  ? 

A\'ill  this  v.onderful  vision  vanish  and  fade, 
Leaving  nothing  behind  but  this  empty  well  ? 


156  AGNES  NEALE. 

Or  a  grand  old  mountain,  proud  and  high, 
Crowned  to  the  summit  in  living  green, 

Bathed  by  the  sunlight,  and  drenched  by  the  rain, 
Just  in  the  way  that  it  often  has  been  ? 

No  answer  comes  up  from  thy  silent  lips, 

Thou  holdest  thy  secret  closely  and  well, 
And  whatever  the  future,  no  whisper  will  breathe 

From  the  azure  depths  of  that  rock-bound  cell. 
Farewell  to  thee,  glorious  mountain  gem, 

Though  thy  beauty  I  never  again  may  see. 
Yet  often  in  fancy  I'll  wander  back 

To  sit  in  the  sunlight  and  dream  of  thee. 


0.  357 


THE  PROSPECTOR. 

Along  the  mountain's  pathway,  across  the  Alpine  steep, 
Through  scrub  and  gloomy  forest,  and  rugged  gorges  bleak; 
Omvard,  earnest,  onward,  in  heat,  in  rain,  in  cold, 
Patient  and  enduring,  he  roams  in  search  of  gold. 


Hoping  fondly  ever,  sanguine  day  by  day, 

Braving  hardships  often,  he  plods  his  toilsome  way ; 

His  bed  the  withered  fern  leaves,  'neath  tent  or  frail  "  mi-mi  \ " 

Alone  with  God  and  nature—  no  human  being  nigh. 


His  "  blaze  "  upon  the  gum-tree  far  in  the  bush  is  seen ; 
His  "  prospect-hole  "  is  met  with  on  almost  every  stream. 
Where  torrents  foam  and  tumble  down  ravines  deep  and 

dark, 
You'll  trace  the  digger's  footsteps,  you'll  see  the  digger's 

mark. 


Here  a  worn-out  "  sluice-trough  "  with  its  "  paddle  ''  thrown 

away. 
Or  remnants  of  an  old  log  hut  now  going  to  decay, 
Or  "dam,"  or  "rase,"  or  "tailings/'  or  mounds  of  peaty 

mould, 
Tell  plainly  where  his  claim  has  been,  where  be  hc(,s  sought 

(qt  gold. 


358  O. 

He  gathers  it  in  particles,  yet  sec  how  great  and  strong 
His  findings  make  Victoria  the  nations  rank  among ; 
He  leads  the  way  for  others  who  clear  and  till  the  land  ; 
And  where  there  was  a  wilderness  a  town  is  seen  to  stand. 

There  surely  is  a  Providence  whose  guiding  hand  is  seen 
Thus  daily  working  out  a  plan — a  vast  and  mighty  scheme  ; 
Thus  giving  homes  to  thousands,  and  food,  and  case,  and 

wealth, 
In  this  land  of  boundless  riches,  fertility,  and  health. 


JOHN  BOYLE  ORE  ILLY.  359 


THE  DUKITE  SNAKE. 

A   WEST   AUSTRALIAN    BUSHMAn's    STORY. 

Well,  mate,  you've  asked  me  about  a  fellow 
You  met  to-day,  in  a  black-and-yellow 
Chain-gang  suit,  with  a  pedler's  pack, 
Or  with  some  such  burden,  strapped  to  his  back. 
Did  you  meet  him  square?     No,  he  passed  you  by  ? 
Well,  if  you  had,  and  had  looked  in  his  eye, 
You'd  have  felt  for  your  irons  then  and  there, 
For  the  light  in  his  eye  is  a  madman's  glare. 
Ay,  mad,  poor  fellow  !     I  know  him  well. 
And  if  you're  not  sleepy  just  yet,  I'll  tell 
His  story — a  strange  one  as  ever  you  heard 
Or  read  ;  but  I'll  vouch  for  it,  every  word. 

You  just  wait  a  minute,  mate ;  I  must  see 

How  that  damper  's  doing,  and  make  some  tea. 

You  smoke  ?     That's  good  ;  for  there's  plenty  of  weed 

In  that  wallaby  skin.     Does  your  horse  feed 

In  the  hobbles  ?     Well,  he's  got  good  feed  here, 

And  my  own  old  bush-mare  won't  interfere. 

Done  with  that  meal  ?     Throw  it  there  to  the  dogs, 

And  fling  on  a  couple  of  banksia  logs. 

And  now  for  the  story.     That  man  who  goes 

Through  the  bush  with  the  pack  and  the  convict's  clothes 

Has  been  mad  for  years ;  but  he  does  no  harm, 


;6o  JOHN  BOYLE  GREILLY, 

And  our  lonely  settlers  feel  no  alarm 
When  they  see  or  meet  him.     Poor  Dave  Sloane 
Was  a  settler  once,  and  a  friend  of  my  own. 
Some  eight  years  back,  in  the  spring  of  the  year, 
Dave  came  from  Scotland  and  settled  here. 
A  splendid  young  fellow  he  was  just  then, 
And  one  of  the  bravest  and  truest  men 
That  I  ever  met :  he  was  kind  as  a  woman 
To  all  who  needed  a  friend,  and  no  man- 
Not  even  a  convict — met  with  his  scorn, 
For  David  Sloane  was  a  gentleman  born. 
Ay,  friend,  a  gentleman,  though  it  sounds  queer, 
There's  plenty  of  blue  blood  flowing  out  here, 
And  some  younger  sons  of  your  "  upper  ten  " 
Can  be  met  with  here,  first-rate  bushmen. 

^Miy,  friend,  / 

Bah  !  curse  that  dog  !  you  see 
This  talking  so  much  has  affected  me. 


Well,  Sloane  came  here  with  an  axe  and  a  gun ; 
He  bought  four  miles  of  a  sandal-wood  run. 
This  bush  at  that  time  was  a  lonesome  place ; 
So  lonesome,  the  sight  of  a  white  man's  face 
Was  a  blessing,  unless  it  came  at  night. 
And  peered  in  your  hut  with  the  cunning  fright 
Of  a  runaway  convict ;  and  even  they 
WerQ  welcome,  for  talk's  sake,  while  they  could  stay, 
Dave  lived  with  me  here  for  a  while,  and  leai:ned 
The  tricks  of  the  bush — how  the  snare  was  laid 
In  the  wallaby  track,  how  traps  were  made^ 
How  'possums  and  kangaroo  rats  were  killed ; 
And  when  that  was  learned,  I  helped  h.iw  to  builc^ 


JOHN  BOYLE  a  RE  ILLY.  361 

From  mahogany  slabs  a  good  bush  hut, 

And  showed  him  how  sandal-wood  logs  were  cut. 

I  lived  up  there  with  him  days  and  days, 

For  I  loved  the  lad  for  his  honest  ways. 

I  had  only  one  fault  to  fmd  :  at  first 

Dave  worked  too  hard ;  for  a  lad  who  was  nursed. 

As  he  was,  in  idleness,  it  was  strange 

How  he  cleared  that  sandal-wood  off  his  range. 

From  the  morning  light  till  the  light  expired 

He  was  always  working,  he  never  tired  ; 

Till  at  length  I  began  to  think  his  will 

Was  too  much  settled  on  wealth,  and  still 

When  I  looked  at  the  lad's  brown  face,  and  eye 

Clear,  open,  my  heart  gave  such  thought  the  lie. 

But  one  day — for  he  read  my  mind — he  laid 

His  hand  on  my  shoulder.     "  Don't  be  afraid," 

Said  he,  "  that  I'm  seeking  alone  for  pelf, 

I  work  hard,  friend  ;  but  'tis  not  for  myself." 

And  he  told  me  then  in  his  quiet  tone 

Of  a  girl  in  Scotland  who  was  his  own, — ■ 

His  wife, — 'twas  for  her ;  'twas  all  he  could  say, 

And  his  clear  eye  brimmed  as  he  turned  away. 

After  that  he  told  me  the  simple  tale  : 

They  had  married  for  love,  and  she  was  to  sail 

For  Australia,  when  he  wrote  home  and  told 

The  oft-watched-for  stqry  of  finding  gold, 


In  a  year  he  wrote,  and  his  news  was  good  : 
He  had  bought  some  cattle  and  sold  his  wood. 
He  said,  "  Darling,  Fve  only  a  hut.-  but  come,'* 
Friend,  a  husband's  heart  is  a  true  wife's  home ; 
And  he  knew  she'd  come.     ThQn  he  twriQd  his  hand. 


362  JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 

To  make  neat  the  house,  and  prepare  the  land 
For  his  crops  and  vines ;  and  he  made  that  place 
Put  on  such  a  smiling  and  homelike  face, 
That  when  she  came,  and  he  showed  her  round 
His  sandal-wood  and  his  crops  in  the  ground. 
And  spoke  of  the  future,  they  cried  for  joy. 
The  husband's  arm  clasping  his  wife  and  boy. 

Well,  friend,  if  a  little  of  heaven's  best  bliss 
Ever  comes  from  the  upper  world  to  this. 
It  came  into  that  manly  bushman's  life. 
And  circled  him  round  with  the  arms  of  his  wife. 
God  bless  that  bright  memory  !     Even  to  me, 
A  rough,  lonely  man,  did  she  seem  to  be, 
While  living,  an  angel  of  God's  pure  love, 
And  now  I  could  pray  to  her  face  above. 
And  David,  he  loved  her  as  only  a  man, 
With  a  heart  as  large  as  his  is,  can. 
I  wondered  how  they  could  have  lived  apart, 
For  he  was  her  idol,  and  she  his  heart. 

Friend,  there  isn't  much  more  of  the  tale  to  tell  : 
I  was  talking  of  angels  awhile  since.     AVell, 
Now  I'll  change  to  a  devil, — ay,  to  a  devil ! 
You  needn't  start ;  if  a  spirit  of  evil 
Ever  came  to  this  world  its  hate  to  slake 
On  mankind,  it  came  as  a  Dukile  Snake. 

Like  /     Like  the  pictures  you've  seen  of  sin, 
A  long  red  snake, — as  if  what  was  within 
Was  fire  that  gleamed  through  his  glistening  skin. 
And  his  eyes — if  you  could  go  down  to  hell. 


JOHN  BOYLE  aREILLY.  363 

And  come  back  to  your  fellows  here  and  tell 
^Vl)at  the  fire  was  like,  you  could  find  no  thing, 
Here  below  on  the  earth,  or  up  in  the  sky, 
To  compare  it  to  but  a  Dukite'seye  ! 

Now,  mark  you,  these  Dukites  don't  go  alone  : 
There's  another  near  when  you  see  but  one  ; 
And  beware  you  of  killing  that  one  you  see 
W'ithout  finding  the  other;  for  you  may  be 
More  than  twenty  miles  from  the  sput  that  night, 
When  camped,  but  you're  tracked  by  the  lone  Dukite  ; 
That  will  follow  your  trail  like  Death  or  I'ate, 
And  kill  you  as  sure  as  you  killed  its  mate  ! 

'Well,  poor  Dave  Sloane  has  his  young  wife  here 
Three  months, — 'Twas  jur.t  this  time  of  the  year ; 
He  had  teamed  some  sandal-wood  to  the  Lasse, 
And  was  homeward  bound,  when  he  saw  in  the  grass 
A  long  red  snake  ;  he  had  never  been  told 
Of  the  Dukite's  way, — he  jumped  to  the  road 
And  smashed  its  flat  head  with  the  bullock-goad  ! 
He  was  proud  of  the  red  skin,  so  he  tied 
Its  tail  to  the  cart,  and  the  snake's  blood  dyed 
The  bush  on  the  path  he  followed  that  night. 

He  was  early  home,  and  the  dead  Dukile 
Was  flung  at  the  door  to  be  skinned  next  day. 
At  sunrise  next  morning  he  started  away 
To  hunt  up  his  cattle.     A  three  hours'  ride 
Brought  him  back;  he  gazed  on  his  liome  with  pride 
And  joy  in  his  heart;  he  jumped  from  his  horse 
And  entered — to  look  on  his  young  wife's  corse, 


; 64  JOHN  BO  YLE  OREILL  Y. 

And  his  dead  child  clutching  its  mother's  clothes 

As  in  fright ;  and  there,  as  he  gazed,  arose 

From  her  breast,  where  'twas  resting,  the  gleaming  head 

Of  the  terrible  Dukite,  as  if  it  said, 

"  I've  had  vengeance,  my  foe  ;  you  took  all  I  had." 

And  so  had  the  snake— David  Sloane  was  mad  ! 

I  rode  to  his  hut  just  by  chance  that  night. 

And  there  on  the  threshold  the  clear  moonlight 

Showed  the  two  snakes  dead.     I  pushed  in  the  door 

"With  an  awful  feeling  of  coming  woe  : 

The  dead  were  stretched  on  the  moonlit  floor, 

The  man  held  the  hand  of  his  wife — his  pride, 

His  poor  life's  treasure, — and  crouched  by  her  side. 

0  God  ! — I  sank  with  the  weight  of  the  blow. 

1  touched  and  called  him ;  he  heeded  me  not, 
So  I  dug  her  grave  in  a  quiet  spot, 

And  lifted  them  both, — her  boy  on  her  breast,— 
And  laid  them  down  in  the  shade  to  rest. 
Then  I  tried  to  take  my  poor  friend  away, 
But  he  cried  so  woefully,  "Let  me  stay 
Till  she  comes  again  ! "  that  I  had  no  heart 
To  try  to  persuade  him  then  to  part 
From  all  that  was  left  to  him  here — her  grave  ; 
So  I  stayed  by  his  side  that  night,  and,  save 
One  heart-cutting  cry,  he  uttered  no  sound, — 
O  God  !  that  wail — like  the  wail  of  a  hound  ! 
'Tis  six  long  years  since  I  heard  that  cry. 
But  'twill  ring  in  my  ears  till  the  day  I  die. 
Since  that  fearful  night  no  one  has  heard 
Poor  David  Sloane  utter  sound  or  word. 
You  have  seen  to-day  how  he  always  goes : 
He's  been  given  that  suit  of  convict's  clothes^ 
By  some  prison-officer.     On  his  bac,l<. 


JOHN  BOYLE  OREILLV.  zH 

You  noticed  a  load  like  a  pcdler's  pack  ? 
^^'ell,  that's  what  he  lives  for  ;  when  reason  went 
Still  memory  lived,  for  his  days  are  spent 
In  searching  for  Dukites  ;  and  year  by  year 
That  bundle  of  skins  is  growing.     'Tis  clear 
That  the  Lord  out  of  evil  some  good  still  takes, 
For  he's  clearing  the  bush  of  the  Dukitc  snakes. 


366  (Sm)  HENR  Y  PARKES. 


SOLITUDE. 

Where  the  mocking  lyre-bird  calls 

To  its  mate  among  the  falls 

Of  the  mountain  streams  that  play, 

Each  adown  its  tortuous  way  ; 

When  the  dewy-fingered  even 

Veils  the  narrowed  glimpse  of  heaven, 

Where  the  morning  re-illumes 

Gullies  full  of  ferny  plumes, 

And  the  roof  of  radiance  weaves 

Through  high-hanging  vault  of  leaves  ; 

There  'mid  giant  turpentines, 

Groups  of  climbing,  clustering  vines. 

Rocks  that  stand  like  sentinels 

Guarding  native  citadels, 

Lowly  flowering  shrubs  that  grace 

With  their  beauty  all  the  place. 

There  I  love  to  wander  lonely 

With  my  dog  companion  only  ; 

There,  indulge  unworldly  moods 

Li  the  mountain  solitudes  ; 

Far  front  all  the  gilded  strife 

Of  our  boasted  "  social  life," 

Contemplating,  spirit-free. 

The  majestic  company. 

Grandly  marching  through  the  ages — 

Heroes,  martyrs,  bards,  and  sages — 


{SIR)  BENRY  PARKES.  367 

They  who  bravely  sufiered  long, 
By  their  struggles  waxing  strong, 
For  the  freedom  of  the  mind, 
For  the  rights  of  humankind. 
Oh,  for  some  awakening  cause, 
Where  we  face  eternal  laws, 
Where  we  dare  not  turn  aside, 
Where  the  souls  of  men  are  tried — 
Something  of  a  nobler  strife. 
Which  consumes  the  dross  of  life, 
To  unite  to  truer  aim, 
To  exalt  to  loftier  fame, 
Leave  behind  the  bats  and  balls, 
Leave  the  racers  in  the  stalls. 
Leave  the  cards  for  ever  shuffled. 
Leave  the  yacht  on  seas  unruffled, 
Leave  the  haunts  of  pampered  ease, 
Leave  your  dull  festivities — 
Better  far  the  savage  glen, 
Fitter  school  for  earnest  men. 


36S  (5//e)  HENR  Y  PARKES. 


SEVENTY. 

Three  score  and  ten, — the  weight  of  years 
Scarce  seems  to  touch  the  tireless  brain  ; 

How  bright  the  future  still  appears, 
How  dim  the  past  of  toil  and  pain  ! 

In  that  fair  time  when  all  was  new, 

Who  thought  of  three  score  years  and  ten  ? 

Of  those  who  shared  the  race,  how  few 
Are  numbered  now  with  living  men  ! 

Some  fell  upon  the  right,  and  some 

Upon  the  left,  as,  year  by  year. 
The  chain  kept  lengthening  nearer  home, 

Yet  home  ev'n  now  may  not  be  near. 

But  yesterday  I  chanced  to  meet 

A  man  whose  years  were  ninety-three  j 

He  walked  alone  the  crowded  street, 
His  eye  was  bright,  his  step  was  free. 

And  well  I  knew  a  worthy  whOj 

Dying  in  harness,  as  men  say, 
Had  lived  a  hundred  years  and  twoj 

Not  halting  on  his  toilsome  way. 


(S/J?)  HENR  Y  PARKES.  369 

How  much  of  action  undesigned 

Will  modify  to-morrow's  plan  ! 
The  gleams  of  foresight  leave  us  blind, 

When  we  the  far-off  path  would  scan. 

What  talk  of  glorious  toil  for  good, 
^Vhat  service,  what  achievement  high, 

May  nerve  the  will,  re-fire  the  blood, 
AVho  knows,  ere  strikes  the  hour  to  die ! 

The  next  decade  of  time  and  fate, 

The  mighty  changes  manifold, 
The  grander  growth  of  Rule  and  State, 

Perchance  these  eyes  may  yet  behold  ! 

But  be  it  late,  or  be  it  soon, 

If,  striving  hard,  we  give  our  best, 
^\'hy  need  we  sigh  for  other  boon — 

Our  title  will  be  good  for  rest. 


370  (S//^)  HENRY  PARKES. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  GRAVE. 

The  railway's  heavy-freighted  trains 
Go  by,  hke  giant  things  of  Hfe, 
First  from  the  fields  of  human  strife ; 

But  there  the  wilderness  remains. 

The  free,  wild  creatures  of  the  wood 

Scarce  heed  the  trains  that  past  them  glide, 
The  trains  that  never  turn  aside 

To  break  their  peaceful  solitude — 

A.11  wild  beyond  the  one  dear  spot, 

Where  loving  hands,  for  his  dear  sake, 
A  garden  for  the  dead  will  make— 

For  Death  himself  a  garden  plot. 

The  lyre-bird  from  the  ferny  glen, 
At  morn  and  evening  softly  calls  ; 
The  rains  but  bring  the  waterfalls  ; 

And  never  comes  the  noise  of  men. 

They  rent  the  mountain's  rocky  breast, 
Still  toiling  through  the  silent  hours, 
To  make  a  bed  for  forest  flowers — 

A  bed  for  his  unbroken  rest. 


{S//i)  HENR  Y  PARKES.  37 1 

All  night  they  toiled  to  make  his  grave, 

With  pick  and  spade,  all  through  the  night ; 
They  made  it  by  the  fitful  light 

The  clouded  moon  in  pity  gave. 


A  lonely  spot  we  chose  for  him — - 
Along  the  lonely  path  that  led 
Our  footsteps  to  his  lonely  bed, 

His  corse  we  bore,  with  eyes  all  dim. 

With  tear-dimmed  eyes,  and  hearts  like  lead. 
We  gently  laid  him  down  to  sleep — 
We  left  him  for  the  grave  to  keep, 

Until  the  grave  gives  up  its  dead. 

Fit  resting-place  for  him  whose  soul 
Was  gentleness  itself,  who  trod 
His  humble  path  in  fear  of  God, 

And  sought  no  higher  earthly  goal. 


372  {S/J^)  HENRY  PARKES. 


ON  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Listen  to  the  blustering  rain 
Beating  on  the  window-pane  ; 
Stamping  with  hobgobhn  tread 
On  the  iron  roof  o'erhead  ; 
Coursing  through  the  forest  wild, 
Through  the  trees  in  gloom  up-piled  ; 
]3ashing,  splashing,  down  the  gully 
Bent  on  desolation  fully  ! 
How  it  drenches,  drives,  and  pours  ! 
AVhat  a  night  for  out-of-doors  ! 
Is  not  this,  my  princess,  grand — 
Cottage-life  on  mountain-land  ? 
Yet  the  situation,  dearie, 
Might  be  far  less  snug  and  cheery. 
See  before  the  blazing  logs 
How  untroubled  sleep  the  dogs 
And  how  happy  pussy  purs, 
Sitting  in  her  queenly  furs  ! 
What  care  they  for  wind  or  rain, 
While  the  hearthrug's  their  domain  ? 
And,  with  fancy-lighted  look, 
You  are  bending  o'er  your  book, 
Only  raising  those  soft  eyes 
When  you  deign  to  drop  replies — - 
Contradictions,  phrased  so  mildly, 
To  my  comments,  scattered  wildly. 


{S//i)  HENRY  PARKES.  373 

Fairer  picture  wlio  could  paint 
Than  my  little  household  saint  ? 
Let  the  tempest  rage  outside, 
You  and  I  are  satisfied 
To  be  safely  housed  together, 
Independent  of  the  weather, — 
Independent  of  the  haughty, 
Hectoring  world  that  is  so  naughty  ; 
And  have  we  no  visions  pleasant 
Of  the  playful  lyre-tailed  pheasant, 
As  some  neighbour's  bird  he  mocks 
Down  among  the  gully  rocks, 
In  the  evenings  cool  and  grateful. 
When  the  storm  and  all  its  hateful 
Gusts  of  fury  are  forgotten  ? 
And  of  rambles  where  the  rotten 
Trees  of  ancient  giant  mould, 
Fell'd  by  ruthless  storms  of  old, 
In  their  robes  of  golden  moss. 
Stretch  their  shattered  limbs  across 
Runlets  of  sweet  water  purling 
Through  four  hundred  feet  or  more, 
From  our  mountain  cottage  door  ? 
And  of  rambles  on  the  ranges 
Where  wild  Nature's  aspect  changes, 
Every  step  we  onward  take 
Through  the  tangled  flowery  brake ; 
Every  step  we  press  the  sweet 
Woof  of  flowers  beneath  our  feet, 
Shapes  dissolve  and  colours  mingle — 
Wooded  slope  or  rocky  dingle; 
Trees  by  tempests  toss'd  and  torn, 
Long  ere  living  man  was  born, 


374  ('S"/^)  HENRY  PARKE S. 

Standing  still  on  steadfast  root ; 
Currant-bushes  gemmed  with  fruit ; 
Soft  clematis  forming  bowers, 
With  its  wreaths  of  pearly  flowers  ; 
And  the  waratahs  in  state, 
With  their  queenly  heads  elate, 
And  their  flamy  blood-red  crowns. 
And  their  stiff-frilled  emerald  gowns ; 
And  Australia's  Christmas-trees, 
Budding  to  the  wooing  breeze ; 
And  the  robins  and  the  thrashes, 
Flitting  through  the  fragrant  bushes  ? 
And  as  still  we  ramble  onward, 
Where  the  forest  opens  sunward. 
Where  the  mountain  grasses  spread 
Carpet  fit  for  queen  to  tread  ; 
And  the  mountain  stream  for  ever 
Runs  impatient  for  the  river, 
With  the  brightest  of  bright  faces, 
Unto  bowery  hiding  places  ; 
Out  again  like  child  that  knows 
He  is  loved  where'er  he  goes  ; 
In  cascades  of  crystal  leaping. 
Ever  still  its  glad  course  keeping — 
What  a  world  of  joyous  life  ! 
You  remember  (don't  you,  wife  ?) 
Scenes  of  beauty,  peace,  and  love. 
With  the  blue,  still  heaven  above  ; 
Pleasant  rambles,  days  of  light  ? 
"  Yes  ;  but  how  it  rains  to-night 


./  QUEENSLANDER.  375 


DEAD  IN  THE  QUEENSLAND  BUSH. 

Where  the  trailing  boughs  of  the  tea-trees  droop, 
^Vhere  the  vines  hang  festooned  in  curve  and  loop, 
Where  lilies  float,  and  the  tall  reeds  stoop 

'Neath  the  tread  of  the  lonely  crane, 
There's  a  human  form  on  the  bare,  hot  sand. 
That  the  sun  in  its  fury  has  scorched  and  tanned, 
That  a  pitying  zephyr  at  times  has  fanned — 

It  feels  neither  pleasure  nor  pain. 

Poor,  lost,  and  forgotten  !     No  mourner's  wail 
Was  heard  when  you  parted,  no  face  grew  pale 
With  weeping  and  watching.     To  tell  the  tale 

But  a  festering  body  Ues  there. 
Those  rotting  lips — did  they  ever  press 
A  mother's  lip?     Did  a  kind  caress 
From  a  woman's  hand  ever  smooth  a  tress 
Of  that  bleached  and  tangled  hair? 

To  flee  from  Death  had  he  vainly  tried, 
Across  the  broad  plains,  ever  side  by  side. 
They  had  walked  together,  and  stride  for  stride 

Death  kept  \x\)  with  him  still. 
He  drank  of  the  water  he  so  had  craved. 
He  dipped  his  hands  in  the  stream  and  laved 
His  heated  face  ;  and  he  shouted,  "  Saved  1 " 
Death  sate  there  waiting  to  kill. 


376  A  QUEENSLANDER. 

Down  on  the  sand  in  a  careless  heap, 
He  cast  himself  for  a  welcome  sleep, 
Not  thinking  the  unseen  presence  did  keep 

Its  watch  beside  him  there. 
Strange  tender  dreams  of  his  boyhood's  days 
Shone  brightly  and  clearly  thro'  Memory's  haze — 
His  face — as  he  slumbered  beneath  Death's  gaze — 

It  grew  almost  young  and  fair. 

Then  Death  had  great  pity.  Thought  he,  "It  were  sweet. 
If,  instead  of  awaking,  once  more  to  meet 
Fresh  toil  to-morrow,  on  aching  feet, 

He  should  slumber  all  care  away  ! " 
He  arose — and  his  face  was  an  angel's  face  \ 
He  bent  his  head — in  an  instant's  space 
The  soul  of  that  sleeper  had  passed  to  grace  ; 

Death  kissed  him  there  where  he  lay. 


N.  R,  377 


THE    GRAVE    OF    THE    LAST     KING    OF 
WALLER  A  WANG. 

Tread  lightly  on  that  little  heap  of  earth, 

For  it  is  sacred — there  is  dust  beneath 

That  from  a  royal  chieftain  drew  its  birth  : 

What  though  no  diadem  or  jewelled  wreath 

Did  sire  to  son  of  that  dark  line  bequeath  ; 

Full  many  a  tribe  their  sway  bowed  down  before ; 

All  owned  the  power  of  one  man's  little  breath  ; 

And  of  each  son  succeeding  would  implore 

His  wisdom,  in  their  wild  debate  on  peace  or  war. 

Far  as  thine  eye  across  the  hills  can  range, 
And  all  between  that's  hidden  from  thy  gaze, 
O'er  wondrous  piles  of  rock,  time  cannot  change, 
To  where  each  crest  is  wrapt  in  milky  haze  ; 
Through  gullies  whose  deep  gloom  the  burning  rays 
Of  summer's  sun,  e'en  in  his  proudest  hour. 
Had  never  pierced — they  never  felt  his  blaze  : 
O'er  all  this  once  that  mouldering  dust  had  power, 
His  palace  was  the  ferny  dells,  the  rocks  his  tower. 

Each  generation  to  the  next  had  left 

The  woods  unchanged,  unchanged  their  hunting-ground  ; 

Nor  was  the  next  of  animal  bereft, 

Or  fish,  or  bird,  the  last  one  there  had  found, 

From  immemorial  time  the  same  wild  sound 


378  Ar  R. 

Had  pierced  the  solitude  as  fell  the  night, 

And  startled  echo,  as  with  sudden  bound 

Gave  answer  to  each  shriek  of  wild  delight, 

That  closed  the  labours  of  the  day,  the  chase,  or  fight. 

They  all  have  passed — the  pale-face  conqueror  came, 
He  slew  them  not,  nor  challenged  them  to  fight ; 
That  they  are  gone,  then  can  he  be  to  blame  ? 
If  more  his  energy,  and  more  his  might  ; 
The  fields  he  has  obtained  were  his  by  right : 
The  grain  of  Wheat  is  better  than  Nardoo, 

And  should  their  oxen  starve  to  feed  the  kangaroo  ? 

As  wreath  of  snow  before  the  morning  sun 

Would  shrink  and  melt  to  nothingness  away. 

Ere  any  recognized  the  thaw  begun 

Amid  the  early  labours  of  the  day, 

The  tribes  have  vanished,  sunk  into  decay, 

The  kindly  earth  that  unto  them  had  l)een 

A  fruitful  field,  requiring  toil  nor  pay, 

Had  sheltered  them  in  forests,  evergreen, 

Now  in  her  bosom  hides  them  from  life's  busy  scene. 

What  king  defeated  have  his  conquerors  praised? 

Or  who  remembered  where  his  dust  was  laid  ? 

Or  unto  him  what  monument  was  raised? 

Unto  his  memory  what  respect  was  paid  ? 

Do  roses  grow  above  his  mouldering  shade  ? — • 

Beside  the  black  man's  grave  yon  tall  tree  lone. 

With  carvings  rude,  will  doubtless  soon  be  laid, 

With  all  the  rest — that  last  mark  overthrown, 

The  king  has  not  a  foot,  of  miles  that  were  his  own. 


ROBERT  RICHARDSON.  379 


ON  THE  RIVER. 

Our  boat  and  we  drift  down  the  stream- 
Down  the  stream : 

My  love  is  seated  facing  me, 

A\'ith  blue  eyes  that  welling  beam, 

Lustrously  as  in  a  dream, 
Full  and  shadowy. 

Sultry  grows  the  tropic  sun, 

But  we  two 
Feel  no  whit  the  summer  heat, 
Floating  where  the  shade  is  sweet, 
Down  the  river's  rippling  flow, 
Where  the  red-brown  rushes  grow. 

Nodding  in  their  cool  retreat — 

Floating  in  our  fairy  skiff, 

^Mlere  we  list. 
All  in  the  hot  Australian  noon. 
What  time  we  sec  a  dim  white  moon 
And  languid  nature  sinks  to  rest, 
Slumbering  with  unruffled  breast 

In  a  death-like  swoon. 

Down  the  river's  curving  reaches 

Drifting  slow, 
Underneath  a  fragrant  shade 
By  low- drooping  she-oaks  made  ; 


38o  ROBERT  RICHARDSON. 

While  in  the  purple  tide  below 
Chequered  shadows  come  and  go- 
Flush  and  flit  and  fade. 


Oh  !  the  warm  Australian  day — 

Golden  fair  ! 
Blue,  stainless  skies  !  and  over  all 
A  drowsy  stillness  seems  to  fall, 
A  perfect  hush  is  everywhere, 
And  the  waveless  charmed  air 

Is  held  in  dreamy  thrall. 

May,  with  flilting  summer  smiles 

On  her  lips. 
Rows  one  hand,  all  lily  white. 
Through  the  waters  blue  and  bright, 
And  from  her  rosy  finger  tips 
The  crystal  water  sparkling  drips 

In  liquid  gems  of  light. 

Deftly,  my  love,  you  touch  the  helm, 

Clever  May  ! 
And  on  my  lazy  oars  I  bide. 
While  all  unhelped  of  sail  we  slide 
Adown  the  river's  peaceful  tide. 
Like  that  maid  of  olden  day. 
Pictured  in  the  poet's  lay, 
W^hom  the  stream  bore  far  away 

By  Camelot's  rocky  side. 

Your  broad-brimmed  hat  too  jealously 
Hides,  in  good  sooth, 


ROBERT  RICHARDSON.  381 

All  the  sweet  beauty  of  your  eyes 
Where  the  melting  lustre  lies, 
And  the  laughter  lives  and  dies  ; 
While  on  your  cheek  and  on  your  mouth 
Flushes  the  red  blood  of  the  South, 
And  the  warmth  of  Austral  skies. 

As  on  we  glide  come  liquid  strains 

Our  ears  to  greet ; 
Sweet  chords  from  many  a  hidden  throat 
On  the  drowsy  stillness  float. 
The  fluting  magpie,  clear  and  sweet, 
And  the  purple  lorikeet, 

A  sharp,  fantastic  note. 

But  mute  for  very  happiness 

You  and  I 
Watch  the  braided  ripples  run 

On  and  on,  on  and  on, 
Or  follow  with  a  lazy  eye 
The  circles  of  the  dragon-fly, 
Now  darting  with  a  glitter  by. 
Now  poising  bright  against  the  sky, 

Blazing  golden  in  the  sun. 

O  that  we  may  thus  for  ever 

And  for  ever 
While  a  changeless  life  away 
In  an  endless  summer  day, 
Where  the  world's  rude  shock  could  neve 
Come  between  our  loves  to  sever 
Floating  down  the  dreaming  river 

On  from  aye  to  aye. 


382  /  S.  ROBERTSON. 


MUSK    GULLY,  DROMANA. 

Far  o'er  the  mountain  summit  lies 
A  vale  of  gladness,  ever  green, 
Where  feathery  ferns  and  moss  have  been 

From  long-forgotten  centuries. 

There  Beauty  lives,  nor  ever  dies  ; 

But  summer  after  summer  comes, 
And  clothes  again  the  mountain  domes 

With  sweetness ;  and  a  soft  wind  sighs, 

While  down  the  valley  runs  a  rill 

Of  pearly  water,  leaping,  falling, 

O'er  rocks  and  stones,  and  singing,  calling, 

To  ferns  and  wild-musk  of  the  hill. 
Unto  the  gentle  voice  they  bow. 
Saying  for  ever,  saying  now, 

"  Behold  us  !  here  is  Nature  still !  " 

Here  Nature  singcth,  loud  and  strong, 

A  strain  begot  of  lovely  places  ; 

And  woodland  elves  show  laughing  faces — 
To  them  the  place  doth  still  belong. 
It  knows  not  right,  it  knows  not  wrong. 

But  singeth,  aye,  a  song  of  gladness  ; 

To  it  there  cometh  one  in  sadness, 
And  sadness  flieth  at  the  song. 
He  sees,  and  straight  of  Eden  thinks  ; 

His  woes  are  lost  in  v.'oodland  runes  ; 

His  soul  with  Nature's  soul  communes ; 
His  mind  the  draught  of  Lethe  drinks. 

He  thanks  the  Power  who  reigns  above. 

Who  left  to  join  us,  in  His  love. 
To  Heaven,  spots  like  this  as  links. 


/  HO  WLETT  ROSS.  383 


IN  MEMORIAM:    HENRY  KENDALL. 

The  singer  is  dead.     But  his  mystical  song 

Echoes  back  from  the  gloom  of  the  tombs, 
With  words  for  the  weak,  and  the  wise,  and  the  strong, 
And  the  light  of  a  love  that  illumes 

The  darkest  of  days, 

In  the  wearisome  maze 
Of  a  world,  that  with  Death  as  a  goal. 

Yet  may  garner  relief 

For  its  harrowing  grief 
In  the  song  of  the  poet's  soul, 
In  the  love  that  is  life  to  his  soul. 

The  singer  is  dead.     And  a  requiem  song 

Is  heard  in  the  wail  of  the  wind. 
In  the  croon  of  the  creek  as  it  creepeth  along, 
A  dirge  of  the  dead  we  may  find, 

For  a  poet  whose  rhymes 

In  these  practical  times. 
Of  a  world  with  a  cyphering  brain, 

Are  consumed  in  the  fire 

Of  a  grasping  desire, 
That  jeeringly  gibes  at  the  pain — 
At  the  poet's  most  passionate  pain. 

The  singer  is  dead.     Whose  notes  were  as  sweet 

And  as  pure  as  the  masters  of  song  ; 
Who  sang  of  the  pangs  of  the  hope  incomplete 

That  must  ever  and  ever  belong 


384  /.  HO  WLETT  ROSS, 

To  the  wanderers  born, 

P'or  the  ahen  scorn 
Of  a  world  that  doth  ruthlessly  roll 

The  Juggernaut  weight 

Of  a  pitiless  fate 
On  the  hopes  of  a  poet's  soul, 
On  the  strength  of  his  exquisite  soul. 


But  out  of  the  crush  and  the  wreck  of  the  life 

Of  the  poet  comes  incense  sublime ; 
A  sweet-smelling  savour  that  softens  the  strif 
A  lofty  and  redolent  rhyme. 

Echoing  back  from  the  surges 

And  wind-haunted  verges. 
Of  this  world  of  the  Antarctic  pole, 

Strange  words  of  the  waves 

And  the  voices  of  caveSj 
Written  deep  on  the  poet's  soul — 
On  the  pathos  and  ruth  of  his  soul. 


Our  Kendall  is  dead,  but  his  song  shall  remain 

Though  the  singer  for  ever  is  mute, 
And  the  world  shall  yet  honour  the  marvellous  strain 
That  flowed  from  his  laureate  lute. 

And  though  wings  of  the  years 

With  their  burden  of  tears 
Hurry  earth  to  its  ultimate  goal, 

Pray  the  evergreen  hours 

With  their  guerdon  of  flowers. 
Bring  peace  to  the  poet's  soul — 
A  merciful  rest  to  his  soul. 


PERCY  RUSSELL.  z^i 


THE  BIRTH  OF  AUSTRALIA. 

Not  'mid  the  thunder  of  the  battle  guns, 

Not  on  the  red  field  of  an  Empire's  wrath, 

Rose  to  a  nation  Australasia's  sons ; 

Who  tread  to  greatness  Industry's  pure  path. 

Behold  a  people,  thro'  whose  annals  runs 

No  damning  stain  of  falsehood,  force,  or  fraud ; 

Whose  sceptre  is  the  ploughshare — not  the  sword — 

Whose  glory  lives  in  harvest-ripening  suns  ! 

Where,  'mid  the  records  of  old  Rome  or  Greece 

Glows  such  a  tale?    Thou  canst  not  answer,  Time. 

With  shield,  unsullied  by  a  single  crime. 

With  wealth  of  gold,  and  still  more  golden  fleece, 

Forth  stands  Australia,  in  her  birth  sublime. 

The  only  nation  from  the  womb  of  Peace  ! 


26 


386  /  SADLER. 


THE  PROCLAMATION  TREE. 

(The  Colony  of  South  Australia  was  proclaimed  on  December  2Sth, 
1836,  by  Captain  Hindmarsh,  R.N.— the  first  Governor— under  the 
shadow  of  a  gum-tree.  Of  the  identity  of  this  tree  there  appears  to 
be  some  doubt.) 

"  Long  years  ago,  in  that  Gum-tree's  shade, 
I  stood  when  the  famous  speech  was  made  ; 
Still  to  my  memory  strong  it  sticks, 
Though  that  was  in  eighteen  thirty-six ; 
I'm  certain  of  it's  identity — 
I  swear  it's  the  Proclamation  Tree  ! 

"  And  grieved  I  am  that  in  slow  decay 
The  people  allow  it  to  fall  away ; 
Soon  not  a  wrack  of  it  will  remain 
To  mark  the  spot  on  that  sandy  plain. 
Relics  like  these  should  protected  be — 
You  can't  make  a  Proclamation  Tree." 

Some  correspondents  thus  write,  when,  lo  ! 

Another,  who  also  "  ought  to  know," 

Informs  the  Editor  he  was  there, 

And  the  right  Gum  wasn't  old  and  bare ; 

"  And  was  it  likely  they'd  choose  " — says  he — 

*'  A  shadeless  Proclamation  Tree  ?  "' 


/  SADLER.  387 

"  I  remember  well  on  that  summer's  day 
The  sun  beat  down  with  a  blazing  ray, 
And  the  real  tree's  drooping  foliage  green 
Threw  a  grateful  shade  o'er  the  pleasant  scene. 
From  those  who've  written  I  disagree, 
This  isn't  the  Proclamation  Tree  !  " 

But  now  to  the  rescue  another  comes 
To  settle  the  claims  of  the  rival  gums. 
He's  certain  the  tree  was  old  and  bent. 
For  it  partly  upheld  Mr.  Gouger's  tent, 
And  he  had  a  little  refreshment  free 
Under  the  same  Proclamation  Tree. 

Another,  the  son  ol  a  pioneer. 

Wishes  to  make  the  matter  clear. 

Says  he — "  My  father  was  also  there. 

And  Pm  certain  he  told  me  the  Gum  was  b.irc  ; 

And  often  he's  taken  me  down  to  see 

The  original  Proclamation  Tree." 

Ah  1  Memory's  played  a  good  many  tricks 
Since  eighteen  hundred  and  thirty-six. 
Some  cases,  likely,  have  gone  to  rust, 
And  it's  very  certain  that  some  one  must 
Get  lavishing  sentimentality 
Over  the  wrong  Proclamation  Tree  ! 

And  Death's  cold  finger  has  beckoned  away 
Nearly  all  who  stood  on  the  spot  that  day. 
They've  left  their  hardships  and  weary  toil — 
Gone  to  "  select "  on  a  richer  soil : 


388  /.  SADLER, 

Their  tenure  will  there  have  a  fixity, 
Those  knio:hts  of  the  Proclamation  Tree  ! 


No  Ridley  reaper  nor  double  plough 

They  need  to  work  on  the  holding  now, 

No  Goyder's  line  can  their  course  debar, 

But  they  settle  wherever  the  angels  are ; 

There's  a  harvest  that  lasts  through  eternity 

For  the  boys  who  stood  under  the  old  Gum-tree  ! 

But  never,  O  never,  shall  be  forgot 
Those  pioneers,  though  their  bones  shall  rot ! 
Grand  old  boys  !     Though  the  tree  may  fall, 
And  the  relic-hunters  take  root  and  all, 
They  shall  live  as  long  as  the  colony. 
Those  knights  of  the  Proclamation  Tree  ! 

When  before  the  Great  White  Throne  there  stand 
The  Sheep  and  the  Goats  on  either  hand, 
And  the  Shepherd's  Proclamation  is  read 
Before  the  millions  of  risen  dead, 
His  "Come,  ye  blessed  !  "  we  trust  shall  be 
For  those  knights  of  the  Proclamation  Tree  1 


WIIJJAM  SHARP.  389 


THE  BELL'BIRDS. 

MID-NOON      IN      AN      AUSTRALIAN     FOREST.        FROM      "THE 
HUMAN    INHERITANCE." 

A  LYRE-BIRD  saug  a  low  melodious  song 
Far  off,  then  ceased  :  a  soft  wind  swept  along 
The  lofty  gums  and  breathless  died  away : 
And  Silence  woke  and  knew  her  dream  was  day. 

Hush,  from  the  trackless  depths  comes  what  sweet  sound 

Ineffable?     Do  spirits  underground 

In  hollow  caverns  ring  phantasmal  chimes 

For  elfin  deaths  in  faery  sunless  climes — 

Or  does  some  sad  aerial  spirit  high 

In  serene  air  suspend  the  listening  sky 

With  sweet  remembcr'd  music  of  joy-bells 

Changing  for  death  ?     Hush,  how  it  swells  and  swells 

Still  sweet  and  low  and  sad, — as  tho'  the  peal 

Were  chimed  in  forest-depths  where  never  steal 

Sounds  from  the  world  beyond,  and  where  no  noise 

Breaks  ever  the  long  dream.     It  is  the  voice 

Of  the  mysterious  bird  whose  bell-like  note 

Chimes  thro'  the  Austral  noon  as  church-bells  float 

O'er  lonely  slopes  and  pastures  far  at  home. 

Sometimes  but  once  it  sang,  as  when  the  foam 
On  northern  seas  sleeps  on  the  ebbing  tide 


390  WILLIAM  SHARP. 

And  scarcely  stirs  the  Inchcape's  sounding  side 

To  one  faint  clang ;  then  ceased :  then  once  again 

Tolled  out  with  silver  sweetness  its  part  pain, 

Part  reverie  over  some  beloved  thing. 

At  last  it  too  was  still,  recovering 

Some  dream  to  brood  upon  with  voiceless  peace. 


W I  LIT  AM  SHARP,  391 


THE  STOCK  DRIVER'S  RIDE. 

0'i:r  the  range  and  down  the  gully,  across  the  river  bed, 
We  are  riding  an  the  tracks  of  the  cattle  that  have  fled  : 
The    mopokcs   all    arc   laughing   and   the   cockatoos    are 

screaming, 
And   bright   amidst    the   stringy-barks    the    parrakcets    are 

gleaming. 

The  wattle-blooms  are  fragrant,  and  the  great  magnolias  fair 
Make  a  heavy,  sleepy  sweetness  in  the  hazy  morning  air. 
But   the  rattle  and  the  crashing  of  our  horses'  hoofs  ring 

out. 
And  the  cheery  sound  we  answer  with  our  long  repeated 

shout, — 

Coo-ee-coo-ee-eee  !     Coo-ee-coo-eee — Coo-ee — Coo-ee  ! 
"  Damnation   Dick "    he    hears    us,   and   he   shrills   back 

whoo-ee-ee ! 
"Damnation  Dick"  the  prince  of  native  trackers  thus  we 

call, 
From  the  way  he  swigs  his  liquor,  and  the  oaths  that  he  can 

squall. 

Thro'  more  ranges,  thro'  more  gullies,  down  sun-scorched 

granite  ways 
We  go  crashing,  slipping,  thundering  in  our  joyous  morning 

race — 


392  WILLIAM  STLARP. 

And  the  drowsy  'possums  shriek,  and  o'er  each    dried-up 

creek 
The  wallabies  run  scuttling  as  if  playing  hide-and-seek  : 

And  like  iron  striking  iron  do  our  horses'  hoofs  loud  ring 
As  down  the  barren  granite  slopes  we  leap,  and  slide,  and 

spring  ; 
Then  one  range  further  only,  and  we  each  a  moment  rein 
Our  steaming  steeds  as  wide  before  us  stretches  out  the 

grassy  plain  ! 

And   "  Damnation  Dick "  comes    running  like    a    human 

Kangaroo, 
And  he  cries  the  herd  have  bolted  to  the  creek  of  Waharoo  ! 
So  we  swing  across  the  desert  and  for  miles  and  miles  we 

go 
Till  men  and  horses  pant  athirst  i'  the  fierce  sun's  fiery 

glow. 

And   at   last  across  the  i)lains,  where  the  Kangaroos   fly 

leaping. 
And  the  startled  emus  in  their  flight  go  circularly  sweeping. 
We  see  the  trees  that  hide  the  spring  of  Waharoo,  and 

there 
The  cattle  all  arc  standing  still — the  bulls  with  a  fierce 

stare  ! 

Then  off  to  right  goes  Harry  on  his  sorrel  "  Pretty  Jane," 
And  to  the  left  on  "Thunderbolt"  Tom  scours  across  the 

plain, 
And  Jim  and  I  well   mounted,  and  on  foot  "  Damnation 

Dick," 
Go  straight  for  Waharoo  and  our  stockwhips  fling  and  flick  ! 


WILLIAM  SHARP,  393 

IIo  !   there  goes  old  "  Blackbeetle,"  the  patriarch  of  the 

herd, 
His    doughty   courage   vanish'd   when   Tom's    long   leash 

cracked  and  whirred, 
And  after  him  the  whole  lot  flee,  and  homeward  headlong 

dash — 
What  bellowing  flight  and  thunder  of  hoofs  as  thro'  the 

scrub  we  crash  ! 

Back  through  the  gum-tree  gullies,  and  over  the  river-bed, 
And  past  the  Sassafras  Ranges  whereover  at  dawn  we  sped. 
With  thunderous  noise  and  shouting  the  drivers  and  driven 

flee— 
And  this  was  the  race  that  was  raced  by  Tom,  Jim,  Harry, 

and  me ! 


394  WILLIAM  SHARP. 


IN  THE  RANGES. 

Through  a  dark  cleft  between  two  hills 
A  narrow  passage  leads  the  way 
Close  by  a  lonely  lake;  two  rills, 
Its  children  sing  the  livelong  day, 
And  from  the  water's  lapping  edge 
The  low  tones  of  the  long  reeds  come- 
No  other  sound,  save  in  the  sedge 
A  black  swan  crooning  ;  all  the  heights  are  dumb. 

This  cleft  leads  to  an  open  space 

Where  arching  tree-ferns  grow  around, 

A  still  and  solitary  place  : 

Long  waving  grass  grows  from  the  ground, 

And  great  green  lizards  half  awake 

Lie  silent  hours,  and  in  the  light 

The  fiery  glances  of  a  stealthy  snake 

Keep  glinting,  glinting,  like  twin  stars  at  night. 

Beyond,  a  wooded  gully  lies — 

A  greenstone  on  the  topaz  plain ; 

In  its  deep  shade  no  glaring  skies 

E'er  shine,  so  thick  are  overlain 

The  branches  of  the  ancient  trees ; 

Within  its  depths  the  lyre-bird  hides. 

And,  save  at  mid-noon,  never  cease 

The  bell-birds  singing  where  the  streamlet  glides. 


WILLIAM  SHARP.  395 

Far  off  on  higher  uplands  grow 

The  spicy  gum  and  hardy  box, 

The  delicate  acacias  throw 

Their  feather-leafings  o'er  the  rocks, 

And  grey-green  mistletoe  doth  creep 

Till  tree  by  tree  is  overlaid — 

While  in  the  noonday  stillness  sleep 

The  bright  rosellas  'mid  the  wild  vine's  shade. 


396  WILLIAM  SHARP, 


AUSTRALIAN     TRANSCRIPTS. 

I. — AN    ORANGE   GROVE    {VICTORIA). 

The  short  sweet  purple  twilight  dreams 
Of  vanished  day,  of  coming  night ; 
And  like  gold  moons  in  the  soft  light, 
Each  scented  drooping  orange  gleams 
From  out  the  glossy  leaves  black-green 
That  make  through  noon  a  cool  dark  screen. 
The  dusk  is  silence,  save  the  thrill 
That  stirs  it  from  cicalas  shrill. 

II. — BLACK    SWANS   ON   THE   MURRAY   LAGOONS. 

The  long  lagoons  lie  white  and  still 
Beneath  the  great  round  Austral  moon  ; 
The  sudden  dawn  will  waken  soon 
With  many  a  delicious  thrill  : 
Between  this  death  and  life  the  cries 
Of  black  swans  ring  through  silent  skies — 
And  the  long  wash  of  the  slow  stream 
Moves  as  in  sleep  some  bodeful  dream. 

III. — BREAKING    BILLOWS    AT    SORRENTO    {vICTOKIa). 

A  SKY  of  whirling  flakes  of  foam, 
A  rushing  world  of  dazzling  blue  : 
One  moment,  the  sky  looms  in  view — 
The  next,  a  crash  in  its  curv'd  douie, 


WILLIAM  SHARP.  397 

A  tumult  indescribable, 
And  eyes  dazed  with  the  miracle. 
Here  breaks  by  circling  day  and  night 
In  thunder  the  sea's  boundless  mit^ht. 


IV. SHEA-OAK    TREES    ON    A    STORMY    DAY 

(S.E.    victoria). 

O'er  sandy  tracts  the  shea-oak  trees 

Droop  their  long  wavy  grey-green  trails  : 

And  inland  wandering  moans  and  wails 

The  long  blast  of  the  ocean-breeze  : 

Like  loose  strings  of  a  viol  or  harp 

These  answering  sound — now  low,  now  sharp 

And  keen,  a  melancholy  strain  : 

A  death-song  o'er  the  mournful  plain. 

V. — MID-NOON    IN   JANUARY. 

Upon  a  fibry  fern-tree  bough 

A  huge  iguana  lies  alow, 

Bright  yellow  in  the  noonday  glow, 

With  bars  of  black, — it  watcheth  now 

A  gorgeous  insect  hover  high 

Till  suddenly  its  lance  doth  fly 

And  catch  the  prey — but  still  no  sound 

Breathes  'mid  the  green  fern-spaces  round. 

VI. — IN  the  fern  [cippsland). 

The  feathery  fern-trees  make  a  screen, 
AVherethrough  the  sun-glare  cannot  pass  — 
Fern,  gum,  and  lofty  sassafras  : 
The  fronds  sweep  over,  palely  green, 


398  WILLIAM  SHARP. 

And  underneath  are  orchids  curl'd 
Adream  through  this  cool  shadow-world  j 
A  fragrant  greenness — like  the  noon 
Of  lime-trees  in  an  English  June. 

vii. — sunset  amid  the  buffalo  mountains 
{n.e.  victoria). 

Across  the  boulder'd  majesty 
Of  the  great  hills  the  passing  day 
Drifts  like  a  wind-borne  cloud  away 
Far  off  beyond  the  western  sky  : 
And  while  a  purple  glory  spreads, 
With  straits  of  gold  and  brilliant  reds, 
An  azure  veil,  translucent,  strange. 
Dreamlike  steals  over  each  dim  range. 

viii. — the  flying  mouse — new  south  wales 
{moonlight). 

The  eucalyptus-blooms  are  sweet 

With  honey,  and  the  birds  all  day 

Sip  the  clear  juices  forth  :  brown-grey, 

A  bird-like  thing  with  tiny  feet 

Cleaves  to  the  boughs,  or  with  small  wings 

Amidst  the  leafy  spaces  springs. 

And  in  the  moonshine  with  shrill  cries 

Fhts  batlike  where  the  white  gums  rise. 

IX. — THE   WOOD-SWALLOWS    [sUNRISe). 

The  lightning-stricken  giant  gum 
.Stands  leafless,  dead — a  giant  still, 
But  heedless  of  this  sunrise-thrill ; 
What  stir  was  this  where  all  was  dumb? — 


WILLIAM  SHARP,  399 

What  seem  like  old  dead  leaves  break  swift 
And  lo,  a  hundred  wings  uplift 
A  cloud  of  birds  that  to  and  fro 
Dart  joyous  'midst  the  sunrise  glow. 

X. — THE   BELL-BIRD. 

The  stillness  of  the  Austral  noon 
Is  broken  by  no  single  sound — 
No  lizards  even  on  the  ground 
Rustle  amongst  dry  leaves — no  tune 
The  lyre-bird  sings — yet  hush  !  I  hear 
A  soft  bell  tolling,  silvery  clear  ! 
Low  soft  aerial  chimes,  unknown 
Save  'rnid  those  silences  alone. 

XL — THE    ROCK-LILY    {^NEW  SOUTH    WALES). 

The  amber-tinted  level  sands 
Unbroken  stretch  for  leagues  av\-ay 
Beyond  those  granite  slabs,  dull  grey 
And  lifeless,  herbless — save  where  stands 
The  mighty  rock-llow'r  towering  high 
With  carmine  blooms  crowned  gloriously  : 
A  giant  amongst  flowers  it  reigns, 
The  glory  of  these  Austral  plains. 

XII. — THE   FLAME   TREE   {NEW  SOUTH   WALEs). 

For  miles  the  Illawarra  range 
Runs  level  with  Pacific  seas  : 
What  glory  when  the  morning  breeze 
Upon  its  slopes  doth  shift  and  change 


400  WILLIAM  SHARP. 

Deep  pink  and  crimson  hues,  till  all 
The  leagues-long  distance  seems  a  wall 
Of  swift  uncurling  flames  of  fire 
That  wander  not  nor  reach  up  higher. 

XIII. — MORNING    IN    THE    BUSH    {DECEMBER), 

The  magpie  'midst  the  wattle-blooms 

Is  singing  loud  and  long  : 

What  fragrance  in  the  scatter'd  scent, 

What  magic  in  the  song  ! 

On  yonder  gum  a  mopoke's  throat 

Out-gurgles  laughter  grim. 

And  far  within  the  fern-tree  scrub 

A  lyre-bird  sings  his  hymn. 

Amongst  the  stringy-barks  a  crowd 

Of  dazzling  parrakeets — 

But  high  o'er  all  the  magpie  loud 

His  joyous  song  repeats. 

XIV. — JUSTICE  [uncivilized  and  civilized). 

LiNG-Tso  Ah  Sin,  on  Murderer's  Flat, 
One  morning  caught  an  old  grey  rat : 
"  Ah,  white  man,  I  have  got  you  now  ! 
But  no — dust  be  upon  my  brow 
If  needless  blood  I  cause  to  fall- 
So  go,  there's  world-room  for  us  all !  " 

That  night  Ah  Sin  was  somehow  shot^ — 
By  accident !    For  he  had  got 
From  earth  a  little  gold — black  sin 
For  thee^  though  not  for  us.  Ah  Sin  1 


WILLIAM  SHARP.  401 


SHEA-OAKS  [^NEAR  THE  SEA). 

Through  the  trailing  wailing  branches  there  goes  a  sound 

of  pain, 
As  though  the  ghosts  of  bygone  winds  were  murmuring 

again, 
As  though  wild  sea-blown  echoings  once  more  wailed  up 

the  strand, 
Or  once  more  swept  past  heavily  the  cold  tears  of  the  rain. 

Within  those  shea-oaks  arc  bound  old  voices  of  the  land, 
O  yes  before  the  white  man  came  with  swift  transmuting 
hand  ; 
Listen,  and  you  shall  hear  them  sing  their  solitary  strain. 
Sad  as  the  sea-surge  beating  on  the  loneliest  waste  of  sand. 

Dead  races  sing  they— races  of  the  mystic  long  ago. 

While  still  the  unformed  Occident  was  in  its  birth-tide  throe. 

Long,  dreary,  weary  centuries  that  uneventful  passed. 
While   all   Earth's  other  continents  to  a  fresher  age   did 
grow. 

Like  waves  upon  a  barren  shore  the  long  slow  reons  arc 

cast. 
That  shore  this  ancien.t.  ancient  land,   primeval,   solemn 
vast : 
And  ever  more,  like  viol  strings  o'er  which  the  wind  doth 
blow, 
The  branches  of  the  shea-oaks  wail  with  the  wailing  blast. 

27 


402  "  THE  SINGING  SHEPHERDr 


TO  ONE  IN  ENGLAND. 

"  I  SEND  to  you  " 
Songs  of  a  Southern  Isle, 
Isle  like  a  flower 
In  warm  seas  low  lying  : 

Songs  to  beguile 
Some  wearisome  hour, 
When  Time's  tired  of  flying. 

Songs  which  were  sung, 
To  a  rapt  listener  lying 
In  sweet  lazy  hours. 
Where  wild  birds'  nests  swung 
And  winds  came  a-sighing 
In  Nature's  own  bowers. 

Songs  which  trees  sung. 
By  summer  winds  swayed 
Into  rhythmical  sound ; 
Sweet  soul-bells  rung- 
Through  the  Ngaio's  green  shade 
Unto  one  on  the  ground. 

Songs  from  an  Island 
Just  waking  from  sleep, 
In  history's  morning ; 
Songs  from  a  land 


"  THE  SINGING  shepherd:'  403 

Where  night  shadows  creep, 
When  your  day  is  dawning. 


O,  songs,  go  your  way. 

Over  seas,  over  lands  ; 

Tliougli  friendless  sometimes, 

Fear  not,  comes  a  day 

When  the  world  v,-ill  clasp  hands 

With  my  wandering  rliymes. 


404  ''THE  SINGING  shepherd:' 


"WENTWOOD'S  FARM." 

"  Hullo  !  Some  one's  knocking  at  the  door 

Open  it  quick,  Ned — here,  man,  take  the  light ; 
Whoever  it  is  'twill  make  one  more 

To  help  us  to  pass  this  blustering  night ; 
I'd  think  it  was  Brown  on  his  way  from  town, 

But  a  minute  ago  I  heard  the  dogs  bark — 
Come  in,  whoever  you  are,  and  sit  down  ! 

Ned,  don't  keep  him  yarning  out  there  in  the  dark. 

"  The  night  is  so  black  I  lost  the  track 

Which  leads  near  here,  up  to  Burton's  farm. 
It  was  your  light  which  guided  me  back. 

On  a  horse  too  good  to  come  to  harm  ; 
If  to  lend,  you  are  able,  a  nook  in  your  stable 

To  a  son  of  Traducer,  and  Kildare's  Pride — 
If  to  save  from  a  soaking,  this  jewel  you're  able, 

You  may  count  me  in  as  a  friend  on  your  side." 

"  Come  in  1  Come  in  !  Why,  man,  who'd  refuse 

To  shelter  a  dog  on  such  a  night  ? 
Turn  in  with  us  here,  and  give  us  the  news. 

On  with  the  logs,  Ned  ;  keep  the  fire  bright  : 
But  my  first  duty's  to  stable  this  beauty. 

Whoa,  pet  1     Lord  !  how  he  shies  at  the  light  1 
Whoa  !  now,  my  beauty,  so  satin  and  sooty  ; 

I'll  soon  make  you  snug  for  the  night. 


*'  THE  SINGING  SHEPHERDr  405 

"  Who  owns  this  place — Eh  ?  is  that  what  you  say  ? 

Well !  I  act  as  boss  here  now,  backed  up  by  Ned ; 
Young  Wentwood's  the  owner — he  Hves  away 

From  the  country,  in  which  he  was  born  and  bred, 
Preferring  the  din  of  Homburg  and  Berhn  ; 

This  is  the  stable — bear  more  to  the  right, 
There's  oats  in  the  box,  here ;  I'll  unsaddle  him — 

There,  my  young  hot-blood,  you're  snug  for  the  night. 

"  You're  not  a  farmer  ?  a  lawyer  !  I  saw 

You  were  something  like  that  by  your  cut. 
You  can  keep  secrets,  you  men  of  the  law, 

So,  perhaps  you  will  crack  a  hard  nut 
For  me  this  same  night — and  just  put  me  right 

In  a  matter  which  hangs  on  my  mind  : 
Hullo  !  here's  the  rain — we're  in  for  a  night 

Of  a  '  Southerly  Buster'  you'll  find. 

"Well,  Ned,  we're  in  here  just  in  time,  you  see, 

You  have  managed  something  like  a  blaze; 
Just  trot  out,  old  fellow,  some  scones  and  tea — 

^^'hat !  you're  not  liungry  ?     A  lawyer's  ways 
Are  as  profound  as  a  mole's  underground. 

Well  then,  sit  down  in  this  carpet  chair ; 
It  has  an  old  knack  of  sending  one  sound 

To  sleep  before  he's  aware. 

"And  when  you've  rested  yourself  a  bit 

I'll  have  your  advice — What,  you'll  give  it  now  ! 

Well,  you  see  this  place  where  to-night  you've  lit 
Belonged  to  George  Wentwoud— he  was,  I  vow, 


4o6  "  THE  SINGING  SHEPHERD." 

The  finest  man  since  the  world  began — ■ 

And  Ned,  there,  will  back  me  in  what  I  have  said  ; 

He  brought  through  fever  a  homeless  man, 

Whose  mates,  through  fear  of  infection,  had  fled. 


"  And  many  a  year  I  lived  with  him, 

Out  here  with  him  and  his  only  son — ■ 
I  taught  the  boy  how  to  shoot  and  swim, 

And  how  command  of  a  horse  is  won. 
And  Wentwood's  boy  was  his  father's  joy, 

He  made  him  a  scholar — for  Wentwood  knew 
ISIore  than  most  men — and  so  the  boy 

Grew  up  handy  and  bright,  between  us  two. 

"  But  when  he  was  nineteen  a  shadow  fell 

On  his  young  life — George  Wentwood  died ; 
Yes ;  the  man  who  had  nursed  me  once  so  well 

I  could  not  save — hard  as  I  tried. 
'  Ben,  see  that  the  farm  comes  to  no  harm 

While  the  lad  is  in  England,'  to  me  he  said, 
'  And  bury  me  down  near  the  Nikau  Palm, 

The  wattles  in  spring  will  bloom  over  my  head.' 

"  And  then,  after  a  while,  when  we  could  look  round, 

And  the  lad  was  getting  more  used  to  his  trouble, 
I  started  him  off  in  a  ship  homeward  bound — 

All  the  old  happy  life  had  burst  like  a  bubble. 
Though  time  seemed  to  fly  over  Ned  and  I, 

There  was  so  much  hackwork  to  be  done  on  the  farm, 
And  early  and  late,  come  wet  or  come  dry, 

We  were  working  like  two  niggers  under  a  charm. 


''THE  SINGING  SHEPHERD:'  407 

"  For  I  could  see  bad  times  coming  ahead ; 

In  '79  stock  began  to  go  down, 
And  croakers  kept  saying  that  sheep  pure-bred 

Very  soon  would  be  going  at  half-a-crown  ; 
But  I  always  felt  better  when  I  got  a  letter 

From  him  in  England  :  at  first  I  got  one 
By  every  mail  almost,  and  he  sent  me  this  letter, 

Then  he  seemed  to  forget  the  old  sheep-run! 

"  And  after  he  had  been  home  two  years — he  wrote, 

'  Fve  done  with  books  for  the  rest  of  my  days. 
And  if  stock  is  down  to  the  prices  you  quote. 

Sheep  farming  can't  be  the  game  now  which  pays  ; 
But  Fm  off  with  a  chum  for  a  six  months'  run 

Over  old  Europe — one  must  have  a  spell 
Of  idleness  once  in  his  life — and  you're  one 

Who'll  see  that  the  Farm  is  going  on  well.' 

"  But  the  six  months  passed,  and  never  a  word 

To  say  he  was  coming  back  to  the  '  Run,' 
And  after  awhile  I  but  seldom  heard 

A  word  from  him — a  stray  paper,  or  some 
Other  slight  sign  from  odd  time  to  time, 

Just  to  show  he  was  living  ;  so  two  years  more 
Slipped  over  our  heads — if  I  got  a  line 

'Twas  asking  for  money,  and  wool  going  lower ! 

"  Wool  going  lower — and  stock  going  down, 

While  fencing  and  dipping  sucked  me  like  a  leech, 

The  last  lot  of  sheep  I  took  into  town 

(Some  of  our  best  ewes)  went  at  nine  shillings  each, 


4o8  ''  THE  SINGIiYG  SHEPHERDP 

And  George  Wentwood's  son  away  from  the  '  Run 
In  the  very  time  he  is  needed  the  most : 

'  I'm  off  to  Berlin — your  croaking's  but  fun,' 
That's  all  the  answer  I  got  by  the  post, 


"  There's  the  Parson's  Wood — the  boy  called  it  so 

Because  of  the  white  Tuis  which  build 
Their  nests  in  the  trees.     The  best  wood  I  know — 

I  could  make  three  hundred  now  if  I  willed 
Out  of  that  wood — but  I  must  hold  good 

To  a  promise  to  which  the  boy  made  me  swear, 
That  never  axe  should  go  near  that  wood 

Which  forms  a  refuge  to  the  birds  of  the  air. 


"  I  own  I  was  vexed  when  I  got  that  last  letter, 

So  I  just  walked  down  where  the  wattle  trees  grow, 
And  there  waited  a  bit  until  I  felt  better. 

There  I  told  hiai  my  crosses,  and  troubles,  and  losses, 
Where  the  broad-leaf   its  green  arms  out  to  the  wind 
tosses  : 

But  the  only  reply  which  came  was  the  sound 
Of  the  wind  as  it  \vhistled  among  the  trees  : 

And  the  blue-gum's  seeds  which  were  dropping  around, 
Or  a  stray  woodhen  treading  the  fallen  leaves. 


"  For  when  once  a  man's  hidden  beneath  the  clover, 
He'll  let  no  one  disturb  his  lying  in  state — ■ 

Advise  me  now,  Lawyer,  to  bring  this  young  rover 
Back  here  to  New  Zealand  before  it's  too  Ute— 


"  THE  SINGING  SHEPHERD:'  409 

For  Satan's  the  master  to  answer  us  faster 

Than  any  other  we  call  to  our  aid  : 
How  to  save  Wentwood's  Farm  from  coming  disaster, 

Answer  me,  you  of  the  Devil's  Brigade  ?  " 


The  Lawyer  laughed,  ere  he  made  reply. 

Stroked  his  brown  beard,  looked  at  silent  Ned : 
Looked  at  the  ALmagcr's  anxious  eye, 

Noticed  how  each  had  that  droop  of  the  head 
Which  comes  at  length  from  overtaxed  strength ; 

And  watched  the  looks  of  surprise  and  fear 
In  Ben's  big  dog-like  eyes  when  at  length 

He  spoke  in  a  voice  which  caressed  the  ear. 

"  Carry  your  memory  now  back  to  a  day 

When  we  reined  our  horses  by  Parson's  Wood, 
You  cheering  the  lad  who  was  going  awa}-. 

And  striving  to  put  him  in  better  mood  : 
'  Now  Dad  is  laid  in  the  wattle's  shade 

ril  hunt  for  comfort  across  the  sea ; 
The  wattle  will  bloom,  the  wattle  will  fade. 

Many  a  year  now  unseen  by  me  ! 

"  '  But  see  that  never  in  Parson's  Wood 

An  axe  shall  come  near  one  precious  tree  ! ' 
And  you,  Ben,  to  humour  my  bitter  mood, 

Swore  that  the  wood  should  sacred  be ; 
And  that  there  every  bird  should  undisturbed 

Sing  a  requiem  for  one  lost  to  sight — 
Aha  !  is  a  chord  in  your  memory  stirred  ! 

Can  you  trace  that  boy  in  my  face  to-niglit  ? 


410  "  THE  SINGING  SHEPHERD  r 

"  Though  my  beard  is  grown,  look,  you  still  can  see 

The  old  cut  on  my  ear  my  first  stock  whip  made. 
Ben,  you  know  surely  whose  ring  this  must  be, 

With  the  motto,  '  Ne  cede  malis,'  engraved? 
Forgive  a  rover,  whose  wanderings  over 

While  you  were  slaving,  for  taking  his  ease  : 
A  selfish  young  brute,  for  rolling  in  clover 

While  others  were  '  hard-up  '  across  the  seas. 

"  I  swear,  Ben,  I  never  knew  how  things  were  going 

Out  here  in  New  Zealand — till  the  letter  I  got 
Two  months  since  from  Burton,  the  truth  plainly  showing; 

I  can  tell  you  he  gave  it  to  me  pretty  hot 
For  leaving  you  here,  Ben,  year  after  year — 

Foolish  old  fellow  !  to  send  me  your  share 
Of  the  farm's  profits,  and  you  slaving  here 

With  hardly  a  decent  coat  to  wear. 

"  Forgive  me,  Ben,  that  I  came  here  to-night 

As  a  wandering  man  in  search  of  a  bed  ; 
I  think  we  can  manage  to  bring  things  right. 

What  do  you  say  now,  my  wise  old  Ned  ? 
The  storm's  at  its  height,  it  seems  to-night 

As  if  the  thunder,  and  hail,  and  rain 
Are  holding  their  revels  in  high  delight — ■ 

To  welcome  a  Wentwood  home  again." 


C.  A.  SHERARD.  411 


SOLACED. 

The  river  banks  glitter  with  while  wild  flower 

And  feathery  grasses  wild, 
While  spring  woos  the  wattle  from  hour  to  hour, 
In  the  gleaming  guise  of  a  golden  shower — 
As  Jove  woo'd,  in  spite  of  her  brazen  tower, 

Eurydice's  lovely  child. 

And  fairy-like  flow'rets,  of  azure  and  pink, 

And  amber  and  scarlet,  glow 
Through  the  green  and  white  on  the  river's  brink. 
Above  where  the  cattle  come  down  to  drink — 
But  laughing  jackasses  laugh  to  think — 

Of  only  a  year  ago. 

Twelve  months  have  passed  since  a  man  and  a  maid 

Walked  over  the  fallen  tree, 
That  bridged  the  stream,  where  of  old  they  strayed, 
When  the  game  of  love  was  the  game  they  played, 
And  when  he  of  the  future  was  little  afraid, 

And  sanguine  of  heart  was  she. 

They  loved  in  the  spring  when  the  wattles  bloomed, 

And  the  river  banks  gleamed  white ; — ■ 
With  the  birth  of  summer  she  slept  entombed 
In  the  darksome  grave,  to  which  all  are  doomed, 
And  the  spring-day  visions  that  brightly  loomed, 
Grew  black  in  the  murky  night. 


412  a  A.  SHERARD. 

In  the  autumn  days  he  had  wandered  there. 

Alone  with  his  lonely  heart, 
When  the  banks  of  the  stream  were  brown  and  bare, 
After  months  of  scorching  summer  air — 
And  dreamt  of  the  days  when  his  fate  seemed  fair, 

Ere  death  had  bidden  them  part. 

In  the  winter  time,  when  the  floods  were  high, 

And  watered  the  arid  plain, 
Less  often  he  came,  and  the  banks  grew  dr}'. 
While  the  face  of  a  new  love  caught  his  eye, 
And  the  heart  that  was  weary  ceased  to  sigh 

When  the  grass  took  heart  again. 

The  spring  is  as  bright  and  the  sky  as  clear 

As  though  she  had  never  died. 
Who  gathered  the  blossoms  and  flowers  last  year, 
And  playfully  tickled  her  lover's  ear 
With  the  feathery  grasses  :  and  he  is  here, 

Alone  on  the  river  side. 

The  kingfisher  sits  with  his  folded  wing 
And  eyes  him  strangely,  as  though 

Little  birds  could  tell  of  the  last  year's  spring 

To  the  bride,  that  the  morrow's  sun  will  bring, 

And  jackasses'  laughter  seem  to  ring 
With,  "  Only  a  year  ago." 

Pie  seeks  for  the  flowers  that  she  loved  of  old. 

And  plucks  them  with  gentle  hands, 
And  weaves  theai  deftly  with  l^lossoms  of  gold 


r.  A.  SHERARD.  413 

Into  ft  wreath  that  is  fair  to  behold — 
A  wreath,  to  be  lain  on  the  grass-grown  mould, 
Where  the  dead  love's  head-stone  stands. 


The  bells  have  rung  out,  and  the  sound  of  g1ce 

Has  echoed  where  wild  flowers  grow. 
The  love  of  last  year  must  forgotten  be, 
For  this  year's  love  has  been  wedded — and  she 
Ne'er  dreams  the  laughter  of  birds  in  a  tree 
Means,  "  Only  a  year  ago." 


414  C.  A.  SHERARD. 


LOST  IN  THE  MALLEE. 

Fraught  with  flame,  and  clad  in  crimson,  ride  the  heralds 

of  the  morn ; 
While  the  sun-god  jousts  with  darkness,  at  the  tournament 

of  dawn ; 
And  gleams  of  gauntlets    glittering  through  lists  of  azure 

glance  ; 
And  the  golden  armoured  champion  showers  sunbeams  from 

his  lance  ; 
Till  some  starry  queen  of  beauty  bids  night's  vanquisher 

advance. 
A  glorious  golden  glamour  through  the  gloomy  wild-wood 

glints 
Till  the  sombre  scrub  is  sparkling  in  a  galaxy  of  tints  ; 
And  the  morning  in  the  Mallee,  is  suffused  with  genial  glow ; 
While  the  dying  hound  is  watching  o'er  the  sleeper  lying 

low, 
Who  is  dreaming  at  the  day-birth  of  the  days  of  long  ago, 
Of  the  days  of  deep  desire  and  dreams  of  doing  doughty 

deeds ; 
Ere  the  flowers  of  hope  were  strangled  with  a  multitude  of 

weeds — 
Of  the  morning  of  his  springtime  when  his  fancy-teeming 

brain 
To  the  field  of  his  ambition    promised    crops    of  golden 

grain  ; 
Ere  he  planted  seeds  of  folly  for  a  harvesting  of  pain. 


C.  A.  SHERARD.  415 

Of  the  days  when  gallant  comrades  shared  the  glory  of  his 

youth, 
And  his  bright  ideal  of  woman  seemed  a  warm  and  living 

truth — 
Ah  !  that  one  love  ne'er  forgotten  through  the  good  days  or 

the  ill ! 
On  his  earth-bed  in  the  Malice  he  is  dreaming  of  her  still ; 
Though  what-might-have-been  was  never,  and  what-might- 

be  never  will. 
And  his  sleeping  fancy  mocks  him   with  the  vision  of  a 

bride, 
Tall  and  slender,  golden-headed,  snowy-browed,  and  violet 

eyed. 
Robed  in  white  and  orange  blossoms — as  he  saw  her  in  the 

aisle 
That  day  he  sent  his  papers  in,  with  a  curse  for  woman  s 

guile 
And  the  Jews  who  long  lamented  his  departure  for  the  Nile. 
Not  a  murmur  breaks  the  silence  in  the  solitude  of  scrub, 
Where  lies  the  whilom  favourite  of  the  messroom  and  the 

club. 
With  a  ragged  blanket  round  him,  and  the  earth  his  only 

bed- 
Not  a  murmur  breaks  the  silence  as  he  lifts  his  weary  head. 
To  find  his  dumb  companion  on  the  ground  beside  him — 

dead. 

Through  the  madding  maze  of  Mallee,  while  the  sun  is  at 

its  worst. 
Slowly  staggers  in  a  circle  one  whose  throat  is  parched  with 

thirst — 
Miles  and  miles  he  wanders  onward,  hearing  nothing  but 

the  sound 


41 6  C.  A.  SHEI^ARB. 

Of  the  crackling  of  the  deadwood  on  the  broiled  and  burn- 
ing ground, 

And  the  dusk  beholds  him  dying,  where  the  dawn  beheld 
the  hound. 

Had  the   Russian  spilt  his  life-blood  in  the  fury  of   the 

fight- 
Had  the  savage  sepoys  shot  him  on  that  dark  and  deadly 
night. 

When,   as  moment   followed  moment,  came  the  whistling 
past  his  ears 

Of  the  leaden  rain  that  rattled  from  the  murderous  muti- 
neers— ■ 

He  had  fallen  as  a  hero,  and  been  requiemed  with  tears. 

Did  the  Angel  of  Destruction  pass  him  by  with  dour  dis- 
dain, 

As  unworthy  of  his  sickle,  when  the  bright  and  brave  were 
slain. 

So  the  voiceless  bush  might  fold  him  in  her  arms  of  grue- 
some gloom  ? 

Ah  !  a  still    small  voice    is  asking,  as  the  Stygian  waters 
loom, 

"  Have  you  lived  the  life    heroic  that  deserves  the  hero's 
doom  ? 

Was   the    faith,  or  was  the    falsehood    of   a   callous,  cold 
coquette 

Worth  the  mad  trust  of  your  manhood,  or  the  years  of 
long  regret  ? 

Was  the  world  without   her  worthless,   that  you  travelled 
down  the  hill?" 

In  his  death-throes,  in    the    ISIallce,  he   is    raving  of  her 
still, 

Though  what-might-have-becn  was  never,  and  what  might- 
be  never  will. 


C.  A.  SHERARD.  417 

Cloud-shed  tears  in  silver  torrents,  wash  the  sombre  stunted 

shrub 
That  sepulchres  the  stranger  in  the  solitude  of  scrub — 
Long-forgotten  by  his  comrades  in    the  charge  or   in    the 

camp, 
He  has  dreed  his  doom  in  darkness,  dreary,  desolate,  and 

damp — 
Who  twice  'scaped   dying   a   hero,  ere  he  perished   as   a 

tramp. 


?8 


4i8  C.  A.  SHERARD. 


SATAN'S  GANYMEDE, 

Roughly  clad,  yet  picturesquely 
Through  the  woodland,  where  grotesquely 

Sombre  shadows  fall, 
Rides  a  bushman,  mighty  chested^ 
Strong  with  strength  by  trials  tested, 

Bearded,  bronzed,  and  tall. 

From  the  forest-land  he  passes 
Over  fields,  where  yellow  grasses 

Shrivel  in  the  sun  ; 
Past  the  prison'd  river,  yearning 
For  the  winter's  floods  returning 

With  its  freedom  won  ; 

Past  where  plundered  wattles  cluster 
Bathed  no  longer  in  the  lustre 

Of  their  golden  rain  ; 
Past  the  homestead  garden,  flowerless 
In  the  wrath  of  summer  showerless 

When  all  glories  wane. 

Backward  looks  he  once  and  lingers, 
As  his  swarthy  sun-burnt  fingers 

Ope  the  station  gate, 
Then,  o'er  dusty  roads  and  gritty 
Southward  rides  he  to  the  city — ■ 

Southward  to  his  fate. 


C.  A.  SHERARD.  419 

Cities  swallow  many  strangers, 
Beaten  tracks  are  strewn  with  dangers 

Howsoever  wide, 
Whether  'tis  for  worse  or  better 
Little  knows  he,  doubly  debtor 

To  the  country  side. 

Health  and  strength  the  bush  has  guerdoned 
To  the  exile,  long  unburdened 

From  the  drink-disease  ; 
Seldom  can  the  city  render, 
In  its  many-tower'd  splendour, 

Richer  gifts  than  these. 


Prizes  won  by  years  of  labour, 
With  the  wild-dog  for  a  neighbour. 

Solitary  time  ! 
Days  of  toiling,  nights  of  dreaming 
Of  the  past  with  pleasures  teeming 

In  a  cooler  clime — 

Saving  stock  from  drought  and  looting, 
Water-storing,  dingo-shooting — 

Twice,  a  grim  exchange. 
Lead  for  lead  in  deadly  battle 
With  the  reivers  of  the  cattle 

In  the  mountain  range. 

Work-achieving,  danger-scorning — 
Prompt  to  greet  the  birth  of  morning 
By  the  sun  caressed — 


4  20  C.  A.  SHERARD. 

When  the  dusk  the  sky  was  cloaking, 
Musing  in  his  hut,  and  smoking, 
With  the  world  at  rest — 

Years  of  honest  service-giving, 
Sanctified  by  manly  living 

And  by  healthful  thought, 
Reft  of  reveries  resentful. 
Howsoever  uneventful, 

Are  not  lived  for  naught. 

Better  such  an  isolation 
Than  his  early  dissipation 

Or  his  later  gloom. 
Seven  years  of  life  unspotted, 
Many  sins,  perchance,  have  blotted 

From  his  book  of  doom. 


Hoof  strokes  on  the  roadway  clatter. 
Back-flung  dust-clouds  rise  and  scatter 

In  the  bushman's  wake. 
Thirsty  throats  have  wisdom  scanty  ; 
Speeds  he  onward  to  the  shanty 

Olden  vows  to  break. 

Travel-stained  and  tired  and  dusty, 
What  are  man  and  charger  trusty 

To  the  landlord's  eyes  ! 
Wearied  steed  and  foolish  rider 
Views  he  as  the  bloated  spider 

Looks  upon  the  flies. 


C  A.  SHERARD.  421 

Though  both  head  and  heart  be  steady 
He  has  drugged  the  drink  already 

For  the  shameful  deed. 
Such  the  welcome  that  he  offers, 
Poison  taints  the  cup  he  proffers, 

Satan's  Ganymede  ! 

Little  time  in  talk  is  wasted  ; 
Once  the  tiger  blood  has  tasted 

He  must  have  his  fill. 
Flesh  is  weak  and  skin  is  porous  : 
Midnight  hears  a  drunken  chorus, 

Daylight  hears  it  still. 

To  a  lower  depth  yet  sinking 
Days  and  nights  of  deadly  drinking 

Leave  the  man  of  toil 
Racked  with  fire  and  senses  deadened, 
Nerves  unstrung  and  eyelids  reddened. 

Soaked  with  fusel-oil. 

Days  and  nights  of  poisoned  madness 
Honest  grief  and  lying  gladness 

Alternating  fast. 
With  the  senseless,  shameless  revel 
Comes  the  old  deluding  devil 

Back  to  him  at  last. 

Comes  he  with  his  curst  suggestions, 
Wrapped  in  soul-destroying  questions, 
Feebly  answered  now ; 


422  C.  A.  SHERARD. 

Comes  he  with  his  mocking  laughter 
At  the  struggle  followed  after 
By  the  broken  vow. 

Greedy  poison-vendor,  leering 

At  your  work  !     The  end  is  nearing — 

Drive  him  from  your  door  ; 
Though  your  parrot,  not  as  stingy, 
Screeches  in  your  parlour  dingy, 

"  Only  one  drink  more  !  " 

Though  your  victim  sink  yet  deeper, 
"  You  are  not  your  brother's  keeper  !  " 

Mouth  your  hateful  creed. 
Cain,  than  you,  was  fairer  fighter  ; 
Do  you  dream  your  guilt  is  lighter, 

Satan's  Ganymede  ? 

All  is  squandered,  all  is  ended  ; 
From  a  leafless  tree  suspended 

Rots  a  wasted  frame. 
For  that  sudden  deed  of  evil 
Neither  suicide  nor  devil 

May  be  most  to  blame. 


DOUGLAS  B.    Ji:  SLAjDEN.  423 


THE  SQUIRE'S  BROTHER. 


"  You,  sitting  in  your  ancient  liall,  before  a  beech-log  fire, 
Think  that  the  elder  should  have  all — of  course  you  do — 

you're  squire  ; 
I,  sitting  on  a  three-rail  fence,  beneath  a  Queensland  sun. 
Think  that  the  law  shows  little  sense  to  give  the  younger 

none. 

"  Nell  wouldn't  know  me,  I  suppose,  were  she  to  see  me  now 
A  Bushman  to  the  very  toes  and  bearded  to  the  brow  ; 
I  didn't  wear  a  flannel  shirt  when  I  was  courting  her, 
Or  mole-skin  pants  engrained  with  dirt  and  shiny  as  a  simr. 

"  I  daresay  that  she  pictures  me  in  patent  leather  boots, 
A  tall  white  hat  (an  L  and  B),  and  one  of  Milton's  suits — 
That  was  the  Charlie  whom  she  knew  before  the  old  man 

died  ; 
I  wonder  if  she'd  take  this  view  if  she  were  by  my  side. 

"  How  beautiful  she  was  that  night  ! — she  seldom  looked  so 

fair ; 
And  how  the  soft  wax  candle-light  showed  up  her  auburn 

hair  ! 
She  was  a  bit  inclined  to  tease,  to  stand  on  P's  and  Q's, 
To   '  Keep  your   distance,  if  you  please,'  until  I  told  my 

news. 


424  DOUGLAS  B.    W.  SLADEN. 

"  Then  she  rose  up  and  took  my  hand  and  looked  me  in  the 

face, 
And  when  in  turn  her  face  I  scanned,  I  saw  a  tell-tale 

trace 
Of  dew-drops  from  the  brave  blue  eyes  along  the  dimpled 

cheek, 
The  while  she  told  in  simple  sighs  the  tale  she  would  not 

speak. 

"  She  never  let  me  kiss  before,  but  now  she  gave  her  mouth 
So  frankly,  that  I  almost  swore  I  would  forswear  the  South — 
The   sunny   South  of    prospect  vast — and  hug  the  barren 

North, 
Had  not   she  held  me  to   it   fast,  and,  weeping,  sent  me 

forth. 

"  So  here  I  am — a  pioneer,  and  work  with  my  own  hands 
Harder  than  any  labourer  upon  my  brother's  lands, 
Far  from  the  haunts  of  gentlemen  in  this  outlandish  place ; 
I  wonder  if  I  e'er  again  shall  see  a  woman's  face. 

"  I  couldn't  stand  it,  but  for  this,  that,  when  I  first  came 

out, 
I  used  to  see  the  carriages  in  which  men  drove  about. 
Who'd  tended  sheep  themselves  of  old  'mid  Highland  moors 

and  rocks. 
And  now  were  lords  of  wealth  untold,  and  half  a  hundred 

flocks. 

*'  I  laid  this  unction  to  my  heart,  that,  if  a  Scottish  herd 
Could  play  so  manfully  his  part,  I  should  not  be  deterred  .* 


DOUGLAS  B.    \V.  SLADJliV.  425 

And  so  I  slave  and  stay  and  save,  and  squander  nought  but 

youth  : 
Nell  sometimes  writes  and  calls  me  brave,  and  knows  but 

half  the  truth. 


"  Do  you  suppose  that  old  Sir  Hugh,  who  won  your  lands 

in  mail, 
Showed  half  the  valour  that  I  do  in  sitting  on  this  rail  ? 
He  tilted  in  his  lordly  way,  and  stoutly,  I  confess  ; 
But  I  stand  sentry  all  the  day  against  the  wilderness. 

"  There  isn't  much  poetical  about  an  old  tweed  suit, 
And  nothing  chivalrous  at  all  about  a  cowhide  boot ; 
Yet  oft  beneath  a  bushman's  breast  there  lurks  a  knightly 

soul. 
And  bushman's  feet  have  often  pressed  towards  a  gallant 

goal. 


"  So  here  I  am,  and,  spite  of  all,  I  hope  in  long  years  more 
To  stand  within  my  brother's  hall,  my  quest  of  fortune  o'er. 
And  so  I  slave  and  stay  and  save,  and  squander  nought  but 

youth  ; 
And  if  Nell  said  that  I  was  brave  she  only  told  the  truth." 


II. 

"  And  is  it  true,  or  do  I  dream?  is  this  the  dear  old  hall? 
These  the  old  pictures  ?     Yes  !  I  seem  to  recognize  them 

all; 
That  is  my  father  in  his  pink  upon  his  favourite  hack, 
I  wonder  what  would  Nellie  think  knew  she  that  I  were 

back  ? 


426  DOUGLAS  B,    W.  SLADEN. 

"  That  is  my  brother— he  is  changed,  and  heavier  than  he 

was 
When  years  ago  the  park  he  ranged  with  me  on  '  Phiz  '  and 

'  Boz ; ' 
His  figure  is  a  trifle  full,  his  whiskers  edged  with  grey  ; 
And  yet  at  Oxford  he  could  pull  a  good  oar  in  his  day. 

"  The  portrait  in  that  frame  is  Nell — why,  /gave  Dick  that 

frame, 
And  doesn't  the  old  pet  look  well  ?     I  swear  she's  just  the 

same 
As  when  I  left  her  years  ago  to  cross  the  southern  foam ; — 
I  wonder  if  they've  let  her  know  that  I'm  expected  home. 

"  How  well  the  artist  coloured  it ;   he  caught  the  sunny 

shades 
That  ever  and  anon  would  flit  across  her  auburn  braids ; 
But  no  !    that  isn't  quite   the  blue  that  shone  in  Nellie's 

eyes ; 
Their  light  was  nearer  in  its  hue  to  our  Australian  skies. 


"White  suits  her  best — she  wore  a  white  of  some  soft  silky 

weft 
Upon  that  memorable  night,  the  night  before  I  left ; 
Just  such  a  graceful  flowing  train  then  rippled  as  she  moved; 
I'd  like  to  see  her  once  again,  the  lady  that  I  loved. 

*'  I  wonder  what  I'm  staring  at ;  this  is  a  real  dress-coat  ; 
A  veritable  white  cravat  is  tied  about  my  throat ; 
I've  had  a  dress-suit  on  before,  and  yet,  I'm  sure,  I  feel 
Just  like  an  awkward  country  boor  ask'd  to  a  Sunday  meal. 


DOUGLAS  B.    W.  SLA  DEN.  427 

"  I  can't  bear  silling  here  alone,  it  seems  so  strange  and  sad, 
Now  that  my  father  there  is  gone,  and  I'm  no  more  a  lad. 
'T\Yas  here  he  nursed  me  on  his  knee  in  that  old  high-backed 

chair ; 
I'd  give  ten  thousand  down  to  see  the  old  man  sitting  there. 

"  AVhat  was  that  footstep  ? — not  old  John's  ?  his  boots  have 

such  a  creak ; 
I'd  almost  swear  I  knew  the  tones— and  heard  a  woman 

speak ; 
The  steps  come  nearer,  and  the  door — what  is  it  stirs  my 

heart  ? 
Why  should  a  footstep  on  the  floor  cause  every  nerve  to 

start  ? 

*'  A  lady  scans  with  tear-bright  eye  a  letter  in  her  hand, 
And  bends  her  way  unconsciously  almost  to  where  I  stand  : 
I  think  I  know  that  writing  well :    of  course — for  it's  my 

own. 
And  she  ^Yho  reads  it  thus  is  Nell. — Together  and  alone." 


III. 

A  lady  in  her  boudoir  stands  before  a  faded  carte, 
Wistfully  folding  her  white  hands,  her  sweet  lips  just  apart ; 
"  Yes,  he  is  back,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  thought  he'd  never 

come  ; 
Yet  now  when  all  these  years  are  past  since  first  he  left  his 

home, 

"  It  seems  as  if  'twas  yesterday  on  which  I  bade  him  go. 
He  never  would  have  gone  away  if  I  had  borne  his  '  No.' 


428  DOUGLAS  B.    W.  SLA  DEN, 

And  yet  eleven  years  have  flown  : — I   did  not  hear  him 

come, 
And  went  to  read  his  note  alone  unvexed  by  gossip's  hum. 


"  I  wonder  if  I  laughed  or  cried,  my  eyes  were  full  of  tears, 
To  find  my  lover  by  my  side  and  past  the  lonely  years  : 
He  took  my  hands,  we  dared  not  speak  for  full  a  minute's 

space ; 
I  could  not  be  the  first  to  break  the  silence  of  the  place. 


"  Charlie  is  altered  :  he  was  once  a  blast — little  more — 
Who  thought  it  fine  to  be  a  dunce,  and  everything  a  bore  ; 
Who  wore  the  closest-fitting  coats  of  any  in  'The  Row,' 
And  patent-leather  button'd  boots — a  kind  of  Bond-street 
beau; 


"  Yet  capable  of  better  things  when  out  of  Fashion's  swim. 
Or  I,  who  scorn  mere  tailorlings,  should  not  have  borne  with 

him  : 
But  Charlie's  heart  was  of  good  stuff,  and  of   the  proper 

grit; 
Men  always  found  it  true  enough  when  they  had  tested  it. 


''  He  is  much  altered  ; — when  I  saw  his  dignified  dark  face, 
I  knew  that  changes  had   come  o'er  his   life  in   that  wild 

place  : 
I  read  the  story  in  his  eyes,  I  heard  it  in  his  voice. 
The  glad  news  that  she  ought  to  prize,  the  lady  of  his 

choice. 


DOUGLAS  B.    IV.  SLADEN.  429 

"  He  must  be  more  than  dull  of  soul  who  in  the  open  West 
Sees  leagues  on  leagues  of  prairie  roll,  and  is  not  soul  im- 

]:)ressed ; 
AVho  knows  that  he  may  hold  for  his  as  far  as  he  can  see 
Into  the  untamed  wilderness  from  top  of  highest  tree  ; 


"Who  feels  that  he  is  all  alone,  without  a  white  man  near 
To  share  or  to  dispute  his  throne  o'er  forest,  plain,   and 

mere ; 
With  nought  but  Nature  to  behold,  no  confidante  but  her  : 
He  must  be  of  the  baser  mould  or  feel  his  spirit  stir. 

"  rd  rather  marry  him  than  Dick,  though  Dick  is  an  '  M.P.,' 
Lord  of  the  manor  of  High  Wick,  a  'D.L.'  and  'P.C 
'  Right  Hon.'  before  your  name,  I  know,  is  coveted  by  all, 
And  one  needs  courage  to  forego  a  gabled  Tudor  hall. 


"But  then  I  wish  Dick  would  not  seem  so  like  a  well-fed  dog, 
And  on  his  life's  unruffled  stream  float  so  much  like  a  log  ; 
The   world  has  been  so  good  to  him  that  he  has  never 

known 
How  hard  it  sometimes  is  to  swim  when  shipwrecked  and 

alone. 


"  Now  Charlie's  very  different,  he's  seen  the  real  world, 
And  where  no  white  man  ever  went  his  lonely  flag  unfurled ; 
He  went  to  slave  and  stay  and  save,  and  squander  nought 

but  youth  ; 
And  when  I  said  that  he  was  brave   I  knew  but  half  the 

truth ; 


430  DOUGLAS  B.    W.  SLADEN. 

"For  there  in  intermittent  strife,  witli  hostile  'natives'  waged, 
He  spent  the  early  noon  of  hfe  in  hum-drum  toil  engaged ; 
Or  galloping  the  livelong  day  under  a  Queensland  sun, 
To  head  the  bullocks  gone  astray  or  stolen  off  the  run, 

"  He's  handsomer,  I  think,  to-day,  although  he  is  so  brown, 
And  though  his  hair  is  tinged  with  grey,  and  thin  upon  his 

crown, 
Than  in  the  days  when  he  was  knov/n  at  '  White's '  as  Cupid 

Forte, 
And  in  good  looks  could  hold  his  own  with  any  man  at 

Court. 

"  Well,  he  has  come  and  asked  again  that  which  he  came  to 

ask 
The  night  before  he  crossed  the  main  upon  his  uphill  task ; 
I  answered  as  I  answered  then,  but  with  a  lighter  heart ; — ■ 
Who  knew  if  we  should  meet  again  the  day  we  had  to 

part  ?  " 

IV. 

"  'Neath  a  verandah  in  Toorak  I  sit  this  summer  morn, 
While  from  the  garden  at  the  back,  upon  the  breezes  borne. 
There  floats  a  subtle,  faint  perfume  of  oleander  bow'rs. 
And  broad  magnolias  in  bloom,  and  opening  orange  flow'rs. 

"A  lady  picking  flowers  I  see  draw  near  with  footsteps  light, 
And  when  she  stoops  she  shows  to  me  a  slipper  slim  and 

bright, 
An  ankle  stockinged  in  black  silk,  and  rounded  as  a  palm  ; — 
Her  dress  is  of  the  hue  of  milk,  and  making  of  Madame. 


.DOUGLAS  B.    W.  SLA  DEN.  431 

"  I  wonder  is  that  garden  hat  intended  to  conceal 
All  but  that  heavy  auburn  plait,  or  merely  to  reveal 
Enough  to  make  one  long  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  what  is 

there, 
To  see  if  eye  and  feature  match  the  glory  of  the  hair  ? 


"  That  is  my  Nellie — she  is  here  and  Mrs.  Cupid  Forte  ; 
We  came  to  Melbourne  late  last  year ;  I  hate  to  be  the 

sijort 
Of  snow,  and  sleet,  and  slush,  and  rain,  and  yellow  London 

fogs  : 
An  English  winter,  I  maintain,  is  only  fit  for  frogs. 


"The  night  when  first  again  we  met — alone,  by  some  good 

luck — 
I  asked  if  she  repented  yet  tlie  bargain  we  had  struck? 
She  answered  that  she  was  too  old,  that  what  {qw  charms 

she'd  had 
Had  faded  in  the  years  that  rolled  since  we  were  girl  and 

lad. 


"  And  all  tlie  while  she  was  as  fiiir  as  ever  she  had  been  ; 
Years  had  not  triumphed  to  impair  the  beauties  of  eighteen  ; 
The  same  slight  figure  as  of  yore,  the  same  elastic  gait 
I  prized  in  her  ten  years  before,  were  hers  at  twenty-eight. 


"And  had  her  girlish  loveliness  lost  aught  of  its  old  grace. 
And  had  there  been  one  shade  the  less  of  esprit  in  her  face, 
I  had  no  calling  to  upbraid,  and  tell  the  bitter  truth. 
For  whom  she  let  her  beauty  fade  and  sacrificed  her  youth. 


432  DOUGLAS  B.   W.  SLA  DEN. 

"  Look  at  her  as  she  stoops  to  pull  that  rosebud  off  its  briar; 
Do  you  not  think  her  beautiful  as  lover  could  desire  ? 
Heard  you  that  laughter  light  and  sweet,  that  little  snatch 

she  sung  ? 
Are  they  the  tinkling  counterfeit  of  one  no  longer  young  ? 

"  Here  'neath  the  clear  Australian  sky  I  lead  the  life  of  kings, 

'Mid  everything  that  tempts  the  eye  or  soothes  the  suffer- 
ings,— 

Wealth,  and  a  woman  kind  and  fair,  fine  horses  and  fine 
trees, 

Children,  choice  fruits  and  flowers  rare,  and  hetilth  and  hope 
and  ease." 


DOUGLAS  B.   IF,  SLADEN.  433 


THE  ORANGE  TREE. 

Is  there  tree  to  match  with  thee, 
Flower-foisoned  orange-tree, 
Gleaming  with  the  snowy  splendour 
Of  thy  blossom-bells,  which  render 
Such  an  incense  offering 
As  her  priests  might  never  bring 
In  the  shrines  of  ancient  Hellas 
To  the  altars  of  Queen  Pallas  ? 

Is  there  tree  to  match  with  thee. 
Orange-laden  orange  tree, 
With  thy  golden  harvest  cleaving 
The  green  shimmer  of  thy  leaving, 
Leaving  such  as  Daphne  took 
When  she  fled  the  amorous  look 
Of  the  summer-God  Apollo 
In  the  famed  Thessalian  hollow  ? 

Verily,  O  Orange  tree, 
Tree  is  none  to  match  with  thee. 
Leaved  in  chill  and  sultry  weather. 
Hung  with  flowers  and  fruit  together, 
Well-proportioned,  smooth  of  bole, 
Doubly  perfect  as  a  whole. 
And  with  trunk,  leaf,  fruit  and  flower, 
Each  most  perfect  of  its  hour. 
29 


434  DOUGLAS  B.    W.  SLADEN. 

But  it  once  was  mine  to  see 
Maiden  meet  to  match  with  thee, 
With  the  pure  heart  in  her  bosom 
Sweet  as  is  thine  open  blossom, 
With  her  mien  and  household  ways 
Smooth  as  are  thy  leaves,  her  days 
Well-proportioned  and  fruit  laden 
As  thy  branches — a  fair  maiden. 

Listen,  too,  O  Orange  tree. 
She,  whom  I  would  match  with  thee 
For  the  graces  to  her  given 
'Neath  a  soft  blue  southern  heaven 
As  thou  wast,  was  bom  to  cheer 
All  men  who  should  look  on  her ; 
And  like  thee,  God  did  not  stint  her 
With  a  fruitless,  leafless  winter. 

This  is  why,  O  Orange  tree, 

I  would  match  this  maid  with  thee, 

When  her  mind  fruits  not,  it  flowers, 

And  in  sombre  winter  hours, 

When  to  fruit  or  flower  loth 

All  things  are,  it  teems  with  both. 

Shady,  fragrant,  niuture-giving 

When  they  show  scant  signs  of  living. 


DOUGLAS  B.    IF.  SLADEN.  435 


TO  A  FAIR  AUSTRALIAN. 

I   WONDER  what  home  folks  would   think,   who   saw    you 

sitting  there 
In  that  delightful  maze  of  pink  by  French  costumiere, 
Toying  a  slender  foot,  size  two,  in  broidered  silk  encased, 
Half  out,  half  in,  the  last  court  shoe  that  took  Parisian 

taste. 

The  moment  they  shot  eyes  at  you  they'd  note  the  union 

rare, 
Complexion  of  the  warmer  hue  with   crown  of  pale  gold 

hair ; — 
''i'was  this  Italian  masters  loved  on  canvas  to  pourtray, 
And  some  such  witchery  which  moved  the  king  Cophetua. 

AVhile  the  refinement  of  your  face  and    the  unconscious 

knack, 
The  careless,  captivating  grace  with  which  you're  leaning 

back, 
Could  not  be  truer,  if  you  were  the  daughter  of  a  peer. 
Or  long-descended  commoner  in  the  same  social  sphere. 

There's  not  a  fairer  in  Mayfair  or  better  bred  and  drest. 
In  all  the  garland  gathered  there  from  England's  loveliest. 
You  look  so  dainty,  so  complete,  so  far  from  common  folk. 
As  if  you'd  never  crossed  the  street  without  a  Raleigh  =; 
cloak. 


436  DOUGLAS  B.    W.  SLADEN. 

And  yet  I've  seen  you — often  too — upon  half-broken  horse, 
Press   hard   an   old   man   kangaroo  o'er  fence  and  water 

course, 
Gallop  wild-fire  'twixt  low-branch'd  trees,  'mid  burrow,  and 

ant  heap, 
And  pull  the  colt  up  from  his  knees,  when  stumbling  from  a 

leap. 

And   if   they  knew  the   simple   things  with  which  you're 

gratified. 
And  saw  your  hearty  welcomings  and  freedom  from  false 

pride, 
They'd   never    dream    that  you  command  all   money   can 

acquire, 
And  occupy  a  block  of  land  as  large  as  Lincolnshire. 

I  wish  I'd  Millais'  art  to  trace  you  as  you're  sitting  there, 
"With  your  bright  summer-tinted  face  and  golden  crown  of 

hair, — 
To  catch  the  sweet  simplicity  and  gallant  confidence, 
That  mingle  in  your  frank  blue  eye  and  augur  innocence. 

Innocence  need  not  be  uncouth,  and  Nature's  not  ill-drest» 
Nor  is  it  any  crime  for  youth  to  try  and  look  her  best ; 
And  all  delight  when  wealth  and  grace  accomplished  and 

ornate. 
Seek  not  with  coldness  to  efface  the  pleasure  they  create. 


DOUGLAS  B.   W.  SLADEN  437 


THE  TWO  BIRTHDAYS. 


My  birthday  has  come  round  again — the  sun  is  heaven 

high, 
As  suns  in  Februarj'  are  in  our  Australian  sky ; 
The  north-wind  lays  the  waves  to  sleep  upon  Port  Philip's 

breast, 
And  Nature,  wearied  with  the  heat,  apes  the  uneasy  rest 
That  sick  folk  have — too  tired  to  move,  yet  not  with  slumber 

blest. 


It  was  not  thus  five  years  ago  to  man's  estate  I  came, 

The  scene,  the  seasons,  and  the  sights,  the  sounds  were  not 

the  same, 
For  crisp  against  the  frosty  sky  stood  out  the  rugged  stones 
Of   Oxford's   gray  old   colleges  and  shrines  of  founders' 

bones, 
While  half  a  hundred  towers  swung  sweet  chimes  of  ancient 

tones. 


This  morning  at  the  pitch  of  noon,  as  I  was  leaning  back 
On  a  cane  lounge  some  trader  bought  while  lying  at  Cuttack, 
The  glare  and  heat  that  filtered  through  the  greenness  of 

the  blind 
Laid  a  soft  soporific  spell  of  languor  on  my  mind, 
And  nod  by  nod,  against  my  will,  to  slumber  I  declined. 


43S  DOUGLAS  B.    W.  SLADEN. 

Forthwith   before    my  eyes  were   drawn  vistas  of   Oxford 

days, 
My  panelled  room,  with  ceiling  low  and  cushioned  window- 
bays, 
The  great  hall  with  its  ancient  glass  and  giant  fireplaces, 
And  wainscot  walls  with  portraits  hung  of  notabilities. 
Who  had  their  share  of  glory  in  the  dead  old  centuries. 


And  then  the  arching  limewalk,  with  its  summer  coat  of 

green. 
And  the  broad  lawns  of  levelled  turf,  with  gravelled  walks 

between. 
'Twas  'mid  the  limes  one  day  in  June  that  Rosy  first  I  met, 
Dressed  in  a  wilderness  of  lace  and  creamy  sarcenet. 
And  with  a  saucy  Gainsborough  on  her  bright  tresses  set. 


Sweet  Rosy,  she  had  eyes  that  danced  to  match  her  fitful 

moods, 
Now  they  shot  broadsides  from  their  ports,  now  swam  with 

swelling  floods, 
Now   laughed,  now  sympathized — she'd   change   a   dozen 

times  a  day, 
And  every  change  was  chronicled  in  some  mercurial  way, 
By  the  swift  orbs  that  stood  alert,  as  the  red  stag  at  bay. 

Rosy  and  I  had  many  a  tiff,  sped  many  hours  together 
In  that  delightful  avenue,  in  June  and  joyous  weather ; 
Now  we  were  friends,  and  hovering  most  perilously  near 
To  that  sweet  state  when  clasped  hands  cling,  and  mothers 

look  severe, 
Proportionately  as  one  has  or  hasn't  mu(  h  ;i  year. 


DOUGLAS  B.    W.  SLADEN.  439 

Now  we  were  foes  at  daggers  drawn,  and  Rosy's  eyes  flashed 

ire — 
A  grim  blue  light,  as  w'hen  Yule  folk  fling  salt  upon  the 

fire, — 
The  while  she  fingered  savagely  the  coil  of  gleaming  hair. 
That  lay  against  her  slender  neck  as  beautifully  fair 
As  were  the  locks,  in  story  famed,  of  Arthur's  Guinevere. 

It  was  a  dream :  my  studious  feet  tread  Oxford  stones  no 

more ; 
This  many  a  day  I've  stood  upon  a  far-off  southern  shore, 
Where  frosts  in  June  strike  down  the  leaves  from  off  the 

yellowing  ^  trees, 
And  February  reigns  in  blue  o'er  all  the  heavens  and  seas, 
And   breathes   the  North  a  burning  breath,  the  South  a 

cooling  breeze. 

Here  daily  ladies  meet  my  gaze  fairer  than  Rosy  far, 

And  full  of  smiles  as  southern  skies  of  cloudless  mornings 

are — 
Ladies  whose  free  and  daring  life  has  bred  a  free  brave 

grace. 
Such  as  our  ancestresses  had — blue-eyed  and  fair  of  face. 
Ere  yet  our  Viking  sires  had  left  the  cradle  of  our  race. 

Yet,  somehow,  none  of  them  can  claim  the  empire  over  me 
That  Rosy  with  her  pouts  and  frowns  wielded  so  royally  : 
A  spring  has  dried  up  in  my  heart— the  sun  has  left  the 

skies 
That  tinged  with  magic  hues  whate'er  she  set  before  my 

eyes. 
And  since  the  old  tune  died  away  I  cannot  harmonize. 

'  Australian  trees  are  evergreen,  but  all  great  Australian  towns  are 
full  of  imported  deciduous  trees. 


440  DOUGLAS  B.    W.  SLADEA^ 


ADVANCE,  AUSTRALIA  ! 

(Written  when  the  Australians  volunteered  for  the  Soudan.) 

I. 

A  SOUND  from  the  shimmering  towns 

On  Australia's  strand  ! 
A  sound  from  the  sheep-studded  downs 

In  the  heart  of  the  land  ! 
'Tis  a  sound  they  have  heard  not  before, — ■ 
'Tis  the  voice  of  the  Spirit  of  War. 

To  hardship  and  peril  inured 

Is  the  bush-pioneer, 
Who  thirst  at  its  worst  hath  endured. 

And  who  dreads  not  the  spear 
Of  the  native,  that  lurks  in  the  pass. 
Or  the  fang  of  the  snake  in  the  grass. 

Enamoured  of  pleasure  and  ease 

Is  the  dweller  in  town. 
Of  sports  in  the  sun  and  the  breeze 

Till  the  darkness  comes  down, 
Of  dances  and  dreamy  delight 
In  the  balmier  air  of  the  night. 

But  no  bushman  will  stay  with  his  sheep 

On  the  far  away  downs, 
And  his  pleasure  no  lounger  shall  keep 

In  the  shimmering  towns, 


Douglas  b.  if.  sladen.  441 

Whom  Australia  has  summoned  to  go 
To  the  war  on  her  Motherland's  foe. 

O  land  of  the  vine-hidden  hill 

And  the  wide-growing  wheat, 
Where  only  Peace  lingereth  still 

In  the  track  of  our  feet, 
We  rejoice  that  the  Spirit  of  Pride 
In  caresses  of  Peace  hath  not  died. 

O  land  of  the  gold-garnished  reef 

And  the  sheep-studded  plain, 
Thou  dost  not  forget  us  in  grief 

Or  forsake  us  in  pain  : 
O  land  of  the  wool  and  the  wine 
And  the  corn  and  the  gold,  we  are  thine. 


An  evil  more  deadly  than  war, 

For  the  free  to  deplore, 
Is  loss  of  the  spirit,  which  fills 

\\'ild  morasses  and  hills 
With  that  feeling  of  home  that  made  bold 
The  Scot  and  the  Switzer  of  old. 

The  mother  of  nations  is  she 

And  the  friend  of  the  free ; 
Till  free  men  have  fought  for  one  cause, 

Not  a  legion  of  laws 
Can  an  Athens  or  England  create, 
Though  its  rulers  declare  it  a  state. 


442  DOUGLAS  B.    W.  SLABEN. 

HI. 

Go  forth,  O  our  children,  and  prove 
That  the  peace  of  the  skies. 

Which  shine  on  the  land  of  your  love, 
Hath  not  weakened  your  eyes 

For  the  glare  of  the  lightning  which  plays 

Where  the  soldier  must  gather  his  bays. 


DOUGLAS  n.    li:  SLADEN,  443 

THE  BLUE  MOUNTAINS  OF  NEW  SOUTH  WALES. 

AN    INVITATION. 

O  HASTE  to  the  Mountains,  Blue  Mountains,  Blue  Mountains, 
O  haste  to  the  Mountains — the  spring  is  to-day— 

To  sec  the  crisp  runnels  from  bright  little  fountains 
That  babble  and  gush  and  then  ripple  away. 

O  haste  to  the  Mountains,  to  see  the  spring  flowering, 
The  wattle,  the  tea-tree,  the  hcathbells  in  bloom  : 

To  scent  the  fresh  breezes  that  blow  through  their  bowering 
With  promise  of  health  and  a  breath  of  perfume  ! 

O  haste  to  the  Mountains — gaze  down  on  the  forest 
Spread  out,  a  vast  cushion  of  leaves,  at  your  feet  ! 

Gaze  up  at  the  crags  and  the  peaks — -where  thou  soarest, 
O  eagle,  the  picture  of  awe  to  complete  ! 

O  haste  ye,  and  peer  from  the  brows  of  the  gorges — 
Huge  bays  with  their  sealess  expanses  tree-lined, 

To  learn  how  each  torrent  that  over  them  surges, 
Must  drift  into  spray  at  the  will  of  the  wind  ! 

O  haste  to  the  Mountains,  to  come  on  a  valley 
Deep  down  in  the  breast  of  a  rift  in  the  hill, 

Under  canopy  woven  of  tree  tops,  to  dally 
On  carpet  of  mosses  kept  fresh  with  a  rill  ! 

O  haste  to  the  heralds  of  spring  in  the  Mountains — 
Blue  Mountains  they  are  to  the  eye  far  away — 

If  it  is  but  to  list  to  our  careless  fountains, 
C)  ye  who  are  pent  in  iht'  tily  all  day. 


444  DOVGLAS  B.    IP.  SLADEN. 


THE  FIRST  ZICxZAG. 

ON    THE    RAILWAY    UP    THE    BLUE    MOUNTAINS    OF    NEW 
SOUTH    WALES. 

O  MASTERPIECE  of  gcnius — as  fit 
As  any  piled  at  Rameses'  command, 
To  lead  up  to  the  triumphs  of  God's  hand, 
Where  they  upon  the  heights  in  glory  sit, 
Great  Nature  might  have  piled  thee  to  admit 
To  those  arch-wonders  of  this  wondrous  land, 
Those  sealess  bays  with  forest-waves  and  strand 
Of  ranges,  to  their  heart's  core,  earthquake-split. 
He  was  a  pioneer,  whose  bold  design 

Framed  such  a  stairway  to  the  skies  as  thee, 
Full  rival  of  the  memorable  three. 
Whose  names  as  heroes  of  the  pass  we  shrine  ; 
For  millions  mount  at  ease  the  zagging  line, 
Where  they  could  only  crawl  so  painfully. 


DOUGLAS  B,    IF.  SI  AD  EN,  445 


THE  ^VEN'^^VORTH  1-ALLa. 

A  WALK,  beneath  an  Austral  sun's  clear  blaze, 

Through  poor,  thin  scrub,  'mid  charred  and  ring-barked 
trees 

Almost  too  bare  to  rustle  in  the  breeze, 
Which  over  mountain-tops  untiring  plays  ! 
And  then  there  bursts  upon  mine  awe-chained  gaze 

The  mighty  valley  batlied  in  sleeping  seas 

Of  forest,  with  vast  Caryatides 
Of  rugged  sandstone  frowning  on  its  bays. 

Lo,  too,  a  crystal,  drowsy  heat-mist  spreads, 
Faint-blue  as  distant  reek  from  Highland  cot. 

And  light  airs  meet  me  from  the  valley's  heads, 
Until  I  dream  that  where  I  stand  is  not 

Above  a  mountain-gorge,  but  on  a  bight 

With  capes  like  billows  rolling  into  sight. 


Well  might  the  "  Naturalist  of  Man  "  exclaim 
That  this  was  "  Sydney  harbour  moved  inland," 
When  he  beheld  the  giant  gorge  expand 

With  promontory-cliffs,  and  spurs  to  frame 

The  nestling  coves  in  treey  banks — the  same 
As  our  sea-Eden — given  but  a  strand, 
'Twixt  wind  and  wave,  of  silvery,  shimmering  sand, 

And  deep  blue  water,  where  the  forest  came. 


446  DOUGLAS  B.    IV.  SLAVE N. 

AMiat  stranger  freak  hath  Nature  played  than  this, 
To  mould  two  masterpieces  on  one  plan, 

And  raise  the  one  among  the  fastnesses 
Of  mountains,  scarce  accessible  to  man, 

But  leave  the  other  where  the  sea-breeze  brings 

The  commerce  of  the  nations  on  its  wings  ? 


I  stand  where  once  a  Prince  of  England  stood, 
And  gaze  across  the  chasm  at  the  fall, 
Which  leaps  not  to  the  ground  with  Naiad  brawl, 

But  melts  transmuted  to  a  sisterhood 

Of  earthborn  rain,  that  oft  in  wanton  mood 
Is  swept  out  southwards  by  a  windy  squall 
Betwixt  the  sunshafts  and  the  red-cliff  wall, 

In  every  waft  with  rainbow  tints  imbrued. 
Down  in  the  vale,  a  thousand  feet  below. 

The  gleam  of  brighter  'mid  the  darker  green 
Marks  where  the  giants  of  the  tree-ferns  grow, 
Their  shape  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  ravine. 
How  painful  here  the  littleness  of  men. 
Where  "iants  thus  are  merged  to  human  ken  ! 


DOUGLAS  B.    JF.  SLA  DEN.  447 


GOVETT'S  LEAP. 

Surely  unutterable  majesty, 

Monarch  of  gorges,  is  thine  attribute  ! 

Who  is  he,  whom  thy  vastness  strikes  not  mute  ? 
Who,  when  the  trance  of  summer  is  on  thee, 
But  doubts  if  it  be  not  in  reverie. 

He  sees  thy  cUff-walls  stretching  from  his  foot 

Down  to  the  sleeping  forest  at  thy  root, 
Like  some  enchanted  castle,  haughtily 

Brooding  on  wooded  crags  ? 

Thou  wouldest  make 

A  Cyclopean  amphitheatre, 

A  mystic  and  unfathomable  lake 

To  guard  the  island  of  a  sorcerer, 

A  depth  where  Hope,  the  last  friend,  would  forsake, 

After  his  fall,  a  captive  Lucifer. 


44S  DOUGLAS  B.    JV,  SLAB  EN, 


WINDSOR  (NEW  SOUTH  WALES)  IN  WINTER. 

The  sky  shines  blue,  because  the  Austral  sky- 
Shines  ever,  and  a  broadening  bank  of  sand, 
Hung  twixt  the  river  water  and  the  land 

Like  a  white  baldrick,  gleams  to  mark  how  high 

The  last  flood  reached  ;  but  the  fresh  luxury 

Of  springing  leaves  is  absent,  and,  close-scanned, 
The  undulating  plain  on  either  hand 

Has  naught  but  dull,  dead  maize-stalks  for  the  eye. 
Dull,  dead  !  although,  when  faggoted  in  fires, 

A  fair  blue  reek  will  rise  from  them  : — the  time 
Is  type  of  the  old  town,  that  rears  its  spires 

'Mid  fine  old  mansions  crumbling  from  their  prime 
Not  that  it  has  not  sunny  prospects  yet — 
But  that  its  springtide  has  for  ever  set. 


DOUGLAS  B.    JJ:  SLADEN.  449 


UNDER  THE  WATTLE. 

A    RONDEL. 

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

He  was  her  lover,  too, 

Who  urged  her  so — 
"  Why  should  not  wattle  do 

For  mistletoe  ? " 

A  rose-cheek  rosier  grew  \ 
Rose-lips  breathed  low ; 

"  Since  it  is  here,  and  you, 
I  hardly  know 

Why  wattle  should  not  do." 


30 


450  ■  A.  C.  SMITH. 


THE  BUSHMAN. 

Here  am  I  stretched,  in  careless  ease, 

Outside  my  tent  in  this  strange  old  wood  ; 
The  magpie  chatters  somewhere  in  the  trees, 

And  the  curlew  pipes  in  its  dreariest  mood  ; 
The  passion-flower's  clinging  leaves  interlace, 

As  a  screen  from  the  glare  of  the  setting  sun, 
While  phantoms  of  eld  flit  past  my  face 

With  the  old  year's  hours  dying  out  one  by  one. 

Wattle-tree  perfumes  fall  thick  on  the  sense, 

And  acacia  blossoms  whiten  the  ground, 
While  the  silence  around  me,  growing  intense, 

Would  lap  my  soul  in  a  languor  profound. 
Save  for  the  mosquitoes'  unwelcome  hum. 

Fanning  their  fires  as  the  day  grows  cool, 
Or  "  the  muffled  monotones  "  that  come 

From  a  haunt  of  frogs  in  a  neighbouring  pool. 

The  forest  is  peopled  with  stiff,  stark  forma 

That  stare  me  like  sentries  in  the  face — ■ 
Not  men,  but  grim  weird  trees  the  storms 

Have  thrown  together  devoid  of  grace^ 
And  parasites  chmb  the  bald  smooth  sides, 

Hanging  their  tendrils  from  every  bough, 
Like  my  present  life,  that  scantly  hides 

The  ghosts  of  hope  that  are  ended  now. 


A.  C.  SMITH.  451 

"  Friends  ?  "  I  had  troops  in  my  younger  days — • 

At  least  they  appeared  to  be  so  to  me — 
They  augured  my  future  with  smiles  and  praise, 

Faithful  and  steadfast  they  promised  to  be — 
But  now,  like  a  Nvithercd  leaf  lightly  whirled 

By  the  wind  from  some  far-off  flourishing  stem, 
I  am  blotted  wholly  out  of  their  world, 

My  very  name  is  forgotten  by  them. 


"  Books  ?  "     Ah,  well !     I  am  not  the  dunce 

You  may  think  me  now,  prosaic  and  slow- 
Grave  or  gay,  I  loved  them  once. 

And  they  quickened  my  pulses  long,  long  ago- 
But  useless  now  as  these  ringed  old  gums. 

To  cheer  or  shade  they  have  lost  the  art — • 
As  vinegar  upon  nitre  comes 

The  singer  of  songs  to  a  worn-out  heart. 

I  was  one  time  tempted  to  drown  in  drink 

The  regrets  that  haunted  me  from  the  past — - 
But  the  fiend  was  conquered — I  could  not  link 

Remorse  to  the  shadows  around  me  cast — 
Hardly  dealt  with  I  think  at  times, 

ril  keep  the  innermost  shrine  unstained, 
Hoping  still  that  more  generous  climes 

May  in  God's  universe  yet  be  gained. 


Aims,  that  formed  the  romance  of  youth — 
Hopes,  that  stirred  me  in  earlier  life — 

The  yearnings  for  undiscovered  truth. 
With  which  my  boyish  days  were  rife — ■ 


452  A.  C.  SMI  TIL 

The  thirst  to  rise,  excel,  command — 
Seem  only  now  to  provoke  a  smile, 

As  I  take  my  felling-axe  in  my  hand, 

And  hack  at  the  forest  with  ceaseless  toil. 


Now  for  my  pipe.     The  dying  sun 

Darts  its  last  rays  through  yon  old  she-oak  ; 
And  the  phantoms  vanish,  one  by  one, 

Before  the  ascending  wreaths  of  smoke. 
I  have  done  an  honest  days'  work,  God  knows- 

And  when  I  turn  in,  and  go  to  sleep, 
All  I  ask  for  is  deep  repose 

In  dreamless  slumbers  my  soul  to  keep, 


WALTER  SMITIL  453 


DROUGHT. 

(Wriltcn  in  1S77,  when  the  Drought  v.t.s  at  its  worst,) 

The  days  are  hot,  the  nights  are  warm, 

The  grass  is  parch'd  and  dry, 
And  when  the  clouds  portend  a  storm, 

They  pass  unfruitful  by  ; 
They  threateningly  obscure  the  sky 

Before  the  sun  has  set, 
But  ere  the  night  has  well  begun, 

The  stars  in  heaven  are  met. 

All  calm  and  bright  in  azure  fields, 

No  sign  of  moisture  there, 
Each  passing  day  successive  yields 

A  tribute  to  despair; 
The  earth  is  shrunken  by  the  heat. 

Great  cracks  run  through  the  plain 
Like  open  mouths  agape  with  thirst, 

The  thirst  which  calls  for  rain. 

Dense  clouds  of  smoke  come  sweeping  by 

From  tracts  by  fire  laid  bare, 
And  the  great  sun's  red  fiery  eye 

Sends  forth  a  sickly  glare ; 
Day  follows  day  with  heat  intense, 

And  when  a  storm  sweeps  o'er, 
'Tis  but  a  rush  of  smoke  and  dust, 

Some  rain  spits,  nothing  more. 


454 


WALTER  SMITH. 

In  the  great  stream  beds,  muddy  holes, 

Where  once  was  water  deep, 
Are  filled  with  rotting  carcasses 

Of  cattle  and  of  sheep ; 
Along  the  banks  in  ghastly  groups 

(Full  half  their  number  gone) 
The  starving  stock  all  feebly  crawl, 

Poor  wrecks  of  skin  and  bone. 

Their  ribs  are  bare,  their  hips  project, 

Their  eyes  are  sunk  and  glazed ) 
Their  bones  will  shortly  whiten  on 

The  meadow  where  they  grazed. 
And  down  the  dusty,  grassless  roads, 

Come  travelling  thousands  more. 
To  help  to  swell  the  dismal  wreck, 

'Twas  bad  enough  before. 

Poor  helpless  muttons — ^jaded  beeves, 

That  faintly  tottering  pass ; 
Your  luckless  fellows,  like  the  leaves, 

Are  gone,  but  not  to  grass. 

Where  the  grass  is  not  there  they  lie. 
Too  thin  to  cause  much  smell ; 

Their  sun-dried  hides  where  they  did  die 
Have  marked  their  route  full  well. 

Oh  !  many  men  who,  but  last  year, 
Counted  their  stock  with  pride. 

With  pockets  bare,  through  empty  runs, 
Will  now  be  doomed  to  ride. 


WALTER  SMITH.  455 

O  Demon  Drought !  that  sweeps  away 

The  hard-earned  wealth  of  years. 
Too  late  !  too  late  !  the  rain  has  come  ; 

It  now  seems  nought  but  tears. 

O'er  blighted  hopes,  o'er  herds  destroyed, 

O'er  vacant  hill  and  glen. 
O'er  ruined  hearths  and  households  void, 

And  grey  and  broken  men. 


456  /  BR  UNTO N  STEPHENS. 


THE    MIDNIGHT    AXE. 

The  red  day  sank  as  the  Sergeant  rode 
Through  the  woods  grown  dim  and  brown, 

One  farewell  flush  on  his  carbine  glowed, 
And  the  veil  of  the  dusk  drew  down. 

No  sound  of  life  save  the  hoof-beats  broke 

The  hush  of  the  lonely  place, 
Or  the  short,  sharp  words  that  the  Sergeant  spoke 

^Vhen  his  good  horse  slackened  pace, 

Or  hungrily  caught  at  the  ti-tree  shoots, 

Or  in  tangled  brushwood  tripped, 
Faltered  amidst  disrupted  roots, 

Or  on  porphyry  outcrop  slipped. 

The  woods  closed  in  ;  through  the  vaulted  dark 

No  ray  of  starlight  shone. 
But  still  o'er  the  crashing  litter  of  bark 

Trooper  and  steed  tore  on. 

Night  in  the  bush,  and  the  bearings  lost ; 

But  the  Sergeant  took  no  heed, 
For  fate  that  morn  his  will  had  crossed, 

And  his  wrath  was  hot  indeed. 


/.  BR  UNTO N  STEPHENS.  457 

The  captured  prey  that  his  hands  had  gripped, 

Ere  the  dawn  in  his  lone  bush  lair, 
The  bonds  from  his  pinioned  wrists  had  slipped, 

And  was  gone  he  knew  not  where. 


Therefore  the  wrath  of  Sergeant  Hume 

Burned  fiercely  as  on  he  fared, 
And  whither  he  rode  through  the  perilous  gloom 

He  neither  knew  nor  cared. 


But  still,  as  the  dense  brush  checked  the  pace, 

Would  drive  the  sharp  spurs  in. 
Though  the  pendant  parasites  smote  his  face, 

Or  caught  him  beneath  the  chin. 


The  woodland  dipped,  or  upward  bent, 
But  he  recked  not  of  hollow  or  hill, 

Till  right  on  the  brink  of  a  sheer  descent 
His  trembling  horse  stood  still. 


And  when,  in  despite  of  word  and  oath, 
He  swerved  from  the  darksome  edge, 

The  unconscious  man,  dismounting  loath, 
Set  foot  on  a  yielding  ledge. 

A  sudden  strain  on  a  treacherous  rein, 
And  a  clutch  on  the  empty  air, 

A  cry  in  the  dark,  with  no  car  to  mark 
Its  accents  of  despair. 


458  /  BRUNTON  STEPHENS. 

And  the  slender  stream  in  the  gloom  below, 

That  in  mossy  channel  ran, 
Was  checked  a  space  in  its  feeble  flow, 

By  the  limbs  of  a  senseless  man. 


A  change  had  passed  o'er  the  face  of  night 
When,  waking  as  from  a  dream, 

The  Sergeant  gazed  aghast  on  the  sight 
Of  moonlit  cliff  and  stream. 


From  the  shallow  wherein  his  limbs  had  lain 

He  crawled  to  higher  ground, 
And  numb  of  heart  and  dizzy  of  brain, 

Dreamily  gazed  around. 

From  aisle  to  aisle  of  the  solemn  wood 

A  misty  radiance  spread, 
And,  like  pillars  seen  through  incense,  stood 

The  gaunt  boles  gray  and  red. 

Slow  vapours,  touched  with  a  mystic  sheen. 
Round  the  sombre  branches  curled, 

Or  floated  the  haggard  trunks  between, 
Like  ghosts  in  a  spectral  world. 

No  voice  was  heard  of  beast  or  bird, 

Nor  whirr  of  insect  wing ; 
Nor  crepitant  bark  the  silence  stirred, 

Nor  dead  or  living  thing. 


J.  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  459 

So  still — that  but  for  his  labouring  breath, 

And  the  blood  on  his  head  and  hand, 
He  might  have  deemed  his  swoon  was  death, 

And  this  the  Silent  Land.  , 


Anon,  close  by,  at  the  water's  edge, 

His  helmet  he  espied 
Half-buried  among  the  reedy  sedge, 

And  drew  it  to  his  side. 


And  ev'n  as  he  dipped  it  in  the  brook, 

And  drank  as  from  a  cup, 
Suddenly,  with  affrighted  look. 

The  Sergeant  started  up. 

For  the  sound  of  an  axe,  a  single  stroke, 
Through  the  ghostly  woods  rang  clear ; 

And  a  cold  sweat  on  his  forehead  broke, 
And  he  shook  in  deadly  fear. 


Why  should  the  sound  that  on  lonely  tracks 
Had  gladdened  him  many  a  day — 

Why  should  the  ring  of  the  friendly  axc 
Bring  boding  and  dismay  ? 


And  why  should  his  steed  down  the  slope  hard  by. 

With  fierce  and  frantic  stride — 
Why  should  his  steed  with  unearthly  cry 

Rush  trembling  to  his  side  ? 


4  Go  /  B  RUN  TON  STEPHENS. 

Strange,  too — and  the  Sergeant  marked  it  well. 
Nor  doubted  he  marked  aright — 

When  the  thunder  of  hoofs  on  the  silence  fell, 
And  the  cry  rang  through  the  night. 


A  thousand  answering  echoes  woke, 
Reverberant  far  and  wide  ; 

But  to  the  unseen  woodman's  stroke 
No  echoes  had  replied. 

And  while  he  questioned  with  his  fear. 
And  summoned  his  pride  to  aid, 

A  second  stroke  fell,  sharp  and  clear, 
Nor  echo  answer  made. 


A  third  stroke,  and  aloud  he  cried, 

As  one  who  hails  his  kind ; 
But  nought  save  his  own  voice  multiplied 

His  straining  sense  divined. 


He  bound  the  ends  of  his  broken  rein. 
He  recked  not  his  carbine  gone. 

He  mounted  his  steed  with  a  groan  of  pain, 
And  tow'rd  the  Sound  spurred  on. 


For  now  the  blows  fell  thick  and  fast, 
And  he  noted  with  added  dread, 

That  ever  as  woods  on  woods  flew  pastj 
The  sound  moved  on  ahead. 


/.  BRUNTOmY  STEPHJliVS.  461 

But  his  courage  rose  with  the  quickening  pace, 

And  mocked  his  boding  gloom  ! 
For  fear  had  no  abiding-place 

In  the  soul  of  Sergeant  Hume. 


III. 

Where  the  woods  thinned  out,  and  the  sparser  trees 

Their  separate  shadows  cast, 
Waxing  fainter  by  slow  degrees, 

The  sounds  died  out  at  last. 

The  Sergeant  paused  and  peered  about 

O'er  all  the  stirless  scene. 
Half  in  amaze,  and  half  in  doubt 

If  such  a  thing  had  been. 


Nor  vainly  in  search  of  clue  or  guide 
From  trunk  to  trunk  he  gazed. 

For,  lo  !  the  giant  stem  at  his  side 
By  the  hand  of  man  was  blazed. 

And  again  and  again  he  found  the  sign, 

Till,  after  a  weary  way. 
Before  him,  asleep  in  the  calm  moonshine, 

A  little  clearing  lay  j 

And  in  it  a  red  slab  tent  that  glowed 

As  'twere  of  jasper  made ; 
The  Sergeant  into  the  clearing  rode 

And  passed  through  the  rude  stockade. 


462  J.  BRUNTON  STEPHENS. 

He  bound  his  horse  to  the  fence,  and  soon 

He  stood  by  the  open  door. 
With  palhd  face  upturned  to  the  moon 

A  man  slept  on  the  floor. 


Little  he  thought  to  have  found  him  there, 
By  such  strange  portent  led — 

His  sister's  son  whom  for  many  a  year 
His  own  had  mourned  as  dead, 


Who  had  chosen  the  sundering  seas  to  roam, 

After  a  youth  misspent, 
And  to  those  who  wept  in  his  far-off  home 

Token  nor  word  had  sent. 


The  face  looked  grim  and  haggard  and  old, 
Yet  not  from  the  touch  of  time  ; — 

Too  well  the  Sergeant  knew  the  mould, 
The  lineaments  of  crime. 


And  "  Better,"  he  said,  "  she  should  mourn  him  dead 

Than  know  him  changed  to  this  ! " 
Yet  he  kneeled,  and  touched  the  slumbering  head 

For  her,  with  a  gentle  kiss. 


Whereat  the  eyelids  parted  wide, 

But  no  lights  in  the  dull  eye  gleamed  j 

The  man  turned  slowly  on  his  side 
And  muttered  as  one  who  dreamed. 


/  B RUN  TON  STEPHENS.  463 

He  stared  at  the  Sergeant  as  in  a  trance, 

And  the  Hstener's  blood  ran  cold 
As  he  pierced  the  broken  utterance 

That  a  tale  of  horror  told. 


For  he  heard  him  rave  of  murder  done, 

Of  an  axe  and  a  hollow  tree. 
And  "  Oh,  God  !  "  he  cried,  "  must  my  sister's  son 

Be  led  to  his  death  by  me  ?  " 

He  seized  him  roughly  by  the  arm, 

He  called  him  by  his  name ; 
The  man  leaped  up  in  mazed  alarm, 

And  terror  shook  his  frame. 

Then  a  sudden  knife  flashed  out  from  his  hip, 

And  they  closed  in  struggle  wild  ; 
But  soon  in  the  Sergeant's  iron  grip 

The  man  was  as  a  child. 


IV. 

A  wind  had  arisen  that  shook  the  hut, 
The  moonbeams  dimmed  apace, 

The  lamp  was  lit,  the  door  was  shut, 
And  the  twain  sat  face  to  face. 


As  question  put,  and  answer  flung, 
A  weary  space  had  passed  ; 

But  the  secret  of  the  soul  was  wrung 
From  the  stubborn  lips  at  last. 


464  /  BRUNTON  STEPHENS. 

As  one  with  resistless  doom  obeyed 

The  younger  told  his  sin, 
Nor  any  prayer  for  mercy  made, 

Nor  appeal  to  the  bond  of  kin. 


"  The  quarrel  ?     Oh,  'twas  an  idle  thing— 

Too  idle  almost  to  name  ; 
He  turned  up  an  ace  and  killed  my  king, 

And  I  lost  the  cursed  game. 

"  And  he  triumphed  and  jeered,  and  his  stinging  chaff, 

By  heaven,  how  it  maddened  me  then  ! 
And  he  left  me  there  with  a  scornful  laugh, 

But  he  never  laughed  again. 


"  We  had  long  been  mates  through  good  and  ill, 

Together  we  owned  this  land; 
But  his  was  ever  the  stronger  will, 

And  his  the  stronger  hand. 

"  But  I  would  be  done  with  his  lordly  airs  \ 

I  was  weary  of  them  and  him ; 
So  I  stole  upon  him  unawares 

In  the  forest  lone  and  dim. 


*'  The  ring  of  his  aJce  had  drowned  my  tread  ) 

But  a  rod  from  me  he  stood, 
When  he  paused  to  fix  the  iron  head 

That  had  loosened  as  he  hewed. 


J.  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  46; 

"  Then  I  too  made  a  sudden  halt, 

And  watched  him  as  he  turned 
To  a  charred  stump,  in  whose  gaping  vault 

A  fire  of  brandies  burned. 


"  He  had  left  the  axe  by  the  half-hewn  bole, 

As  whistling  he  turned  away ; 
From  my  covert  with  weary  foot  I  stole, 

And  caught  it  where  it  lay. 


"  He  stooped  ;  he  stirred  the  fire  to  flame ; 

I  could  feel  its  scorching  breath, 
As  behind  him  with  the  axe  I  came, 

And  struck  the  stroke  of  death. 


"Dead  at  a  blow,  without  a  groan, 
The  sapling  still  in  his  hands, 

The  man  fell  forward  like  a  stone 
Amid  the  burning  brands. 


"  The  stark  limbs  lay  without,  but  those 
I  thrust  in  the  fiery  tomb " 

With  shuddering  groan  the  Sergeant  rose. 
And  paced  the  narrow  room  ; 


And  cried  aloud,  "Oh,  task  of  hell 
That  /should  his  captor  be  ! 

My  God  !  if  it  be  possible, 
Let  this  cup  pass  from  me  ! " 


466  /.  BRUNTON  STEPHENS. 

The  spent  life  flickered  and  died ;  and,  lo, 

The  dawn  about  them  lay ; 
And  each  face  a  ghastlier  shade  of  woe 

Took  on  in  the  dismal  gray. 


Around  the  hut  the  changeful  gale 
Seemed  now  to  sob  and  moan, 

And  mingled  with  the  doleful  tale 
A  dreary  undertone. 


*'  I  piled  dry  wood  in  the  hollow  trunk, 

The  unsparing  shrift  went  on ; 
And  watched  till  the  tedious  corse  had  shrunk 

To  ashes,  and  was  gone. 


'•■  That  night  I  knew  my  soul  was  dead  ; 

For  neither  joy  nor  grief 
The  numbness  stirred  of  heart  and  head, 

Nor  tears  came  for  relief. 


"  And  when  morning  dawned,  with  no  surprise 

I  awoke  to  my  solitude. 
Nor  blood-clouds  flared  before  mine  eyes, 

As  men  had  writ  they  should  ; 


"  Nor  fancy  feigned  dumb  things  would  prate 

Of  what  no  man  could  prove — 
Only  a  heavy,  heavyweight, 

That  would  not,  would  not  move. 


/  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  467 

"  Only  a  burden  ever  the  same 

Asleep  or  awake  I  bore, 
A  dead  soul  in  a  living  frame 

That  would  quicken  never  more. 


"  Three  nights  had  passed  since  the  deed  was  done, 

And  all  was  calm  and  still 
(You'll  say  'tis  a  lie ;  I  say  'tis  none  j 

I'll  swear  to  it,  if  you  will) — 


"  Three  nights — and,  mark  me,  that  very  day 

I  had  stood  by  the  ashy  cave. 
And  the  topling  shell  had  snapped,  and  lay 

Like  a  Hd  on  my  comrade's  grave. 


"And  yet,  I  tell  you,  the  man  lived  on 
Though  the  ashes  o'er  and  o'er 

I  had  sifted  till  every  trace  was  gone 
Of  what  he  was,  or  wore. 


"  Three  nights  had  passed  ;  in  a  quiet  unstirred 

By  wind  or  living  thing, 
As  I  lay  upon  my  bed  I  heard 

His  axe  in  the  timber  ring  ! 


"  He  hewed ;  he  paused  ;  he  hewed  again  \ 

Each  stroke  was  like  a  knell  ! 
And  I  heard  the  fibres  wrench,  and  then 

Tlic  crash  of  a  tree  as  it  fell. 


4''.8  /  BRUNTON  STEPHENS. 

"And  I  fled;  a  hundred  leagues  I  fled  — 
In  the  crowded  haunts  of  town 

I  would  hide  me  from  the  irksome  dea  J, 
And  would  crush  remembrance  down. 


"  But  in  all  that  life  and  ceaseless  stir, 

Nor  part  nor  lot  I  found  ; 
For  men  to  me  as  shadows  were, 

And  their  speech  had  a  far-oi^*  sound. 


"For  I  had  lost  the  touch  of  souls,^ 
Men's  lives  and  mine  betwixt. 

Wide  as  the  space  that  parts  the  poles 
There  was  a  great  gulf  fixed. 


"Sorrow  and  joy  to  me  but  seemed 
As  one  from  an  alien  sphere, 

I  lived  and  saw,  or  as  one  who  dreamed, - 
I  was  lonelier  there  than  here. 


"  To  the  sense  of  all  life's  daily  round 

I  had  lost  the  living  key. 
And  I  grew  to  long  for  the  only  sound 

That  had  meanino;  on  earth  for  me. 


"Again  o'er  the  weary  forest-tracks 

My  burden  hither  I  bore ; 
And  I  lieard  the  measured  ring  of  the  aSe 

In  the  midnight  as  before. 


J.  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  469 

"  And  as  ever  he  hewed  the  long  nights  through, 

Nor  harmed  me  in  my  bed, 
A  feeble  sense  within  me  grew 

Of  friendship  with  the  dead. 


"  And,  believe  me,  I  could  have  lived,  lived  long, 

With  this  poor  stay  of  mine, 
But  the  faithless  dead  has  done  me  wrong  ! 

Three  nights  and  never  a  sign, 


"  Though  I've  thrice  outwatched  the  stars  I — Last  night 

Seeing  he  came  no  more, 
Despair  anew  was  whispering  flight, 

When  I  sank  ar>  dead  on  the  floor. 


'•'  Take  me  away  from  this  cursed  abode  ! 

Not  a  jot  for  my  life  I  care  ; 
He  has  left  me  alone,  and  my  weary  load 

Is  greater  than  I  can  bear. 


"  But  I  say,  if  my  mate  still  walked  about 
I  had  never  told  you  the  tale  ! " 

As  he  spoke  the  sound  of  an  axe  rang  out. 
In  a  lull  of  the  fitful  gale. 


lie  sprang  to  his  feet;  a  cunning  smile 

O'er  all  his  visage  spread  ; 
"  Why,  man,  I  lied  to  you  all  the  while  ! 

It  was  all  a  lie  !  "  he  said. 


470  /  B R UNTO N  STEPHENS. 

"  Leave  go  !  " — for  the  trooper  dragged  him  out 

Under  the  angry  sky. 
"  The  man's  aUve  ! — you  can  hear  him  shout : — 

Would  you  hang  me  for  a  He  ?  .  .  . 


"  Not  that  way  !     No,  not  that  !  "  he  hissed, 

And  shook  in  all  his  frame ; 
But  the  Serjeant  drew  him  by  the  wrist 

To  whence  the  sounds  yet  came. 


Moaning  ever,  "  What  have  I  done, 
That  I  should  his  captor  be  ? 

Oh,  God  !  to  think  that  my  sister's  son 
Should  be  led  to  his  death  by  me  !  " 


The  tempest  swelled ;  and,  caught  by  the  blast. 

In  wanton  revel  of  wrath, 
Tumultuous  boughs  flew  whirling  past. 

Or  thundered  across  their  path. 


Yet  ever  above  the  roar  of  the  storm. 

Louder  and  louder  yet 
The  axe-strokes  rang,  but  no  human  form 

Their  'wildered  vision  met. 


When  they  reached  the  spot  whcreacharrcd  stump  prone 

On  an  ashy  hollow  lay. 
The  doomed  man  writhed  with  piteous  moan, 

i\nd  well-nigh  swooned  away. 


/  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  471 

When  tliey  came  to  a  tree  on  whose  gaping  trunk 

Some  woodman's  axe  had  pHed, 
The  struggUng  captive  backward  shrunk, 

And  broke  from  the  trooper's  side. 


"  To  left !     For  your  Hfe  !     To  left,  I  say  ! " 
Was  the  Sergeant's  warning  call ; 

For  he  saw  the  tree  in  the  tempest  sway, 
He  marked  the  threatening  fall. 


IJut  the  vengeful  wreck  its  victim  found  j 

It  seized  him  as  he  fled ; 
Between  one  giant  limb  and  the  ground, 

The  man  lay  crushed  and  dead. 


The  Sergeant  gazed  on  the  corse  aghast, 
Yet  he  cried  as  he  bent  the  knee, 

"  Father,  I  thank  Thee  that  Thou  hast 
Let  this  cup  pass  from  me  !  " 


473  /  BR  UNTON  STEPHENS, 


TO  A  BLACK  GIN. 

Daughter  of  Eve,  draw  near— I  would  behold  thee. 
Good  Heavens  !     Could  ever  arm  of  man  enfold  thee  ? 
Did  the  same  Nature  that  made  Phryne  mould  thee  ? 

Come  thou  to  leeward  ;  for  thy  balmy  presence 
Savoureth  not  a  whit  oi  miUe-fleuresccnce ; 
My  nose  is  no  insentient  excrescence. 

Thou  art  not  beautiful,  I  tell  thee  plainly, 

Oh  !  thou  ungainliest  of  things  ungainly, 

Who  thinks  thee  less  than  hideous  doats  insanely. 

Most  uncesthetical  of  things  terrestrial, 
Hadst  thou  indeed  an  origin  celestial  ?— 
Thy  lineaments  are  positively  bestial ! 

Yet  thou  my  sister  art,  the  clergy  tell  me  ; 
Though,  truth  to  state,  thy  brutish  looks  compel  me 
To  hope  these  parsons  merely  want  to  sell  me. 

A  hundred  times  and  more  I've  heard  and  read  it 
But  if  Saint  Paul  himself  came  down  and  said  it, 
Upon  my  soul  I  would  not  give  it  credit. 

"God's  image  cut  in  ebony,"  says  some  one  : 

'Tis  to  be  hoped  some  day  thou  may'st  become  one ; 

Thy  present  image  is  a  very  rum  one. 


/  BR  UNTON  STEPHENS.  4  7 , 

Thy  "face  the  huinan  Hicc  divine  !  "  .  .  .  O,  Moses  ! 
^Vhatcver  trait  divine  thy  face  discloses, 
Some  vile  Olympian  cross-play  pre-supposes. 

Thy  nose  appeareth  but  a  transverse  section ; 
Thy  mouth  hath  no  particular  direction, — 
A  flabby-rimmed  abyss  of  imperfection. 

Thy  skull  development  mine  eye  displeases  ; 
Thou  wilt  not  suffer  much  from  brain  diseases  ; 
Thy  focial  angle  forty-five  degrees  is. 

The  coarseness  of  thy  tresses  is  distressing, 
With  grease  and  raddle  firmly  coalescing, 
I  cannot  laud  thy  system  of  "top-dressing." 

Thy  dress  is  somewhat  scant  for  proper  feeling ; 
As  is  thy  flesh,  too, — scarce  thy  bones  concealing  ] 
Thy  calves  unquestionably  want  revealing. 

Thy  rugged  skin  is  hideous  with  tattooing, 
And  legible  with  hieroglyphic  wooing — 
Sweet  things  in  art  of  some  fierce  lover's  doing. 

For  thou  some  lover  hast,  I  bet  a  guinea, — 
Some  partner  in  thy  fetid  ignominy, 
The  raison  d'etre  of  this  piccaninny. 

What  must  he  be  whose  eye  thou  hast  delighted? 
His  sense  of  beauty  hopelessly  benighted  ! 
The  canons  of  his  taste  how  badly  sighted  ! 


474  J.  DRUNTON  STEPHENS. 

What  must  his  gauge  be,  if  thy  features  pleased  him  ? 
If  lordship  of  such  limbs  as  thine  appeased  him, 
It  was  not  "  calf  love  "  certainly  that  seized  him. 

iVnd  is  he  amorously  sympathetic  ? 

And  doth  he  kiss  thee  ?  .  .  .  Oh  my  soul  prophetic  ! 

The  very  notion  is  a  strong  emetic  ! 

And  doth  he  smooth  thine  hours  with  oily  talking  ? 

And  take  thee  conjugally  out-a-walking  ? 

And  crown  thy  transports  with  a  tom-a-hawking? 

I  guess  his  love  and  anger  are  combined  so  ; 
His  passions  on  thy  shoulders  are  defined  so  ; 
"  His  passages  of  love  "  are  underlined  so  ; 

Tell  me  thy  name.     What?     Helen?     (Oh,  CEnone, 
That  name  bequeathed  to  one  so  foul  and  bony, 
Avcngeth  well  thy  ruptured  matrimony  !) 

Eve's  daughter  !  with  that  skull  and  that  complexion  ? 

What  principle  of  "  natural  selection  " 

Gave  thee  with  Eve  the  most  remote  connection  ? 

Sister  of  L.  E.  L. ,  of  Mrs.  Stowe,  too  ! 

Of  E.  B.  Browning  !  Harriet  Martineau,  too. 
Do  theologians  know  where  fibbers  go  to  ? 

Of  dear  George  Eliot,  whom  I  worship  daily  ! 
Of  Charlotte  Bronte  !  and  Joanna  Baillie  ! — • 
Methinks  that  theory  is  rather  *' scaly." 


/  B  RUN  TON  STEPHENS.  475 

Thy  primal  parents  came  a  period  later — • 
The  handiwork  of  some  vile  imitator ; 
I  fear  they  had  the  devil's  imprimatur. 

This  in  the  retrospect. — Now,  what's  before  thee  ? 

The  white  man's  heaven,  I  fear,  would  simply  bore  thee  ; 

Ten  minutes  of  doxology  would  floor  thee. 

Thy  paradise  should  be  some  land  of  Goshen, 
"Where  appetite  should  be  thy  sole  devotion, 
And  surfeit  be  the  climax  of  emotion ; — • 

A  land  of  Bunya-bunyas  towering  splendid, — - 
Of  honey-bags  on  every  tree  suspended, — • 
A  Paradise  of  sleep  and  riot  blended  : — 

Of  tons  of  'baccy,  and  tons  more  to  follow, — ■ 
Of  wallaby  as  much  as  thou  couldst  swallow, — 
Of  hollow  trees,  with  'possums  in  the  hollow ; — 

There,  undismayed  by  frost  or  flood,  or  thunder, 
As  joyous  as  the  skies  thou  roamest  under. 
There  should'st  thou  .  .  .  Cooey  !  .  .  Stop  !  she's  off. 
.  .  .  No  wonder. 


476  /  BRUNTON  STEPHENS, 


MY  OTHER  CHINEE  COOK. 

Yes,  I  got  another  Johnny  ;  but  he  was  to  Number  One 
As  a  Satyr  to  Hyperion,  as  a  rushlight  to  the  sun ; 
He  was  lazy,  he  was  cheeky,  he  was  dirty,  he  was  sly, 
But  he  had  a  single  virtue,  and  its  name  was  "  rabbit-pie." 

Now  those  who  say  the  bush  is  dull  are  not  so  far  astray, 
For  the  neutral  tints  of  station  life  are  anything  but  gay  3 
But,  with  all  its  uneventfulncss,  I  solemnly  deny 
That  the  bush  is  unendurable  along  with  rabbit-pie. 

We  had  fixed  one  day  to  sack  him,  and  agreed  to  moot  the 

point, 
When  my  lad  should  bring  our  usual  regale  of  cindered  joint. 
But  instead  of  cindered  joint  we  saw  and  smelt,  my  wife 

and  I, 
Such  a  lovely,  such  a  beautiful,  oh  !  such  a  rabbit-pie  ! 

There  was  quite  a  new  expression  on  his  lemon-coloured 

face. 
And  the  unexpected  odour  won  him  temporary  grace. 
For  we  tacitly  postponed  the  sacking  point  till  by-and-bye, 
And  we  tacitly  said  nothing  save  the  one  word,  "  rabbit-pie." 

I  had  learned  that  pleasant  mystery  should  simply  be 
endured. 

And  forebore  to  ask  of  Johnny  where  the  rabbits  were  pro- 
cured ! 


/.  BR  UNTON  STEPHENS.  4  7  7 

I  had  learned  from  Number  One  to  stand  aloof  from  how 

and  \vh\-, 
And  I  threw  m\-self  upon  the  simple  fact  of  rabbit-pie. 

And  when  the  pie  was  opened,  what  a  picture  did  we  see  ! 
"They  lay  in  beauty  side  by  side,  they  filled  our  home  with 

glee  !  " 
How  excellent,   how   succulent,  back,   neck,   and  leg  and 

thigh; 
What  a  noble  gift  is  manhood  !  what  a  trust  is  rabbit-pie  ! 

For  a  week  the  thing  continued,  rabbit-pie  from  day  to  day; 
Though  where  he  got  the  rabbits  John  would  ne'er  vouch- 
safe to  say ; 
But  we  never  seemed  to  tire  of  them,  and  daily  could  descry 
Subtle  shades  of  new  delight  in  each  successive  rabbit-pie. 

Sunday  came  ;  by  rabbit  reckoning,  the  seventh  day  of  die 

week ; 
We  had  dined,  we  sat  in  silence,  both  our  hearts  (?)  too 

full  to  speak  : 
When  in  walks  Cousin  George,  and,  with  a  sniff,  says  he, 

"  Oh  my  ! 
What  a  savoury  suggestion  !  what  a  smell  of  rabbit-pie  ! " 

"Oh,  why  so  late,  George?"  Bays  my  wife,  "  the  rabbit-pie 

is  gone; 
But  you  rnust  have  one  for  tea,  though.     Ring  the  bell,  my 

dear,  for  John," 
So  I  rang  the  bell  for  John,  to  whom  my  wife  did  signify, 
"  Let  us  have  an  early  tea,  John,  and  another  rabbit-pie." 


478  J.  BRUNTON  STEPHENS. 

But  John  seemed  taken  quite  aback,  and  shook  his  funny 

head, 
And  uttered  words  I  comprehended  no  more  than  the  dead ! 
"Go,  do  as  you  are  bid,"  I  cried,  "we  wait  for  no  reply; 
Go  !  let  us  have  tea  early,  and  another  rabbit-pie  !  " 

Oh,  that  I  had  stopped  his  answer !  but  it  came  out  with  a 

run  : 
"  Last-a  week-a  plenty  puppy  ;  this-a  week-a  puppy  done  !  " 
Just  then  my  wife,  my  love,  my  life,  the  apple  of  mine  eye, 
Was  seized  with  what  seemed  "  mal-de-mer," — "  sick  transit" 

rabbit-pie  ! 

And  George  !  by  George,  he  laughed,  and  then  he  howled 

like  any  bear ! 
The  while  my  wife  contorted  like  a  mad  convulsionaire ; 
And  I — I  rushed  on  Johnny,  and   I   smote  him  hip  and 

thigh, 
And  I  never  saw  him  more,  nor  tasted  more  of  rabbit-pie. 

And  the  childless  mothers  met  me,  as  I  kicked  him  from 

the  door, 
With  loud  maternal  wailings,  and  anathemas  galore  j 
I  must  part  with  pretty  Tiny,  I  must  part  with  little  Fly, 
For  Fm  sure  they  know  the  story  of  the  so-called  "  rabbit- 
pic." 


J.  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  479 


DROUGHT  AND  DOCTRINE. 

Come,  take  the  tenner,  doctor.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  know  the  bill 

says  "  five," 
But  it  ain't  as  if  you'd  merely  kep'  our  little  un  alive ; 
Man,  you  saved  the  mother's  reason  when  you  saved  that 

baby's  life, 
An'  it's  thanks  to  you  I  hav'n't  a  ravin'  idiot  for  a  wife. 
Let  me  tell  you  all  the  story,  an'  if  then  you  think  it  strange 
That  I'd  like  to  fee  you  extry — why,  I'll  take  the  bloomin' 

change. 
If  yer  bill  had  said  a  hundred.  .  .  .  I'm  a  poor  man,  doc, 

an'  yet 
I'd  'a  slaved  till  I  had  squared  it ;  ay,  and  still  been  in  yer  debt. 
Well,  you  see,  the  wife's  got  notions  on  a  heap  o'  things 

that  ain't 
To  be  handled  by  a  man  as  don't  pretend  to  be  a  saint ; 
So  I  minds  "the  cultivation,"  smokes  my  pipe,  an'  make 

no  stir. 
An'  religion,  and  such  p'ints,  I  lays  entirely  on  to  her. 
Now  she  got  it  fixed  within  her  that,  if  children  die  afore 
They've  been  sprinkled  by  the  parson,  they've  no  show  for 

evermore ; 
An'  though  they're  spared  the  pitchforks,  an'  the  brimstun, 

an'  the  smoke, 
They  ain't  allowed  to  mix  up  there  with  other  little  folk. 
So,  when  our  last  began  to  pine,  an'  lost  his  prelty  smile, 
An'  not  a  parson  to  be  had  within  a  hunder  mile — 


48o  /  BRUNTON  STEPHENS. 

(For  though  there  is  a  chapel  down  at  Bluegrass  Creek,  you 

know, 
The  clergy's  there  on  dooty  only  thrice  a  year  or  so) — 
Well,  when  our  yet  unchristened  mite  grew  limp  an'  thin  an' 

pale, 
It  would  'a  cut  you  to  the  heart  to  hear  the  mother  wail 
About  her  "  unregenerate  babe,"  an'  how,  if  it  should  go, 
'Tvvould  have  no  chance  with  them  as  had  their  registers  to 

show. 
Then  awful  quiet  she  grew,  an'  hadn't  spoken  for  a  week. 
When  in  came  brother  Bill  one  day  with  news  from  Blue- 
grass  Creek. 
*'  I  seen,"  says  he,  "a  notice  on  the  chapel  railin'  tied. 
They'll  have  service  there  this  evenin' — can  the  youngster 

stand  the  ride  ? 
For  we  can't  have  parson  here,  if  it  be  true,  as  I've  heard 

say. 
There's  a  dyin'  man   as   wants   him  more'n   twenty  mile 

away ; 
So "  he  hadn't  time  to  finish  ere  the  child  was  out  of 

bed 
With  a  shawl  about  its  body,  an'  a  hood  upon  its  head. 
"Saddle  up,"  the  missus  said.    I  did  her  biddin'  like  a  bird, 
Perhaps  I  thought  it  foolish,  but  I  never  said  a  word ; 
For  though  I  have  a  vote  in  what  kids  eat,  or  drink,  or 

wear. 
Their  spiritual  requirements  are  entirely  her  affair. 
Vv^e  started  on  our  two  hours'  ride  beneath  a  burning  sun, 
With  Aunt  Sal  and  Bill  for  sureties  to  renounce  the  Evil 

One; 
An'  a  bottle  in  Sal's  basket  that  was  labelled  '*  Fine  Old 

Tom  " 
Held  the  water  that  regeneration  v/as  to  follow  from. 


J.  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  481 

For  Bh!Cgras=5  Creek  was  dry,  as  Bill  that  very  day  had 

found, 
An'  not  a  sup  o'  water  to  be  had  for  miles  around ; 
So,  to  make  salvation  sartin  for  the  babby's  little  soul, 
We  had  filled  a  dead  marine,  sir,  at  the  family  water-hole. 
Which  every  forty  rods  or  so  Sal  raised  it  to  her  head. 
An'  took  a  snifter,  "Just  enough  to  wet  her  lips,"  she  said. 
Whereby  it  came  to  pass  that  when  we  reached  the  chapel 

door 
There  was  only  what  would  serve  the  job,  an'  deuce  a  dribble 

more. 
The  service  had  begun — we  didn't  like  to  carry  in 
A  vessel  v.'ith  so  evident  a  carritur  for  gin  ; 
Bo  we  left  it  in  the  porch,  an',  havin'  done  our  level  best, 
^^'ent  an'  owned  to  bein'  "miserable  oftenders  "  with  tlie 

rest. 
An'  nigh  upon  the  finish,  when  the  parson  had  been  told 
That  a  lamb  was  waiting  there  to  be  admitted  to  the  fold, 
Rememberin'  the  needful,  I  gets  up  an'  quietly  slips 
To  the  porch  to  see  a  swagsman — with  our  bottle  to  his 

lip^ 
Such  a  faintness  came  all  over  me,  you  might  have  then  an' 

there 
Knocked  me  down,  sir,  with  a  feather,  or  tied  me  with  a 

hair. 
Doc,  I  couldn't  speak  or  move ;  an'  though  I  caught  the 

beggar's  eye. 
With  a  wink  he  turned  the  bottle  bottom  up  an'  drank  it 

dry. 
An'  then  he  flung  it  from  him,  being  suddenly  aware 
That  the  label  on't  was  merely  a  deloosion  an'  a  snare ; 
An'  the  crash  cut  short  the  people  in  the  middle  of  A-mcn, 
An'  all  the  congregation  heard  him  holier,  "  Sold  again  "  ' 

32 


482  -       /.  BE  UNTO N  STEPHENS. 

So   that   christ'nin'   was  a   failure  j    every   water  flask  was 

drained, 
Even  the  monkey  in  the  vestry  not  a  blessed  drop  contained; 
An'  the  parson  in  a  hurry  cantered  otT  upon  his  mare, 
Leavin'  baby  unregenerate,  an'  missus  in  despair. 
That  night  the  child  grew  worse,  but  my  care  was  for  the 

wife. 
I  feared  more  for  her  reason  than  for  that  wee  spark  of 

hfe. 

But  you  know  the  rest — how  Providence  contrived  that  very 

night 
That  a  doctor  should  come  cadgin'  at  our  shanty  for  a  light. 

Baby  ?      Oh  !  he's  chirpy,    tliank    ye^ — been   baptized — his 

name  is  Bill ; 
It's  weeks  an'  weeks  since  parson  came  an'  put  him  through 

the  mill ; 
An'  his  mother's  mighty  vain  upon  the  subjeck  of  his  weight, 
An'  a  regular  cock-a-hoop  about  his  spiritual  state. 
So  now  you'll  take  the  tenner.     Oh,  confound  the  bloomin' 

change  ! 
Lord,  had   Billy   died ! — but,    doctor,  don't   you   think  it 

summut  strange 
That  tliem  as  keeps  the  gate  should  have  refused  to  let  him 

in 
Because  a  fool  mistook  a  drop  of  Adam's  ale  for  gin? 


/  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  483 


A  LOST  CHANCE. 


(It  is  stated  that  a  shepherd,  who  had  many  years  grazed  his  flocks  in 
a  district  in  which  a  rich  tin-mining  town  in  Queensland  now  stands, 
went  mad  on  learning  of  the  great  discoveries  made  there.) 


Just  to  miss  it  by  a  hair'sbreadth  !   Nay,  not  to  miss  it !   To 

liave  held  it 
III  my  hand,  and    ofttimes    through   my  fingers   run   the 

swarthy  ore  ! 
jMinus  only  the  poor  trick  of  Art  or  Science  that  compelled 

it 
To  unveil  for  others'  good  the  hidden  value,  and  to  pour 
On  a  thousand  hearts  the  light  of  Hope,  that  shines  for  me 

no  more  ! 

To  have  held  it  in  my  hand  in  vacant  listlessness  of  wonder, 
Taken  with  its  dusky  lustre,  all  incurious  of  its  worth — 
To  have   trod   for  years   upon  it,   I  above,  and   Fortune 

under — 
To  have  scattered  it  a  thousand  times  like  seed  upon  the 

earth  ! 
Who  shall  say  I  am  not  justified  who  curse  my  day  of  birth  ? 

To  have  built  my  hovel  o'er  it — to  have  dreamed  above  it 

nightly- 
Pillowed  on  the  weal  of  thousand  lives,  and  dead  unto  my 

own  ! 


484  /.  BRUNTON  STEPHENS, 

Planning  paltry  profits  wrung  from  year-long  toil,  and  holding 

lightly 
What  lay  acres-wide  around    me,  naked,    bright,   or  grass- 

o'ergrown — • 
Holding  lightly — and  for  that  I  curse — no,  not  myself  alone  ! 

For  a  youth  made  vain  with  riot,   for  the  golden  graces 

squandered, 
Home  forsaken,  dear  ones  alienated,  Love  itself  aggrieved, 
I  had  sworn  a  full  atonement,   to  the  ends  of  earth  had 

wandered. 
Drunk  the  dregs  of  expiation,  unbelauded,  unperceived — 
Heaven  alone  behold,  and — mocks  me  with  what  "might 

have  been  "  achieved  ! 

All  the  cold  suspicion  of  the  world  I  took  for  my  demerit, 

Its  deceit  my  retribution,  its  malignity  my  meed  : 

When  Misfortune  smote,  unmurmuring  I  bowed  my  head  to 

bear  it, 
Driven  to  minister  to  brutes  in  my  extremity  of  need — 
"Who   shall  say  now  it  delights  not  Heaven  to  break  the 

bruised  reed 

In  the  round  of  conscious  being,  from  the  rising  to  the 

setting 
Of  Thine  imaged  self.  Thy  merciless,  unsympathizing  sun, 
Was   there   one   from   hard    Disaster's   hand   so   piteously 

shrinking 
Whom  this  boon  had  more  advantaged  ?     God,  I  ask  Thee, 

was  there  one  ? 
In   Thy  passionless    immunity.  Thou    knowest   there   was 

none  ! 


/.  B  RUN  TON  STEPHENS.  485 

To  the  wrongs  the  world  had  wrought  me,  to  its  coldness 

and  disfiivour, 
To  the  wreck  of  every  venture,  to  enduring  unsuccess, 
To  the  sweat  of  cheerless  toil,  the  bread  made  bitter  with 

the  savour 
Of  the  leaven  of  regret,  and  tears  of  unforgetfulness, 
Hadst   Thou   need   to   add  Tliy  mockery,   to  perfect   my 

distress  ? 

For  I  hold  it  cruel  mockery  in  mxn,  or  God,  or  devil, 
To  assign  the  poor  his  blindfold  lot  from  weary  day  to  day, 
In  the  very  lap  of  affluence,  on  Fortune's  highest  level, 
There  upon  the  brink  of  revelation,  trick  his  steps  away. 
And  flash  the  truth  upon  him  when  the  chance  is  gone  for 
aye  ! 

I  had  soothed  repulse  with  hope,  matched  disappointment 
with  defiance, 

Or  opposed  a  pliant  meekness  to  the  driving  storms  of  Fate  ; 

But — the  merely  "  coming  short  !  "  oh,  what  remedial  ap- 
pliance, 

What  demeanour  of  resistance  shall  have  virtue  to  abate 

The  nameless  woe  that  trembles  in  the  echo  of  Too  Late  ! 

Oh,  the  might  have  been  1  the  might  have  been  —the  story 

of  it  !  the  madness  ! 
What  a  wave  of  the  Inexorable  chokes  my  fitful  breath  ! 
What  a  rush  of  olden  echoes  voiced  with   many  sounding 

sadness  ! 
What  a  throng  of  new  des]\airs  that  drive  me  down  the  path 

of  Death  ! 
Who  is  there  in  heaven  who  careth  ?     ^^'ho  on  earth  who 

comforteth  ? 


486  J.  BRUNTON  STEPHENS. 

They  on  earth  but  seek  their  own.     In  eager  crowds  they 

hasten  thither 
Where  I  trod  so  late  unconscious  on  futurities  untold. 
And  I !  I,  whose  all  is  gone  !     The  curse  of  desolation 

whither. — 
Whom  ? — Myself,  who,  year-worn,  turned  again  unto  the  sin 

of  old  ? 
Or  the  fiends  who  sold  me  poison  for  my  little  all  of  gold  ? 


Both  !  all  men  !  yea,  Heaven  !  but  chiefly  those  who  prosper 

where  I  languished  ! 
Those   who   reap    the    ripe    occasion,    where   in   many   a 

wandering  line 
The  old  traces  of  my  footsteps,  worn  in  fevered  moods  and 

anguished. 
Now  are  paths  of  rich  expectancy  for  other  feet  than  mine  ! 
Can  I  breathe  v/ithout  upbraiding  ?     Shall  I  die  without  a 

sign  ? 


It  was  mine !     Is  mine,  by  Heaven  !     Consecrated  to  me 

only, 
By  the  sacred  right  of   service,   by  the  pledge  of  weary 

years  ! 
By  the  bond  of  silent  witness,  by  communion  dumb  and 

lonely, 
By  the  seal  of  many  sorrows,  by  the  sacrament  of  tears  ! 
Mine  ! — The   echoes   laugh,    and   the   fiends   of    hell    are 

answering  with  jeers. 


/  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  4S7 

^^'herc  am  I  ?  and  who  are  these  ? — Nay,  nay  !  unhand  me  ! 

Let  me  go,  sirs  ! 
I  am  very  very  rich  !     I've  miles  on  miles  of  priceless  ore  ! 
I  will  make  your  fortunes — all  of  you  !  and  I  would  have 

you  know,  sirs — 
There  is  not  a  single  sheep  a-missing. — Loose  me,  I  implore  ! 
It  is  only  sleep  that  ails  me — let  me  sleep — for  evermore  ! 


/  BRUNTON  STEPHENS. 


QUART  POT  CREEK. 

On  an  evening  ramble  lately,  as  I  wandered  on  sedately, 
Sinking  curious  fancies,  modern,  mediaeval,  and  antique, — 
Suddenly  the  sun  descended,  and  a  radiance  ruby-splendid. 
With  the   gleam  of  water   blended,   thrilled   my  sensitive 

physique — 
Thrilled   me,  filled   me  with   emotion  to  the  tips  of   my 

physique. 

Fired  my  eye,  and  flushed  my  cheek. 

Heeding  not  where  I  was  going,  I  had  wandered,  all  un- 
knowing, 

Where  a  river  gently  flowing  caught  the  radiant  ruby-streak ; 

And  this  new-found  stream  beguiling  my  sedateness  into 
smiling, 

Set  me  classically  styling  it  with  Latin  names  and  Greek, 

Names  Idalian  and  Castalian,  such  as  lovers  of  the  Greek 
Roll  like  quids  within  their  cheek. 

On  its  marge  was  many  a  burrow,  many  a  mound,  and  many 
a  furrow, 

AMiere  the  fossickers  of  fortune  play  at  Nature's  hide-and- 
seek  ; 

And  instead  of  bridge  to  span  it,  there  were  stepping-stones 
of  granite. 

And  where'er  the  river  ran,  it  seemed  of  hidden  wealth  to 
speak. 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger,  and  I,  too,  was  foin  to 
speak  : — 

I  assumed  a  pose  plastique. 


/  BRUNTON  STEPHENS.  489 

'  Stream,"   said    I,    "  I'll   celebrate   thee  !      Rhymes   and 

rhythms  galore  await  thee  ! 
In  the  weekly  poet's  corner  I'll  a  niche  for  thee  bespeak  : 
But,  to  aid  my  lucubration,  thou  must  tell  thine  appellation, 
Tell  thy  Naiad-designation — for  the  journal  of  next  week — 
Give  thy  sweet  Paetolian  title  to  my  poem  of  next  week. 
^^'hisper,  whisper  it — in  Greek  !  " 


But   the   river  gave  no   token,  and    the    name    remained 

unspoken, 
Though   I   kept   apostrophizing   till    my   voice   became   a 

shriek  ; — 
^Vhen  there  hove  in  sight  the  figure  of  a  homeward  veering 

Looming  big,  and  looming  bigger,  and  ejecting  clouds  of 

reek — 
In  fuliginous  advance  emitting  clouds  of  noisome  reek 
From  a  tube  beneath  his  beak. 


"  Neighbour  mine,"  said  I,  "  and  miner," — here  I  showed  a 

silver  shiner — 
"  For  a  moment,  and  for  sixpence,  take  thy  pipe  from  out 

thy  cheek. 
This  the  guerdon  of  thy  fame  is ;  very  cheap  indeed  the 

same  is ; 
Tell  me  only  what  the  name  is — ("tis  the  stream  whereof  I 

speak) — 
Name  the  Naiad-name  Paetolian  !     Digger,  I  adjure  thee, 

speak  ! " 

Quoth  the  digger,  "  Quart  Pot  Creek." 


490  /  BRUNTON  STEPHENS. 

Oh,  Pol !  Edepol !  Mecastor  !    Oh,  most  luckless  poetaster  ! 
I  went  home  a  trifle  faster  in  a  twitter  of  a  pique  ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  rhyming  being 
Ever  yet  was  cursed  with  seeing,  in  his  poem  for  the  week, 
Brook  or  river  made  immortal  in  his  poem  for  the  week, 
With  such  name  as  "  Quart  Pot  Creek  ! " 


But  the  river,  never  minding,  still  is  winding,  still  is  winding, 
By  the  gardens  where  the  Mongol  tends  the  cabbage  and  the 

leek ; 
And   the   ruby  radiance   nightly  touches  it   with    farewell 

lightly, 
But    the   name   sticks   to    it    tightly, — and    this   sensitive 

physique. 
The  already-mentioned  {inde  supra)  sensitive  physique, 
Shudders  still  at  "  Quart  Pot  Creek  !  " 


GERALD  II.  SUPPLE.  491 


THE  DREAM  OF  DAMPIER. 

AN    AUSTRALASIAN    FORESHADOWING — A.D.    1 686. 
I. 

Dampier,  the  buccaneer  !    His  swift  ship  sailed  the  Eastern 

seas — 
Where  night  seems  spectral  noon,   and  tropic  moon  and 

Pleiades, 
Like  lamps  of  silver  showed  with  ghostly  charm  each  island 

shore — • 

What  time  bay-broken  Celebes 
Arose  to  him  in  shadows  dim  beneath  the  vesper  star — 
Where  Java's  peaks  in  forest  soar, 
At  daybreak  seen  afar — 
When  the  land-breeze  odorous  blows  at  eve  from  Ternale's 

groves  of  balm — 
When  the  graceful  cocoa  crowns  the  lowering  clifts  of  wild 

Ceram, 
And  New  Guinea's  purple  mountains  fringe  the  noontide's 

golden  calm — • 
Thro'  myriad  groups  where  ocean  in  an  endless  sylvan  maze 
Winds  loitering  in  a  thousand  straits  a  thousand  clasping 

bays, 
And   every   change   with   lovelier   scene   the    gazer's    eye 

beguiles — 
Of  cape  and  coast,  a  fairy  realm  !■ — a  rainbow-arch  of  isles  !  — 
In  whose  glades  the  rosy  hours  mid  the  wood's  green  twilight 

peep 


492  GERALD  H.  SUPPLE. 

Islets,  each  an  Aphrodite,  risen  bright-haired  from  the  deep  ! 
So  pure  of  earth  and  air  the  sheen — 
So  azure-clear  the  waves  between 
That  the  dark  boatman  from  his  prow  sees,  fathoms  down 

below, 
The  fishes  palely-sparkling  glide,  the  coral  redly  glow, 
While  birds  o'erhead,  of  plumage  in  all  hues  of  radiance 

spun, 
Dart  from  the  trees  like  gorgeous  clouds  betwixt  him  and 

the  sun  ! 

II. 
Dampier,  those  beauteous  straits  and  seas,  he  sailed  them  all 

observantly ; 
No  seanvan  rude,  he  viewed  with  thoughtful  brain,  with  keen, 

discerning  eye  ; 
The  first  of  mariners  was  he  to  note  the  winds  and  tides, 
In  many  a  chart  and  scroll,  for  long  the  shipman's  surest 

guides. 
The  first  of  Englishmen  was  he  to  touch   this   mainland 

shore — 
The  Terra  Australis.     'Tis  by-past  some  nine  score  years  or 
more 

Since  he  came  in  that  martial  com  panic, 
Singing  their  sea-songs  carelessly — 
Wild  carols,  half  Spanish  or  Caribbee  ! 
Little  wot  they— little  recked  they  of  the  future  here  in 

store. 
Aye,  a  rugged  crew,  and  staunch  I  wis  as  any  that  in  those 

times 
Had  changed  for  the  music  of  gale  and  gun,  Bow-bells  or 
the  Bristol  chimes — 

One  of  those  bands  from  many  lands 


GERALD  IT.  SUFFLE.  493 

Who,  friends,  as  "  Brethren  of  the  Coast " — their  foe  the 

flag  of  Spain — 
Still  lived  that  mad  West  Indian  life  of  the  old  Tortuga 

strain, 
Rude  revels  in  Port  Royal,  wild  war  on  the  Spanish  Main  ! 
Oft  would  he  read  when  the  day  was  done,  while  others  the 

bowl  would  quaff, 
And  pondering  over  some  brass-bound  tome,  he'd  hear  them 

slyly  laugh — 
"An  Oxford  clerk  I   trow  our  bookish  messmate  should 

have  been  ! 
Did  he  sling  his  hammock   in  Gray's  Inn,  or  a  roystering 

brigantine  ?  " 
So  would  they  jest,  but  time  would  be  when  the  lightest 

forgot  to  sneer. 
And  hailed  bon  Camarado  in  a  blither  Will  Dampier, 
If  in  the  offing  they  spied  a  sail,  and  a  Spaniard  hove  in 

sight. 
Out-pealing  thro'  her  range  of  teeth  sharp  challenge  to  ih.e 

fight; 
Then,  prompt  and  steady,  his   l;and  was   ready,  his  cutlass 

bare  and  bright ; 
And  boarding  the  foe  when  the  bristling  pikes  thro"  canncn- 

smoke  appear. 
The    studious    seaman — aye  ! — again    was    the    headlong 

buccaneer, 
A  sea-dog  proved  for  bite  and  breed  !     Nathless  he  loved 

his  books 
Like  his  Sheffield   sword,   or   Spanish   gold,   or  a  winsom 

woman's  looks. 


494  JAMES  THOMAS. 


TO  A  WATER  WAGTAIL. 

Merry,  babbling,  restless  bird  ! 
All  day  long  thy  voice  is  heard. 
Be  it  wet,  or  be  it  fine. 
Winter  frost,  or  summer  shine. 
Autumn  brown,  or  bloomy  spring. 
Thou  art  ever  chattering. 
Let  me  wander  where  I  will 
Still  I  hear  thy  noisy  bill. 

If  afar  'tis  mine,  to  stray 
Down  some  creek's  meandering  way. 
Where  the  graceful  wattle  showers 
O'er  the  stream  her  yellow  flowers. 
And  the  fair  clematis  twines 
Round  the  whisp'ring  casuarines — 
There  with  thy  glad  mate  art  thou, 
Gossiping  upon  a  bough. 

There  in  spring  thou  lovest  best 
To  build  thy  little  cup-like  nest. 
In  the  shade,  upon  a  limb, 
Just  above  the  water's  brim. 
Often  have  I  ventured  nigh. 
Its  tiny,  spotted  eggs  to  spy, 
Often  for  that  liberty 
Hast  thou  soundly  scolded  me. 


JAMES  THOMAS.  495 

Thou  at  milking  time  each  day 
Dost  thy  various  antics  play, 
In  thy  suit  of  white  and  black, 
On  some  old,  sedate  cow's  back, 
Hopping  with  a  dainty  tread 
First  to  tail  and  then  to  head  ; 
Stopping  now,  as  though  thou'dst  say, 
"  If  Tm  heavy,  tell  me,  pray  ! " 

When  the  dawn  is  glimmering  red, 
And  each  bonny  flow'ret's  head 
Gently  towards  the  ground  is  borne, 
Weighted  with  the  dews  of  morn, 
As  across  the  hills  I  roam 
To  drive  the  lazy  cattle  home, 
Thy  blithe  note  I'm  sure  to  hear 
From  some  fence  or  stump  anear. 


When  the  hues  of  sunset  die 
Slowly  from  the  western  sky, 
And  the  gloaming  shadows  creep 
O'er  the  land,  and  from  the  deep 
Veil  of  dark'ning  blue  aloft 
Steals  the  star  of  evening  soft, 
On  the  breezes  calm  and  cool 
Floats  thy  voice  from  willowed  pool. 

Often,  too,  when  twilight's  fled. 
And  decent  folk  are  all  abed, 
If,  perchance,  awake  I  lie, 
I  can  hear  thee  somewhere  nigh, 


490  JAMES  THOMAS. 

Paying,  doubtless,  am'rous  vows 
'Mongst  the  moonlit  garden  boughs- 
Till,  in  sooth,  I  'gin  to  think 
Thou  dost  never  sleep  a  wink. 


Prythee,  cease — thou  babbling  elf! 
Thou  dost  like  to  hear  thyself, 
Ever  here  while  I  do  rhyme. 
Thou  art  chatt'ring  all  the  time  ; 
Perched  upon  the  mossy  fence, 
Like  a  bird  of  consequence, 
Hast  thou  with  those  peering  eyes 
Come  my  lines  to  criticise  ? 

What  is  all  thy  talk  about  ? 
Something  very  learned,  no  doubt, 
Since  it  keeps  thee  thus  for  hours 
Lecturing  the  bees  and  flowers. 
Hadst  thou  more  of  dignity, 
I  could  well  imagine  thee 
An  old  professor,  wise  and  staid, 
In  academic  gown  arrayed. 


Minstrel  of  the  solitudes 
Of  our  boundless  Austral  woods. 
Spirit  of  each  stream  and  glen, 
Lover  of  the  homes  of  men, 
Chatter  on  in  ceaseless  joy; 
None  will  harm  thee  or  annoy ; 
For  thy  fearless  happy  ways 
Win  our  hearts  and  cheer  our  days. 


MARGARET  THOMAS.  497 


ADAM  LINDSAY  GORDON. 

Dead  in  the  bush  by  his  own  rash  hand, 
Life  from  its  shattered  temple  riven, 
Staining  with  blood  the  sinless  land, 
Dead  in  the  face  of  the  outraged  Heaven. 

O  for  an  hour  of  the  genius  ready 

Which  told  how  the  Stockman's  race  was  run  ! 

O  for  an  hour  of  the  sinews  steady 

^^'ith  which  the  steeplechase  cup  was  won ! 

Hush  !  where  the  wattles  wave,  at  last 
He  rests  in  his  own  adopted  land. 
Poet,  crowned,  thro'  the  centuries  vast, 
Altho'  he  died  by  his  rash  right  hand. 


Zl 


498  MARGARET  THOMAS. 


WILT  THOU  WAIT  FOR  ME? 

When  the  ev'ning  calm  is  stealing 

Slowly  up  the  summer  sky, 
When  the  earth  in  sombre  feeling 

Gently  murmurs  sigh  for  sigh  ; 
When  the  very  winds  creep  slowly 

Lest  their  pinions  rustling  on 
Mar  the  moments  last  and  holy 

Of  the  cloud-encurtained  sun  ; 
When  the  day  with  night  is  blending, 

Shadows  grey  with  fading  light ; 
When  the  glare  of  day  is  ending. 

Yet  it  is  not  perfect  night ; 
When  the  stars  are  only  hidden 

By  a  soft  and  iilmy  veil, 
Vestals  from  their  chambers  bidden. 

Vespers  chaunting,  pure  and  pale  j 
When  the  crystal  water's  flowing 

In  untiring  melody, 
Mingles  w'ith  the  thoughts  deep  glowing, 

Dearest,  wilt  thou  wait  for  me  ? 

Where  the  tall  soft  grass  is  bending, 
Watching  o'er  the  sleeping  flow'rs  ; 

Where  the  locust's  hum  unending, 

Thrills  through  ev'ning's  quiet  hoiirs  j 


MARGARET  THOMAS.  499 

Where  the  wattle's  golden  blossom 

Flings  sweet  perfume  on  the  air, 
And  above  the  river's  bosom 

Willows  trail  their  loosened  hair ; 
Where  the  eucalyptus  stretches 

Gaunt  and  rugged  limbs  on  high, 
Like  the  bony  arms  of  witches 

Waving  curses  in  the  sky  ; 
Where  the  dark  she- oak  is  bowing 

O'er  its  spot  of  cooling  shade ; 
Where  the  Yarra  Yarra,  flowing, 

Chafes  the  stony  barricade ; 
In  our  own  old  place  of  meeting. 

Where  we  oft  have  loved  to  rest 
In  the  rapt  and  trustful  greeting 

Of  a  friendship  pure  and  blest ; 
Where  I  oft  have  lingered  dreaming, 

Dreaming  of,  yet  clasping  thee. 
Now  as  then  in  truthful  seeming, 

Dearest,  wilt  thou  wait  for  me  ? 


533  MARGARET  THOMAS. 


DEATH  IN  THE  BUSH. 

SUGGESTED    BY   THE    DEATH    OF    BURKE   AND    WILLS. 

To  die,  to  perish  in  the  bush  alone, 

With  but  the  wilds  to  hear  thy  parting  groan  ; 

With  but  the  winds  to  catch  thy  parting  breath, 

And  mock  the  last  long  agony  of  death ; 

To  feel  some  message  to  the  true  and  dear 

Clamour  for  utterance,  yet  with  none  to  hear ; 

To  long  with  anguish  health  can  never  know 

For  the  last  solace  human  hands  bestow ; 

Yet  hear  no  gentle  tone,  no  soft  caress 

Soothing  thy  spirit's  last  and  worst  distress  ; 

To  feel  a  thousand  thoughts  for  language  rise, 

Yet  which  must  perish  when  the  body  dies ; 

Where  no  kind  voice  can  quell  the  rising  fears, 

No  gentle  hand  wipe  off  the  bitter  tears  j 

To  face  the  awful  king  unarmed,  alone, 

Thy  loss  unnoticed,  and  thy  fate  unknown  ; 

To  know  not  if  thy  wasted  form  shall  lie 

And  shrivel  'neath  the  sun's  all-scorching  eye ; 

Or  if  the  warrigal  with  rapture  grim 

Shall  tear  thee  piece  from  piece,  and  limb  from  limb ; 

To  know  thine  eyes  may  gaze  unclosed  to  Heaven, 

Till  from  their  orbs  by  crows  and  swamp-hawks  riven  ; 

Which  to  their  prey,  while  still  thou'rt  conscious,  rush  ; 

God  grant  we  face  not  death  while  in  the  bush. 


MAJiV  COLDORNE   VEEL.  501 


THE  POET'S  LAMENT. 


Rehearsing  his  various  woes, 
The  complaint  of  a  poet  arose 
Who  foil!  had  spoke  beauty  in  rhyme 
In  the  ears  of  the  commonplace  time  ; 
But  found  thought  half  developed  in  verse 
Filled  neither  the  heart  nor  the  purse. 

"  O  weariful  wasting  of  time, 

To  be  haunted  by  visions  of  rhyme ; 

For  poetry,  every  one  knows, 

Is  the  last  thing  a  colony  grows. 

A  Browning  or  Keats  I  would  pity 

If  writing  his  rhymes  in  this  city  : 

Or  say  that  we  fly  from  the  town 

And  seek  Nature  ! — All  barren  and  brown. 

Stretch  out  a  monotonous  plain. 

Too  crude  for  a  fanciful  strain, 

Too  vast  for  a  poet  to  sing. 

And  our  rivers — that  beauty  might  bring 

To  Naiad  and  Nixie  unknown, 

Find  a  new  savage  life  of  their  own. 

Each  bank  and  horizon  is  seen  : 

Such  tracts  lying  stony  between. 

Where  the  torrent  dividing  may  flee 

On  separate  paths  to  the  sea, 


502  MARY  COLBORNE   VEEL. 

That  a  whole  desert  kingdom  it  seems, 
Of  terrible  swift-flowing  streams. 
Woe  is  me  for  a  poet  forlorn, 
In  this  loveless  new  land  to  be  born ; 
Ere  the  flowerets  of  fancy  have  blown 
I  shall  perish,  in  silence  unknown." 


So  he  ended  :  and  others,  in  quaint 
Self-pity,  took  up  the  complaint, 
The  grief  of  their  hearts  to  reveal. 

"  We  have  thoughts,  we  have  knowledge,  and  zeal ; 

Would-be  authors,  but  where  may  we  look 

For  the  impulse  that  genders  a  book  ? 

Ah  !  far  o'er  the  sea  we  might  come 

To  the  land  that  our  fathers  call  home ; 

AVhere  modern  creation  might  wage 

Its  charm  with  the  beauty  of  age 

To  enchant  us,  enthral  us,  inspire 

Our  souls — and  our  volumes — with  fire  ! 

But  here,  in  this  Christchurch  of  ours, 

With  secular  teaching  in  showers. 

And  science's  latest  advance, 

We  have  not  a  breath  of  romance  ! 

The  seed  of  our  future  belles-lettres 

Is  choked  by  percentage  and  tret ; 

Pierian  springs  would  run  dry 

Beneath  a  New  Zealander's  sky." 

III. 

There  they  who  sit  crowned  with  the  crown 
Of  deathless  accomplished  renown 


MARY  COLBORNE  VEEL.  503 

The  great,  with  compassion  to  heed 

Their  very  young  brethren's  need, 

Gave  ear  to  the  pitiful  cry, 

First  smiled,  then  grew  grave  to  reply. 

(I  repeat,  as  were  given  to  me 

The  words  that  came  over  the  sea), 

"  Oh,  faint-hearted  scribblers,  no  more  ! 

AVe  receive  such  complaints  by  the  score. 

And  no  other  reply  might  be  made 

But  that  you  are  new  to  the  trade  ; 

And  we  all  of  us  heard  when  at  school 

Of  the  workman  who  chides  with  his  tool. 

But  this  once,  for  our  common  art's  sake, 

We  point  out  your  greatest  mistake, 

To  modern  your  land  far  away 

For  the  birthplace  of  fancy,  you  say  ? 

On  colonial,  inglorious  ground, 

No  theme  for  romance  can  be  found  ? 

Oh  dullards  !  Where  under  the  sky 

Doth  a  kingdom  too  desolate  lie 

For  poetry's  delicate  breath  ? 

There  is  Life,  there  is  Love,  there  is  Death ; 

Unlock  with  your  magical  keys 

The  meanings  that  sanctify  these. 

And  the  old  world  and  the  new  shall  proclaim 

Your  right  to  the  coveted  fame. 

Or  if  you  should  fail  of  your  meed. 

Yet  comes  the  reward  in  the  deed. 

The  quest  of  the  Sangreal  makes  clean 

All  hearts  that  pursue  though  unseen 

Save  by  few,  the  elected,  it  shine. 

The  choice  of  the  highest  be  thine  ; 

To  strive, — that,  if  given  to  thee, 

Thine  eyes  may  be  worthy  to  see  ! " 


504  GARNET  WALCH. 


A  LITTLE  TIN  PLATE. 

Amidst  the  massive  sideboard's  burnished  wealth- 
Rich  flagons,  loving  cups,  and  wassail  bowls, 
Brave  trophies  of  the  river  and  the  hunt, 
And  old-world  tankards  bossed  with  pictured  tale- 
Fair  in  the  centre,  as  a  place  of  pride. 
On  special  pedestal,  there  rests  a  plate. 
An  old  tin  plate — a  battered,  dinted  plate. 
With  alphabet  for  legend  round  its  marge 
Encircling  Wellington  in  bold  relief, 
His  cocked  hat  glory  vying  with  his  nose 
To  vouch  the  portrait  true  past  breath  of  doubt — ■ 
A  shabby,  sorry  plate — a  dingy  plate — 
A  Pariah  of  plates,  yet  still  a  plate 
That  has  its  story,  and  the  story  thus  : — 

That  plate  there  was  bought  by  Jack  Hill, 

'Bout  the  time  of  the  rush  to  Split  Creek, 
For  to  give  to  his  kid,  little  Bill. 

I  remember  it,  same  as  last  week. 
Little  Bill  was  a  bright  four-year-old. 

Could  toddle  and  talk  with  the  best — 
Blue  eyes,  an'  his  curly  hair  gold. 

An'  such  limbs — you  should  see  him  undressed 
Most  kids  has  some  ways  of  their  own, 

An'  Bill's  was  the  takingest  out. 
To  watch  that  there  infant  alone 

Was  as  good  any  day  as  a  shout. 


GARNET  WALCH.  505 

Jack  Hill — which  ihe  name  was  a  blind — 

Was  as  fond  of  the  child  as  could  be ; 
That  loving,  an'  tender,  an'  kind, 

You'd  have  thought  he  was  three  parts  a  she. 
It  was  all  he  had  left  of  his  luck 

Since  his  wife,  poor  young  creatur',  had  died ; 
But  though  patches  was  not  to  be  struck, 

He  was  happy  with  Bill  by  his  side. 
Most  days  Bill  to  lessons  was  sent, 

While  his  father  worked  eighty  foot  down, 
But  at  night  the  boy  slep'  in  the  tent. 

In  a  crib  like  the  smartest  in  town  ; 
An'  on  Sundays  no  shaft  an'  no  school, 

But  a  regular  treat  for  the  pair, 
With  a  stroll  in  the  bush,  as  a  rule, 

An'  a  extra  bit  lisp  of  a  prayer. 
Jack  was  never  a  psalm-singing  one. 

There  wasn't  much  shuffle  in  him, 
But  what  the  young  mother  begun 

He  wouldn't  allow  to  go  dim. 
An'  he  used  to  tell  yarns  to  that  kid, 

Me  being  his  mate — do  you  take? — 
For  to  put  Bill  to  sleep,  an'  they  did. 

But  they'd  keep  me  all  night  wide  awake — 
Such  twisters  of  fairies  with  wings 

As  lived  in  each  flower,  on  each  bough. 
An'  of  all  sorts  of  fanciful  things, 

Which  their  names,  though,  has  slipped  me  jubt  now  ; 
But  never  no  bogeyfied  rot 

That  them  nurses  prefer,  as  it  seems, 
And  that  proved  Jack  to  know  what  was  what, 

For  the  boy  always  smiled  in  his  dreams. 
Times  kep'  quisby,  for  when  wc  were  through, 


5o6  GARNET  WALCH. 

An'  had  bottomed  clean  on  to  the  lead, 
The  wash-dirt  turned  out  a  dead  slew  ; 

'Tvvas  enough  to  make  any  heart  bleed — 
Not  a  speck  !  not  a  load  for  an  ant, 

Not  as  much  as  would  fill  a  fly's  eye, 
We  hadn't  a  show  for  a  slant, 

It  was  plain  that  our  luck  was  sky-high. 
Says  I,  "  Let's  jack  up,  man  alive, 

And  try  further  down  on  the  Creek  ! " 
"  All  right ! "  says  my  mate,  "  but  we'll  drive 

Right  and  left  to  the  end  of  this  week. 
So  we  drove  for  a  couple  of  days. 

An'  still  we  was  out  in  the  cold, 
When,  sudden  as  straw  in  a  blaze, 

I'm  blamed,  if  we  didn't  strike  gold  ! 
Such  gold,  too,  the  nuggety  kind ; 

Like  plums  stuck  in  duff,  they  was  thick. 
With  a  prospect  of  plenty  behind, 

For  it  bettered  each  stroke  of  the  pick. 
At  first  we  was  quite  took  aback, 

Luck  like  this  !  when  we  thought  luck  was  spent. 
Then  I  touched  flesh  in  silence  with  Jack, 

An'  at  it,  like  tigers,  we  went. 
We'd  got  it,  at  last — the  right  sort ! 

But  we  didn't  say  one  single  word. 
For,  whatever  the  pair  of  us  thought, 

'Twas  our  picks,  not  our  tongues,  as  we  stirred. 
At  night,  when  snug  fixed  in  our  beds, 

There'd  be  plenty  of  time  to  rejoice — ■ 
With  that,  man,  right  over  our  heads, 

We  was  scared  by  the  sound  of  a  voice ! — 
'Twas  the  schoolmaster  come  to  report 

As  poor  little  Bill  was  look  bad. 


GARNET  IVALCH.  $07 

Jack  clowns  with  his  pick  quick  as  thought, 

And  ups  to  the  surface  Uke  mad  ! 
When  I  follows — I  waited  to  get 

A  bag  of  them  plums,  if  you  please — ■ 
There  was  Jack,  like  a  statter  he  sat, 

With  Bill  half  asleep,  on  his  knees. 
Says  I,  thinking  'twould  take  off  the  rough 

(For  I  see  that  the  kid  was  real  bad), 
"  Here's  a  sack  full  of  comfortin'  stuff! " — 

"  Speak  soft,"  hisses  Jack  ;  "  are  you  mad  ? 
Chuck  that  muck  in  the  corner — an'  start 

For  the  township — an'  rouse  up  old  Heard 
An'  tell  him  to  come  an'  look  smart ! " 

I  was  off  like  a  redshank,  my  word  ! 
Old  Heard  was  a  doctorin'  bloke. 

Knew  as  much  as  most  "medical  men," 
Which  ain't  lashings — a  beggar  to  soak, 

But  sober  enough  now  and  then. 
He  was  right,  for  a  wonder,  this  day, 

An'  as  wise  as  a  mopoke  with  that ; 
So  we  into  his  visitin'-shay. 

An'  along  the  back  track  at  a  bat ! — 
Heard  hauls  out  a  watch  from  his  kick, 

Feels  Bill's  pulse,  as  it  seemed,  half  an  hour ; 
Next  he  has  a  long  suck  at  his  stick 

(Which,  to  judge  by  his  look,  tasted  sour) ; 
Then  he  shakes  his  old  chump  to  and  fro, 

At  a  dignified  pendylum  pace, 
An'  he  mutters,  half  'loud  and  half  low, 

"  Bad  case — ah  !  a  very  bad  case." 
Says  Jack,  "  So  I  thought ;  now,  fair's  fair — 

You've  to  save  him,  that's  7ci/ia^  you've  to  do. 
For  a  week  or  so,  Heard,  you  keep  square  ; 


5o8  GARNET  WALCH. 

An'  if,  by  God's  grace,  he  pulls  through. 
D'ye  see  that  bag  there  ?  Jialf  is  mine  ; 

You  shall  have  it — ah  !  handle  the  weight. 
Says  I,  "  Come,  our  forces  we'll  join, 

For  I  goes  the  other  half,  mate." 
Well,  old  Heard  did  his  best  for  that  fee, 

Kep'  as  straight  as  a  clear  splitting  pine, 
But  no  use,  for  it  wasn't  to  be, 

Not  for  all  the  gold  south  of  the  line. 
When  He  says  that  the  flower  must  fade. 

The  gardeners  may  watch  and  may  tend, 
But  His  is  the  will  that's  obeyed — 

I  suppose  it's  all  right  in  the  end. 
"  Water — water !  "  that  hoarse  little  cry 

Grew  weaker  and  weaker,  until 
For  hours  that  there  darlin'  would  lie 

Like  a  pretty  wax  figure — so  still. 
Don't  you  snuff?  no,  quite  right — as  you  say, 

It's  a  habit  that's  best  left  alone ; 
It  makes  one's  eyes  water,  too — hey  ! 

But  it  comforts  me  sometimes,  I  own. 
Well,  an  hour  before  little  Bill  died. 

He  picked  up  that  'dcntical  plate 
Which  had  been  his  partickilar  pride, 

An'  he  holds  it  out  straight  to  my  mate 
(It  caught  one  big  tear  as  it  fell). 

Says  he,  "  Pa,  dear,  you  gave  this  to  Bill 
For  learning  his  letters  so  well. 

Will  you  keep  it,  an'  think  of  me  still  ? 
Mamma  will  be  glad  that  I've  come. 

And  for  you  we  will  both  cf  us  wait 
Up  there  in  that  beautiful  home, 

An'  mind,  pa  !  you  bring  me  my  plate  !  " 


GARNET  IVALCH.  509 

'Twas  a  mere  childish  fancy  at  best, 

More  hke  to  cause  laughter  than  tears, 
But  it  shows  how  that  innocent  blest 

Of  the  death  we  so  dread  had  no  fears — 
Then  he  turns  to  a  blubb'ring  old  fool, 

An'  says  he,  "  Stupid  Bob,  don't  you  cry ; 
Little  Bill  isn't  going  to  school, 

He's  going  to  heaven — good-bye  ! " 
He  laid  his  sweet  head  on  Jack's  arm. 

With  the  other  hand  tight  in  his  own. 
An'  he  passed  away  smilin'  an'  calm, 

An'  Jack,  poor  old  Jack,  was  alone  ! 

:,':  ■'.<  >:;  5'<  -If 

At  first  he  was  stunned-like  was  Jack, 

But  none  the  less  ready  for  work. 
!My  word  !  he  did  more  than  his  whack  ; 

He  was  never  a  cove  as  would  shirk — - 
An'  as  if  to  make  up  for  our  loss 

That  there  claim  kep'  on,  plum  after  plum ; 
Every  day  we  were  droppin'  across 

Half-a-dozen  as  big  as  your  thumb. 
But  Jack — and  I  think  I'd  a  share 

In  them  feelin's— thought  more  of  one  curled 
Golden  lock  of  his  dead  darlin's  hair 

Than  of  all  the  blamed  gold  in  the  world. 

It  spread  round  the  camp  like  a  shot 

That  Jack  Hill  an'  Bob  Smith  were  in  luck. 

But  none  of  our  neighbours  had  got 
A  slice  of  the  plum-duff  7ve'd  struck — 

Just  tucker  was  all  they  could  raise, 
An'  some  of  'em  not  even  that : 


510  GARNET  WALCH. 

Such  is  Fortune's  cantankerous  ways, 

All  purr,  or  all  claw,  the  old  cat. 
Well,  one  night — you're  not  tired  ?  no — all  right 

There  isn't  much  more  to  be  told. 
One  dark,  bitter  cold  August  night 

We've  turned  in  dead  beat,  an'  the  gold 
Is  under  Jack's  head — both  asleep—  • 

When  two  beggars  crawl  into  the  tent ; 
They  had  watched  right  enough — an'  they  creep, 

Like  a  couple  of  hounds  on  the  scent, 
One  towards  me — an'  the  other,  by  Jack, 

Slips  a  hand  where  the  shammy  is  stowed  j 
T'other  fist,  for  safe,  silent  attack. 

Grips  a  sharp  butcher's  knife — well,  I'm  blowed, 
Jack  wakes — but  too  late ;  through  the  air, 

Quick  as  lightning,  sir,  down  comes  the  knife 
Dead  straight  for  his  heart — an' — well,  there, 

That  little  tin  plate  saves  his  life. 

:;:  :::  =:=  =;=  * 

We'd  a  tussle,  of  course — twig  this  scar  ? 

But  we  nobbled  'em  both — one  I  shot. 
And  the  other's  in  Pentridge,  Black  Parr  j 

I  think  it  was  ten  years  he  got. 
Jack  settled  in  Melbourne  long  since, 

No  cause  for  to  fossick  or  roam, 
An'  them  cups  an'  things,  fit  for  a  prince, 

Come  out  with  a  fortune  from  Home ; 
Which  his  name  isn't  Jack — no — nor  Hill, 

I  told  you,  you'll  mind,  at  the  start — • 
Oh,  yes,  he's  a  widower  still, 

Though  South  Yarra  tries  hard  for  his  heart. 
I  fancy  that  plate  is  the  charm 

As  drives  Cupid's  arrows  back  bent, 


GARNET  WALCH.  511 

An'  who  knows  but  it  shields  him  from  harm 

As  it  did  that  dark  night  in  the  tent  ? 
But  though  Jack  is  well  bred,  an'  I  ain't, 

Though  he's  reckoned  a  "  man  of  much  weight, 
He's  neither  a  prig  nor  a  saint, 

An'  he  never  goes  back  on  his  mate. 
He'd  relations  afloat  on  the  Flood — 

He's  the  boss  of  this  elegant  place — 
Here  he  comes  ! — it's  my  nevvy,  my  lud, 

Charles  Smith — hem  !  Sir  Bayard  Fitz-Sayce. 


512  GARNET  WALCH. 


WOOL  IS  UP. 


Earth  o'erflows  with  nectared  gladness, 

All  creation  teems  with  joy  ; 
Banished  be  each  thought  of  sadness, 

Life  for  me  has  no  alloy. 
Fill  a  bumper,  drain  a  measure. 

Pewter,  goblet,  tankard,  cup, 
Testifying  thus  our  pleasure 

At  the  news  that  "  wool  is  up." 


'Thwart  the  empires,  'neath  the  oceans. 

Subtly  speeds  the  living  fire  ; 
Who  shall  tell  what  wild  emotions 

Spring  from  out  that  thridden  wire  ? 
"  Jute  is  lower,  copper  weaker," 

This  will  break  poor  neighbour  Jupp  j 
But  for  me,  I  shout  "  Eureka  !  " 

Wealth  is  mine— for  wool  is  up. 


What  care  I  for  jute  or  cotton. 
Sugar,  copper,  hemp,  or  flax, 

Reeds  like  these  are  often  rotten, 
Turn  to  rods  for  owners'  backs. 


GARNET  WALCII.  513 

Fortune,  ha  !  I  have  thee  holden 

In  what  Scotia  calls  a  "  grup," 
All  my  fleeces  now  are  golden, 

Full  troy  weight — for  wool  is  up. 


I  will  dance  the  gay  fandango, 

Though  to  me  its  steps  be  strange, 
Doubts  and  fears  you  all  can  hang  go, 

I  will  cut  a  dash  on  'Change. 
Atra  Cura,  you  will  please  me 

By  dismounting  from  my  crup — ■ 
Crupper,  you  no  more  shall  tease  me. 

Pray,  get  down — for  wool  is  up. 

Jane  shall  haVe  that  stylish  bonnet. 

Which  rrty  scanty  purse  denied ; 
Long  she  set  her  heart  upon  it. 

She  shall  wear  it  now  with  pride. 
I  will  buy  old  Bumper's  station, 

Reign  as  king  at  Gerringhup, 
For  my  crest  a  bust  of  Jason, 

With  this  motto,  "  Wool  is  up." 

1  will  keep  a  stud  extensive ; 

Bolter,  here,  FU  have  those  greys, 
Those  Sir  George  deemed  too  expensive, 

You  can  send  them — with  the  bays^ 
Coursing  !  I  should  rather  think  so  ; 

Yes,  I'll  take  that  "  Lightning  "  pup  : 
Jones,  my  boy,  you  needn't  wink  so, 

I  can  stand  it — wool  is  up. 
34 


514  GARNET  WALCH. 

Wifey,  love,  you're  looking  charming, 

Years  with  you  are  but  as  days  ; 
We  must  have  a  grand  house-warming 

When  these  painters  wend  their  ways. 
Let  the  ball-room  be  got  ready, 

Bid  our  friends  to  dance  and  sup ; 
Bother,  how  can  I  go  steady  ? 

I'm  worth  thousands — wool  is  up  ! 


CAMA'ET  IVALCH.  515 


WOOL  IS  DOWN. 


Blacker  than  e'er  the  inky  waters  roll 

Upon  the  gloomy  shores  of  sluggish  Styx, 
A  surge  of  sorrow  laps  my  leaden  soul, 

For  that  which  was  at  "  two  "  is  now  "  one — six." 
"  Come  disappointment,  come,"  as  has  been  said 

By  some  one  else  who  quailed  'neath  Fortune's  frown, 
Stab  to  the  core  the  heart  that  once  has  bled, 

For  "heart"  read  "pocket" — wool,  ah  !  wool  is  down. 


"  And  in  the  lowest  deep  a  lower  deep," 

Thou  sightless  seer,  indeed  it  may  be  so, 
The  road  too  well  we  know  is  somewhat  steep, 

And  who  shall  stay  us  when  that  road  we  go  ? 
Thrice  cursed  wire ;  whose  lightning  strikes  to  blast, 

\\'hose  babbling  tongue  proclaims  throughout  the  town 
The  news,  which,  being  ill,  has  travelled  fast. 

The  dire  intelligence — that  wool  is  down. 


A  rise  in  copper  and  a  rise  in  jute, 
A  fall  alone  in  wool,  but  what  a  fall  ! 

Jupp  must  have  made  a  pile  this  trip,  the  brute, 
He  don't  deserve  such  splendid  luck  at  all. 


5i6  GARNET  WALCtt. 

The  smiles  for  him — for  me  the  scalding  tears  \ 
He's  worth  ten  thousand  if  he's  worth  a  crown, 

While  I — untimely  shorn  by  Fate's  harsh  shears — 
Feel  that  my  game  is  up  when  wool  is  down. 

Bolter,  take  back  these  prancing  greys  of  thine, 

Remove  as  well  the  vanquished  warrior's  bays, 
My  fortunes  are  not  stable,  they  decline ; 

Aye,  even  horses  taunt  me  with  their  neighs. 
And  thou,  sweet  puppy  of  the  "Lightning"  breed, 

Through  whose  fleet  limbs  I  pictured  me  renown, 
Hie  howling  to  thy  former  home  with  speed. 

Thy  course  w^ith  me  is  up — for  wool  is  down. 

Why,  Jane,  what's  this  ? — this  pile  of  letters  here  ? 

Such  waste  of  stamps  is  really  very  sad. 
Your  birthday  ball  ?  Oh,  come  not  twice  a  year, 

Good  gracious  me  !  the  woman  must  be  mad. 
You'd  better  save  expense  at  once,  that's  clear, 

And  send  a  bellman  to  invite  the  town  ! 
There — there — don't  cry,  forgive  my  temper,  dear. 

But  put  these  letters  up — for  wool  is  down. 

My  station  "  Gerringhup,"  yes,  that  must  go, 

Its  sheep,  its  oxen,  and  its  kangaroos, 
First  'twas  the  home  of  blacks,  then  whites,  we  know, 

Now  is  it  but  a  dwelling  for  "the  blues," 
With  it  I  leave  the  brotherhood  of  Cash 

Who  form  Australian  Fashion's  tinsel  crown ; 
I  tread  along  the  devious  path  of  Smash, 

I  go  where  wool  has  gone — down,  ever  down. 


GARNET  WALCH.  517 

Thus  ends  my  dream  of  greatness  ;  not  for  me 

The  silken  couch,  the  banquet,  and  the  rout, 
They're  flown — the  base  residuum  will  be 

A  mutton  chop  and  half-a-pint  of  stout — • 
Yet  will  I  hold  a  corner  in  my  soul 

Where  Hope  may  nestle  safe  from  Fortune's  frown. 
Thou  hoodwinked  jade  !  my  heart  remaineth  whole — 

I'll  keep  my  spirits  up— though  wool  be  down. 


5i8  GARNET  WALCH. 


A  DRUG  IN  THE  MARKET. 

I  STOOD  in  the  street   in  the  noontide,  precisely  at  midday 

time, 
For  the  loud-mouthed  bells  of  the  G.P.O.  had  that  moment 

ceased  to  chime  : — 
(I  trust  to  the  public  dial,  since  the  lever  I  used  to  wear, 
The  one  cousin  Amy  gave  me,  my  uncle  has — to  repair). 

Well,  I  stood  in  the  street  in  the  noontide,  a  breakfastlcss, 

lunchless  wight. 
No  prospect  of  dinner  before  me,  no  hope  of  a  bed  for  the 

night ; 
And  I  railed  in  good  Anglo-Saxon  at  the  luck  which  had 

brought  me  out 
To  seek  that  Australian  fortune  I'd  dreamed  so  often  about. 

Thus  I  stood  in  the  street  in  the  noontide,  heart,  stomach, 

and  pocket  void, 
A  seedy,  but  well-dressed  loafer,  respectably  unemployed  ; 
And  I  heard  what  was  meant  for  music,  and  the  rhythmical 

tramp  of  feet, 
And  many  a  blazoned  banner  I  saw  far  down  the  street. 

And  up  the  street  in  the  noontide,  with  the  painfully  solemn 

air 
Which  your  Briton  in  full  enjoyment  is  proverbially  known 

to  wear, 


GARNET  WALCH.  519 

There  trooped  in  the  glory  of  broadcloth  some  hundreds  of 

well-fed  men, 
With   a  score   of  aforesaid   banners,  and  bands — well,    I 

counted  ten. 


Up,  up  that  street  in  the  noontide,  like  ants  on  their  native 

hill. 
These  sorrowful    revellers    swarmed  along  at  a  pace  that 

could  hardly  kill ; 
And  the  banners  swayed  in  the  sunshine  as  their  bearers 

staggered  beneath. 
And   the   whole   ten   bands   played   different   tunes  till  I 

thought  I  should  shed  my  teeth. 


Then  I  said  to  my  next-hand  neighbour,  a  citizen  hale  and 

stout, 
"  Pray  pardon  a  new  chum's  wonder,  but  what  is  this  all 

about  ? 
Whose  obsequies  do  we  assist  at  ?  whom,  7vhom  do  we  follow 

round  ? 
And  oh  !  why  are  these  mixed  harmonies,  these  Gordian 

knots  of  sound  ?  " 


Unto  which  I  received  as  answer,  "A  funeral!  that  be — 

well  ! 
It's   the    /^eight-Z^our    Demonstration,    as    any    but   fools 

could  tell. 
It's    the  workmen  of   Melbourne  city,  they're  a-marching 

'and  in  'and, 
All  joining  for  self-protection,  in  one  united  band." 


520  GARNET  WALCH, 

Then  the  band  that  is  so  united,  though  severed  by  ten 

bands  more, 
Passes  out  of  my  sight  and  hearing  as  it  turns  by  the  White 

Hart  door ; 
And  my  scornful  neighbour  in  going,  of  his  own  free  will 

exclaims, 
"  They're  off  to  the  S'cieties'  Gardens  t'  enjoy  their  sports 

and  games." 

But  I  stand  at  the  corner-kerbing,  as  loafers  are  wont  to  do, 
And  chew  the  cud  of  reflection,    which  is  all    I  have  to 

chew, 
And  I  use  some  more  Anglo-Saxon,  of  the  strongest  kind 

that's  made, 
The   burden   being,   translated,   "  Why  wasn't  /  taught  a 

trade  ?  " 

For  these  cornumanous  parties,   these  eight-hour  working 

bees, 
Make  honey  (for  "h  "  read  "m  "  there)  and  sip  its  sweets  at 

ease, 
And  with  them  the  ancient  adage  acquires  this  reading  new, 
That  "  Jack's  as  good  as  his  master,  and  a  great  deal  better 

too  ! " 

Ah  yes  I  they  are  truly  blessed,  these  octohoral  gents, 
Though  their  tipple  is  hardly  Moet,  and  their  ball-rooms 

are  but  tents ; 
They  can  pay  their  way  if  they're  careful,  and,  free  from 

trouble  and  debt. 
Can  pity  their  worsc-off  betters,  fast  trammelled  by  clique 

and  set, 


GARNET  WALCB,  521 

'Tis  sweeter  to  spend  a  shilling  that  can  purchase  one  homely 
smile, 

Than  to  buy  up  the  sneers  of  the  many  by  paying  for 
spurious  style, 

As  is  done  by  those  tinselled  tilters  who  so  often  salute  the 
ground 

From  astride  of  their  counterfeit  chargers  in  Society's  merry- 
go-round. 

Four  7)101 — self-imported,    unordered,    my    chances    must 

needs  be  small — 
I'm  too  heavily  advaloremed  to  find  a  market  at  all. 
Education  and  English  polish  are  very  unsaleable  stuff — 
The  men  that  are  wanted  in  Melbourne  must  be  sent  out 

here  in  the  rough. 

Perhaps  if  I  gained  experience  of  the  sort  that's  colonial- 
made, 

I  might  worship  the  charms  of  Protection  and  learn  to  abhor 
Free  Trade ; 

But,  ad  interim^  comes  starvation,  and  I  feel  I  am  hardly 
fit 

To  study  political  problems  while  in  want  of  a  three-penny 
bit. 

As  thus  I  was  standing  a-musing,  on  aught  but  amusing 
themes. 

The  chimes  called  the  faithful  to  luncheon,  and  rudely  dis- 
pelled my  dreams  ; 

And  my  irrepressible  stomach  reasserted  its  right  to  yearn, 

So  I  started  off  at  a  tangent,  for  my  thoughts  took  a  practical 
turn. 


522  GARNET  WALCH. 

I  followed  the  Austral  workman  through  the  "  golden  after- 
noon," 

To  the  scene  of  his  innocent  revels,  where  his  bands  played 
out  of  tune ; 

And  I  promised  a  Celtic  contractor  to  carry  him  bricks  in  a 
hod 

For  a  note  a  week  and  my  tucker,  and  a  Jialf-a  crown  doivn 
■ — thank  God  ! 


U:  a    WENTWORTH.  52: 


AUSTRALASIA. 

Illustrious  Cook,  Columbus  of  our  shore, 

To  whom  was  left  this  unknown  world  t'  explore, 

Its  untraced  bounds  on  faithful  chart  to  mark, 

And  leave  a  light  where  all  before  was  dark  : — 

And  thou  the  foremost  in  fair  learning's  ranks, 

Patron  of  every  art,  departed  Banks, 

Who,  wealth  disdaining,  and  inglorious  ease. 

The  rocks  and  quicksands  dared  of  unknown  seas ; 

Immortal  pair,  when  in  yon  spacious  bay 

Ye  moored  awhile  its  wonders  to  survey, 

How  little  thought  ye  that  the  name  from  you 

Its  graceful  shrubs  and  beauteous  wild-flowers  drew 

Would  serve,  in  after  times,  with  lasting  brand, 

To  stamp  the  soil,  and  designate  the  land, 

And  to  ungenial  climes  reluctant  scare 

Full  many  a  hive  that  else  had  settled  there. 

Ah,  why,  Britannia's  pride,  Britannia's  boast, 
Searcher  of  every  sea,  and  every  coast, 
Lamented  Cook,  thou  bravest,  gentlest  heart, 
Why  didst  thou  fall  beneath  a  savage  dart? 
Why  were  thy  mangled  relics  doomed  to  grace 
The  midnight  orgies  of  a  barbarous  race  ? 
Why  could'st  thou  not,  thy  weary  wandering  past, 
At  home  in  honour'd  ease  recline  at  last  ? 
And  like  the  hai)pier  partner  of  thy  way 
In  cloudless  glory  close  life's  setting  day. 
And  thou,  famed  Gallic  captain.  La  Perouse, 
When  from  this  bay  thou  Icd'st  thy  fated  crews, 


524  JK  C.    WENTWOJiTII, 

Did  thy  twin  vessels  sink  beneath  the  shock 

Of  furious  hurricane,  or  hidden  rock  ? 

Fell  ye,  o'erpowered  on  some  barbarian  strand, 

As  fell  before,  De  Langle's  butchered  band  ? 

Lingered  the  remnants  of  thy  shipwrecked  host 

On  some  parched  coral  isle,  some  torrid  coast, — - 

AVhere  no  green  tree,  no  cooling  brook  is  seen, 

Nought  living  is,  or  e'er  before  has  been, 

Save  some  lone  mew,  blown  from  her  rocky  nest, 

Had  lit,  perchance,  her  homeward  wing  to  rest ; 

Till  gnawed  by  want,  with  joy  a  comrade  dead 

They  saw,  and  ravenous  on  his  body  fed. 

And  soon,  his  bones  picked  bare,  with  famished  eye 

Each  glared  around,  then  drew  who  first  should  die, 

Till  of  thy  ghastly  band  the  most  unblest 

Survived, — sad  sepulchre  of  all  the  rest. 

And  now,  his  last  meal  gorged,  with  frenzy  fired, 

And  raging  thirst,  the  last  lorn  wretch  expired. 

Whate'er  thy  fate,  thou  saw'st  the  floating  arks 

That  peopled  this  new  world,  the  teeming  barks 

That  ardent  Philip  led  to  this  far  shore, 

And  seeing  them,  alas  !  wert  seen  no  more. 

Ah  !  couldst  thou  now  behold  what  man  has  done, 

Though  seven  revolving  lustres  scarce  have  run, 

How  wouldst  thou  joy  to  see  the  savage  earth 

The  smiling  parent  of  so  fair  a  birth  ! 

Lo  !  thickly  planted  o'er  the  glassy  bay. 

Where  Sydney  loves  her  beauties  to  survey, 

And  every  morn  delighted  sees  the  beam 

Of  some  fresh  pennant  dancing  in  her  stream, 

A  masty  forest,  stranger  vessels  moor. 

Charged  with  the  fruits  of  every  foreign  shore  ; 

While,  landward, — the  thronged  quay,  the  creaking  crane, 


JF.  C.    WENTWORTH.  525 

The  noisy  workman  and  the  loaded  wain, 

The  lengthened  street,  wide  square,  and  column'd  front 

Of  stately  mansions,  and  the  gushing  font. 

The  solemn  church,  and  busy  market  throng, 

And  idle  loungers  saunt'ring  slow  among — 

The  lofty  windmills  that  with  outspread  sail 

Thick  line  the  hills,  and  court  the  rising  gale, 

Show  that  the  mournful  genius  of  the  plain, 

Driv'n  from  his  primal  solitary  reign. 

Has  backward  fled  and  fix'd  his  drowsy  throne 

In  untrod  wilds  to  muse  and  brood  alone. 

And  thou,  fair  Port,  whose  triad  sister  coves 

Peninsulate  these  walls ;  whose  ancient  groves 

High  low'ring  Southward,  rear  their  giant  form, 

And  break  the  fury  of  the  polar  storm. 

Fairest  of  Ocean's  daughters  !  who  dost  bend 

Thy  mournful  steps  to  seek  thy  absent  friend, 

Whence  she, — coy  wild-rose,  on  her  virgin  couch. 

Fled  loath  from  Parramatta's  am'rous  touch. 

Skirting  thy  wat'ry  path,  lo  !  frequent  stand 

The  cheerful  villas  'midst  their  well-cropp'd  land  ; 

Here  lowing  kine,  there  bounding  coursers  graze, 

Here  waves  the  corn,  and  there  the  woody  maize, 

Here  the  tall  peach  puts  forth  its  pinky  bloom. 

And  there  the  orange  scatters  its  perfume, 

While,  as  the  merry  boatmen  row  along, 

The  woods  are  quicken'd  with  their  lusty  song. 

Nor  here  alone  hath  labour's  victor  band 

Subdued  the  glebe,  and  fertilized  the  land ; 

For  lo,  from  where  at  rocky  Portland's  head 

Reluctant  Hawkesbury  quits  his  sluggard  bed, 

Merging  in  ocean, — to  young  Windsor's  tow'rs, 

And  Richmond's  high  green  hills,  and  native  bow'rs, 


\26  IV.   C.    1  VENT  WORTH. 

Thence  far  along  Nepean's  pebbled  way 

To  those  rich  pastures  where  the  wild  herds  stray, 

The  crowded  farm-house  lines  the  winding  stream 

On  either  side,  and  many  a  plodding  team 

AVith  shining  ploughshare  turns  the  neighb'ring  soil, 

Which  crowns  with  double  crop  the  lab'rer's  toil. 

Hail,  mighty  ridge  !  that  from  thy  azAU'C  brow 

Survey'st  these  fertile  plains,  that  stretch  below, 

And  look'st  with  careless  unobservant  eye, 

As  round  thy  waist  the  forked  lightnings  ply. 

And  the  loud  thunders  spring  with  hoarse  rebound 

From  peak  to  peak,  and  fill  the  welkin  round 

With  deat'ning  voice,  till  with  their  boist'rous  play 

Fatigued  in  mutt'ring  peals  they  stalk  away ; — 

Parent  of  this  deep  stream,  this  awful  flood. 

That  at  thy  feet  its  tributary  mud, 

Like  the  fam'd  Indian,  or  Egyptian  tide. 

Doth  pay,  but  direful  scatters  woe  beside  : — 

Vast  Austral  Giant  of  these  rugged  steeps. 

Within  whose  secret  cells,  rich  glittering  heaps 

Thick  piled  are  doomed  to  sleep  till  some  one  spy 

The  hidden  key  that  opes  thy  treasury ; 

How  mute,  how  desolate  thy  stunted  woods. 

Flow  dread  thy  chasms,  where  many  an  eagle  broods 

How  dark  thy  caves,  how  lone  thy  torrents'  roar. 

As  down  thy  cliffs  precipitous  they  pour. 

Broke  on  our  hearts,  when  first  with  venturous  tread 

We  dared  to  rouse  thee  from  thy  mountain  bed. 

Till,  gained  with  toilsome  steps  thy  rocky  heath, 

We  spied  the  cheering  smokes  ascend  beneath. 

And,  as  a  meteor  shoots  athwart  the  night. 

In  boundless  champaign  burst  upon  our  sight. 

Till,  nearer  seen,  the  beauteous  landscape  grew 

Op'ning  like  Canaan  on  rapt  Israel's  view. 


IF.  R.    WILLS.  527 


A  WANDERING  HEART. 

1'"rom  a  world  that  wearies — from  hope  departed — 
To  the  distant  reahns  of  the  summer  blue  ; 

From  this  cold,  dead  world,  and  the  cruel-hearted, 
To  one  fair  heart  for  ever  true — 

Let  me  but  haste  to  that  distant  haven, 
From  the  frost  of  hate  to  the  summer  blue. 

So  I,  sad -hearted,  went  roaming  over 
The  fairest  lands  of  the  golden  west. 

Seeking  but,  like  the  dove,  some  haven 
Where  I  might  love,  and  be  at  rest ; 

Some  dark  skinned  maiden  to  love  for  ever, 
To  be  beloved  and  love  her  best. 

And  on,  and  on,  over  trackless  regions, 

Where  the  oranges  bloom  and  sunbeams  kiss, 

And  the  peach  grows  faint  with  luscious  juices, 
And  birds  but  sing  of  a  land  of  bliss, 

And  the  cinnamon  tree  and  the  nutmeg  spices 
Meet  the  gentle  zephyrs  with  a  kiss. 

And  there  I  met  with  a  dark-skinned  maiden, 
With  raven  tresses,  eyes  flashing  bright 

Like  twin-stars  glitter,  and  flame  and  glitter. 
When  near  the  throne  of  a  summer's  night ; 

Ah  !  flashing  rays  of  a  smiling  heaven, 

When  heaven  is  seen  t]ir(ji;(:h  the  fiirest  light. 


528  JK  R.    WILLS, 

She  was  not  fair,  but  her  childUke  glances, 
So  coy  and  rare,  and  her  native  grace, 

That  no  lover  ever  saw  such  beauty 
As  I  saw  in  my  darling's  face  ; 

She  was  not  fair,  but  her  love-lit  glances 
Stamp'd  her  the  rarest  of  her  race. 

She  was  not  fair,  but  her  dark  eyes  wandered 
Deep  in  my  soul  like  star-lit  skies  : 

"  Ay  !  ay  !  "  I  cried,  "  if  your  heart  would  ramble 
Deep  in  my  soul  like  your  roaming  eyes, 

I'd  bar  the  door  of  my  heart  for  ever, 
And  hold  thee  as  pirate  holds  a  prize<" 

Then  she  toss'd  her  ringlets,  as  waves  of  summer 
Playfully  sweep  o'er  the  golden  sands, 

So  her  raven  tresses  play'd  and  fluttered 
Around  her  neck  from  their  silver  bands, 

And  she  said,  "  O  !  friend,  could  a  bird  be  joyous 
Tho'  you  built  her  a  cage  with  golden  bands  ? 

"  You  talk  of  gold,  but  the  man  I  marry 
Shall  be  poor  and  humble,  how  could  I 

A  crown  of  gold  on  my  young  head  carry  ? 
'Twould  be  a  butterfly's  death,  I'd  die 

Fluttering  too  near  the  glare  and  glitter, 
Then  pine,  and  wither,  and  fade,  and  die.^ 

"  Ah  !  no  ! "  I  whispered,  "  I'll  guard  thee  ever,- 
Not  a  breath  of  heaven  shall  chill  thy  cheek, 

My  slaves  shall  fan  the  breeze  of  summer. 
And  the  winds  of  heaven  for  thee  be  meek." 


i'F.  A\    IFlLLS. 

"  Ah !  no,"  she  murmured,  "  let  the  winds  of  heaven 
For  ever  fan  and  blush  my  cheek." 

"  I  cannot  come,  for  my  home,  the  forest ; 

My  path  and  thine  are  so  far  apart, 
Thy  breast  with  pearls  and  gems  is  cover'd, 

]\Iy  only  pearl  is  a  loving  heart. 
Thy  pathway  leads  to  Castle  turrets  ; 

Ah  !  mine  and  thine  are  so  far  apart." 

But  I  wooed  and  won,  and  the  summer  blossom 
Play'd  and  toy'd  with  the  gentle  breeze  ; 

No  Eve  had  fairer  realms  or  flowers 

Than  the  bowers  I  built  'neath  orange  trees  ; 

And  morning  came  and  the  evening  shadows. 
But  found  us  loving  beneath  the  trees. 


And  happy  days,  like  the  summer  zephyr, 
Flew  gently  by — and  the  autumn  flowers 

Came  bursting  forth — and  the  lemon  blossoms 
Entwined  their  fragrance  around  our  bowers  ; 

Ah  !  happy  love,  what  cloud  of  sorrow 
Should  mar  the  Eden  of  our  bowers  ? 


I  cannot  tell  the  why  or  wherefore 
My  love  grew  cold,  or  why  I  sigh'd 

For  the  old,  old  places,  and  pale  sweet  faces 
That  I  long'd  to  see  beyond  the  tide. 

But  the  shadow  fell  around  our  dwelling. 
And  oft  for  home  and  my  kin  I  sigh'd. 
35 


530  it:  r.  wills. 

And  my  wandering  heart  kept  wildly  beating 
For  home  and  kin,  and  my  high  estate, 

And  Lady  Hilda  with  flaxen  tresses, 
And  oft  I  fum'd  and  curs'd  my  fate, 

Tho'  I  loved  my  Hela,  my  wedded  Hela ; 
But  I  loved  the  glare  oi  my  high  estate. 

So  I  told  her  gently  one  morn  in  autumn, 
A  wrong  was  done  by  my  lengthened  stay. 

And  none  but  I  that  wrong  could  better ; 
A  few  short  months  I  should  be  away, 

And  then  return  and  live  with  Mela 
Amid  the  snows  of  the  summer  May. 

And  tho'  I  left  her  with  the  lie  I  utter'd, 
She  was  my  love,  and  I  loved  her  best ; 

Like  early  sunbeams  in  purple  weather, 
And  sunny  dreams  of  the  golden  west ; 

But  I  longed  for  home  and  the  glare  and  glitter 
That  gave  my  heart  no  peace,  no  rest. 

And  then  a  welcome  lay  before  me, 
A  thousand  lamps  were  hung  on  trees, 

And  serfs  and  vassals  bowed  before  me 
Like  falling  showers  of  autumn  leaves. 

When  the  winter  King  sends  forth  his  messnge. 
And  boughs  are  bent  on  servile  trees. 

And  Lady  Hilda,  with  flaxen  tresses, 

\Vith  queen-like  step  and  i)ale  sweet  flice, 

That  love,  the  old,  old  love  of  boyhood. 
Did  compass  me,  and  I  deemed  it  grace, 


n:  R.  WILLS.  531 

Tho'  her  heart  was  cold  ;  yet  I  deem'd  no  angel 
Could  own  so  fair  a  form  or  face. 


And  my  heart  went  roaming,  as  birds  of  summer 
Unfold  their  wings  for  warmer  lands  ; 

I  wrote  fair  words  of  love  and  honour, 
But  I  wrote  them  only  on  shifting  sands! 

And  forgetful  waves  of  summer  pleasure, 
But  dash'd  by  vows  from  the  shifting  sands. 


And  yet  I  heard  my  Hcla  singing. 

And  her  song  and  her  love  was  still  to  me 

Like  the  fragrant  blush  of  the  autumn  clover, 
And  the  morning  song  of  the  honey  bee ; 

Ah  !  a  true  heart  pined  in  forest  bower. 
Not  for  my  wealth,  but  alone  for  me. 

But  my  heart  was  like  a  summer  rover, 
Aye,  forgetful  of  a  love  I'd  won, 

And  only  Hilda  now  it  worshipped 

(Forgetting  heart  of  the  wrong  it  done), 

And  I  laid  my  heart  at  the  cold,  cold  beauty 
AMio  spurned  the  gift  too  easy  v.'on. 

What  thus,  said  I,  is  wealth  or  power? 

It  cannot  bring  one  moment's  grace  ; 
True,  it  may  crown  a  heartless  maiden, 

Or  buy  the  smiles  of  a  i)rctty  face ; 
But  a  loving  heart  has  no  chamber  in  it 

To  give  but  wealth  a  dwelling  place. 


532  JV.  A\    WILLS. 

And  my  heart  grew  cold,  and  in  bitter  wailing 
I  thought  of  her  whose  heart  was  true  ; 

What  now  I  cried  is  this  queenly  Hilda 
To  that  Queen  of  mine  in  the  summer  blue 

Whose  heart,  I  know — is  like  the  sunbeam, 
Passionate,  warm,  and  ever  true  ? 

And  ever  and  ever  I  heard  her  singing. 
And  her  song  and  love  were  still  to  me, 

Like  the  fragrant  blush  of  the  early  clover, 
And  the  morning  song  of  the  honey  bee. 

When  night  is  spent  in  bitter  wailing, 
And  peace  comes  over  a  troubled  sea. 

So  weary  and  sad,  with  frail  repining, 
I  hasted  over  the  stormy  wave. 

And  early  on  one  bright  Sabbath  morning 
I  was  kneeling  beside  a  woodland  grave  ; 

0  !  bitter  fate  to  bring  me  wailing 
Over  my  darling's  early  grave  ! 

There  was  only  a  cross  to  tell  the  story, 
"  Hela,"  the  name  the  white  cross  bore, 

But  my  heart  was  chill'd  tho'  madly  beating 
O  !  would  its  beatings  for  aye  were  o'er 

"  Hela,  my  darling,"  I  cried  in  sorrow, 

"Hela,"  the  name  that  the  white  cross  bore. 

1  only  know  my  heart  was  bleeding 

For  the  wrong  I'd  done  to  a  hapless  maid  ; 
1  only  know  I  prayed  and  pleaded. 
That  by  her  side  I  might  soon  be  laid. 


J  p.  R.    WILLS. 


533 


Ay  !  I  pray'd  for  death,  and  to  be  forgiven 
The  wrong  I'd  done  to  a  hapless  maid. 


And  the  rain  came  down  in  thunder  showers, 
And  the  Hghtning  danc'd,  but  still  I  lay, 

Like  a  wretch,  forlorn,  at  the  gate  of  heaven- 
Open,  O  !  grave,  thy  gates,  I  say ! 

And  every  sob  had  the  name  of  "  Hela  !  " 
"  Hela  darling,  come  back,  I  pray  !  " 


And  then  a  soft  hand  press'd  my  forehead, 
And  a  loving  heart  lay  on  my  breast, 

And,  like  a  child,  my  Hela  nestled 
Closer  and  closer  for  love  and  rest, 

And  I  thought  the  gates  of  peace  had  opened. 
And  I  was  with  the  loved  and  blest. 


Ah  !  yes,  'twas  Hela,  my  living  Hela, 

"  And  what  is  the  white  cross  here  to-day  ?  " 

"  Our  little  Hela,"  she  wept  and  answered, 

"  Who  was  born  and  died,  when  you  went  away ; 

I  gave  her  life,  but  the  spirits  stole  her. 
The  time  my  love  was  lost  that  day." 

And  the  sun  shone  out  in  regal  splendour, 
And  joyous  birds  sang  near  their  nests, 

As  hand  in  hand  by  the  white  cross  kneeling, 
We  wept  for  "  Hela  "  who  lay  at  rest, 

And  I  clasp'd  my  darling,  no  more  to  sever 
From  a  wandering  heart  that  loved  her  best. 


534  ^^  R-    WILLS. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

THE     OLD      LAND      AND      THE      NEW. 

Sage  and  bard  in  the  olden  time 

Sang  loving  and  sweet  a  mirthful  rhyme, 

Carol,  or  lay,  or  roundelay, 

Or  hymn  divine ; 
Shall  we  in  the  southern  realm  to-day 
Be  sad  and  silent,  or  glad  and  gay  ? 
Shall  our  hearts  give  forth  a  merry  chime, 
A  carol  of  love  for  Christmas-time  ? 


The  roses  are  out  in  their  summer  garb, 
The  tiger-lily  is  flaunting  gay, 
The  song  of  the  lark  is  soft  and  sweet, 
And  sweet  the  breath  of  the  new-mown  hay  \ 
Over  the  meadows  the  buttercups  throw 
Their  golden  sheen  of  summer  glow, 
And  we  think  of  childhood's  happy  home, 
When  Christmastide  was  white  with  snow. 


Our  hearts  were  true  and  our  spirits  light 
In  the  dear  old  land  so  far  away, 
When  village  bells  rang  a  pleasant  chime 
Of  love  and  peace  for  Christmas  Day : 


JK  R.    WILLS.  535 

And  we  think  of  hearts  which  love  us  yet, 
And  beat  in  unison  with  ours ; 
They  have  true  hearts  amid  the  snow, 
As  ours  are  true  amid  the  flowers. 

^Ve  sit  beneath  the  myrtle  trees, 
And  talk,  dear  motherland,  of  thee ; 
And  fancy  views  the  glowing  fires 
Old  Christmas  brings  with  revelry. 
They  sing  of  peace,  good-will  to  men, 
We  sing  the  same  dear  song  to-day ; 
They  kiss  beneath  the  mistletoe, 
A\'e  kiss  beneath  the  orange  spray. 

We  sing  the  dear  old  English  songs, 
And  weave  a  chaplet  now  and  then, 
And  hearts  will  beat  in  love  and  pride 
In  boasting  we  are  Englishmen. 
And  so  we  sing  this  Christmastide 
A  song,  my  motherland,  to  thee, 
And  pray  that  God  will  watch  and  keep 
Our  Island-home  beyond  the  sea. 

I. 
We  love  the  land  that  gave  us  birth  ; 

Tho'  her  skies  may  not  be  fair 
As  this  new  land  that  smiles  and  laughs 

In  sunbeams  bright  and  rare  ; 
And  though  our  hearts  to  this  new  land 

Will  beat  for  ever  true, 
We'll  not  forget  the  dear  old  land, 

Although  we  love  the  new. 


536  JF.  i?.    J  FILLS. 


Old  England  has  her  woodland  glades, 

And  fields  of  golden  grain; 
This  new  land  glows  with  fern  and  rose 

On  mountain,  hill,  and  plain. 
We  roamed  in  boyhood's  happy  time 

O'er  England's  cowslip  dales, 
To-day  we  tread  with  love  and  pride 

This  new  land's  flowery  vales. 


III. 

We  loved  to  gather  buttercups 

And  daisies  by  the  rills, 
And  listen  to  the  cuckoo's  shout 

In  England's  woodland  hills  ; 
But  now  beneath  the  pine's  deep  shade 

We  work,  and  laugh,  and  sing, 
And  roam  this  new  land's  wild  ravines 

As  free  as  any  king. 


IV. 

The  ocean  tide  may  roll  between 

The  islands  of  the  free. 
But  loving  bonds  of  brotherhood 

Shall  circle  every  sea. 
Our  hearts  still  beat  as  British  hearts. 

To  both  lands  ever  true, 
For  we  fondly  love  the  good  old  land, 

And  dearly  love  the  new. 


JK  li.    WILLS.  537 

Sage  and  bard  in  the  olden  time 
Sang  loving  and  sweet  a  joyful  rhyme, 
And  we  in  the  southern  realm  to-day 
Sing,  "  God  bless  them  who  are  far  away; 
Peace  and  good-will  to  one  and  all, 
The  rich  and  poor,  the  great  and  small, 
And  God's  dear  love  and  grace  beside 
Encompass  all  this  Christmastide." 


538  F.  S.   WILSON. 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MAIL. 

Breaks  a  sun-streak  through  the  casement — streams  its  glory 

on  the  floor, 
And  the  crisp  and  matted  leafage  rustics  round  the  cottage 
door ; 

Where  the  truant  buds  are  climbing, 
Tapping  on  the  glass  and  chiming 
With  the  sounding  burst  of  billows  breaking  on  the  shingly 

shore  ! 
Watching  by  the  open  casement  where  the  starry  blossoms 

cling — 
Listening  to  the  weary  song  the  weeping  waters  ever  sing — 
Sad  and  thoughtful  sits  a  maiden, 
For  her  peaceless  breast  is  laden 
^Vith  the  wish  for  news  of  one  whose  memory  makes  the 

teardrop  spring. 
So  she  watches  where  the  sun  is  fading  on  a  distant  sail — • 
Where  the  scattered  sea-spray  drifts  and  tosses  in  the  summer 
gale. 

And  her  girlish  hcarf  is  throbbing, 
Like  the  cold  wave's  ceaseless  sobbing, 
O  !  for  weary  youth  and  beauty — waiting — waiting  for  the 
Mail ! 

Let    us    track    the   steps   so  longed  for,   o'er  the  parched 

Australian  plain — 
Mark  the   spot   that   heard   the  raving   death-calls  of  his 

thirsty  pain  ! 


F.  S.    WILSON.  539 

See  the  ironbark,  unaltered, 
Sheds  its  leaves  where  footsteps  faltered — 
Footfalls  that  shall  never  greet  the  watchful  glance  of  Love 

again  ! 
When  wild  dreams  of   brattling  creeks  thrust  in   his  ears 

their  phantom  tones, 
Here  he  fell,  and  clutched  for  water  at  the  burning  sand  and 
stones 

Till  the  tortured  spirit  wrestled 
Forth  its  flight — then  'possums  nestled 
In  the  branches,  shyly  wondering  at  the  heap  of  brightening 

bones ! 
There  he  sleeps — and  mouldering  rags  are  wasting  in  the 

heated  gale — 
Peering  from  the  drifting  sand,  they  flutter  forth  a  fearful 
tale. 

I^ove  may  watch  and  wait  for  ever. 
But  the  wished-for  voice  will  never 
Tremble   in   the  ear  of  her  who  watches — waiting  for  the 
Mail ! 


540  THOMAS  L.    WORK. 


ENVOI. 

FROM    "the   AUSTRALIAN    PRINTER'S    KEEPSAKE." 

When  building  up  the  Gothic  type 

In  the  Abbey's  Almonrie, 
Such  labour  must  have  seemed,  in  sooth, 

A  trivial  one  to  see — 
To  print  the  first  book  in  the  land 

Of  Saxon  speech  and  flow ; 
Yet  pregnant  seeds  were  planted  then, 

Four  Hundred  Years  ago. 

Oh  !  great  Reformer  of  that  age. 

Thy  task  had  then  begun, 
And  when  it  ended  time  avowed 

'Tvvas  well  and  wisely  done ; 
For  knowledge  and  fair  liberty 

Alike  to  thee  we  owe  ; 
Thy  efforts  ushered  in  the  twain 

Four  Hundred  Years  ago. 

Tho'  far  removed  by  ocean  wastes 

From  that  dear  Mother  Land, 
We  cherish  her  historic  past. 

We  share  her  triumphs  grand  ; 


THOMAS  L.    WORK.  541 

Exulting  in  her  niiglUy  sons, 

And  in  the  foremost  row 
Is  seen  the  Father  of  our  Craft, 

Four  Hundred  Years  ac-o. 


Immortal  Caxton  !     Rolling  years 

But  add  unto  thy  fame ; 
Where'er  our  English  tongue  is  heard, 

All  venerate  thy  name. 
Even  here,  beneath  the  Austral  Pole, 

Our  hearts  are  all  aglow, 
To  honour  thee  and  thy  emprise 

Four  Hundred  Years  ago. 


APPENDIX    I 


BUSH  SONGS. 

Ey  the  kindness  of  llie  I  Ion.  Mrs.  W.  E.  Cavendish,  her- 
self an  Austrahan,  the  editor  lias  been  enabled  to  lay  before 
English  readers  the  three  Australian  songs  most  sung  in  the 
liush — all  of  them  thoroughly  racy  of  the  soil. 

THE  STOCKMAN'S  LAST  BED. 


Whether  stockman  or  not, 
For  a  moment  give  ear- 
Poor  Jack,  he  is  dead, 
And  no  more  shall  we  hear 
The  crack  of  his  whip, 
Or  his  steed's  lively  trot, 
His  clear  "go  ahead," 
Or  his  jingling  quart  pot. 
For  he  sleeps  where  the  wattles 
Their  sweet  fragrance  shed, 
And  tall  gum-trees  shadow 
The  Stockman's  last  bed  ! 


544  BUSH  SONGS. 


One  day,  while  out  yarding, 

He  was  gored  by  a  steer. 

"Alas  !  "  cried  poor  Jack, 

'"Tis  all  up  with  me  here ;  " 

And  never  shall  I 

The  saddle  regain, 

Or  bound  like  a  wallaby 

Over  the  plain. 

So  they've  laid  him  where  wattles 

Their  sweet  fragrance  shed,  &c. 

III. 

His  whip  at  his  side, 
His  dogs  they  all  mourn, 
His  horse  stands  awaiting 
His  master's  return ; 
While  he  lies  neglected, — • 
Unheeded  he  dies ; 
Save  Australia's  dark  children, 
None  knows  where  he  lies  ; 
For  he  sleeps,  &c. 

IV. 

Then,  Stockman,  if  ever, 

On  some  future  day. 

While  following  a  mob, 

You  should  happen  to  stray — 

Oh  !  pause  by  the  spot : 

Where  poor  Jack's  bones  are  laid. 

Far,  far  from  the  home 

Where  in  childhood  he  strayed. 


BUSH  SONGS.  545 

And  tread  softly  ^Yhere  wattles 
Their  sweet  fragrance  shed, 
And  tall  gum-trees  shadow 
The  Stockman's  last  bed. 


THE  BUSHMAN'S  LULLABY. 

I. 

Lift  me  down  to  the  creek-bank,  Jack  ; 

It  must  be  cooler  outside  : 

The  long  hot  day  is  well-nigh  done, 

It's  a  chance  if  I  see  another  one. 

I  should  like  to  look  on  the  setting  sun, 

And  the  waters  cool  and  wide. 


We  didn't  think  it  would  be  like  this 

Last  week  as  we  rode  together ; 

True  mates  we've  been  in  this  far  land 

For  many  a  day  since  Devon's  strand 

We  left  for  these  wastes  of  sun-scorched  lanu, 

In  the  blessed  English  weather. 

III. 

We  left  when  the  leafy  lanes  were  green, 
And  the  trees  met  overhead; 
The  merry  brooks  ran  clear  and  gay ; 
The  air  was  sweet  with  the  scent  of  hay ; 
How  well  I  remember  the  very  day, 
And  the  words  my  mother  said  ! 
-.6 


546  BUSH  SONGS. 

IV. 

We  have  striven  and  toiled  and  fought  it  out 

Under  the  hard  blue  sky, 

Where  the  plains  glowed  red  in  tremulous  light, 

Where  the  haunting  mirage  mocked  the  sight 

Of  desperate  men  from  morn  till  night, 

And  the  streams  had  long  been  dry. 

V. 

Where  we  dug  for  gold  on  the  mountain  side, 
Where  the  ice-fed  river  ran. 
Through  frost  and  blast,  through  fire  and  snow, 
Where  an  Englishman  could  live  and  go, 
We've  followed  our  luck  for  weal  or  woe, 
And  never  asked  help  from  man. 


x^nd  now  it's  over,  it's  hard  to  die, 

Ere  the  summer  of  life  is  o'er, 

Ere  time  has  printed  one  single  mark, 

When  the  pulse  beats  high,  and  the  limbs  are  stark, 

And,  oh  God,  to  see  home  no  more ! 


VII. 

No  more  !  No  more  !     Ah  !  vain  the  vow, 
That,  whether  rich  or  poor. 
Whatever  the  years  might  bring  or  change, 
I  would  one  day  stand  by  the  grey  old  grange. 
While  the  children  gathered,  all  shy  and  strange, 
As  I  entered  the  well-known  door. 


BUS/l  SONGS.  547 

VIII. 

You  will  go  home  to  the  old  place,  Jack  ; 
Tell  my  mother  from  me 
That  I  thought  of  the  words  she  used  to  say, 
Her  looks,  her  tone,  as  I  dying  lay  ; 
That  I  prayed  to  God  as  I  used  to  pray 
^Vhen  1  knelt  beside  her  knee. 


IX. 

lly  the  lonely  water  they  made  their  couch, 

And  the  southern  night  fast  fled  ; 

They  heard  the  wild  fowl  splash  and  cry, 

They  heard  the  mourning  reeds  low  sigh. 

Such  was  the  Bushman's  lullaby ; 

With  the  dawn  his  soul  was  sped. 


CARELESS  JEM. 


His  other  name  ?     'Well,  there  Em  stumped 

He  was  tall,  sir,  dark  and  slim, 

And  we — that  is,  my  mates  and  I — 

Just  called  him  "  Careless  Jim," 

That  was  all  we  knew — to  his  other  name 

No  thought  we  ever  gave, 

Until  one  day,  at  the  foot  of  the  mount, 

When  we  laid  him  in  his  grave. 


548  BUSH  SOA'GS. 


There  were  four  of  us  all  young  and  wild, 
You  know  what  the  times  were  then — 
But  you  see  that  gap  in  the  mountain,  Miss — 
That  gap  in  the  Fern-tree  Glen — 
'Twas  there  we  lived  in  a  hut  so  rude, 
But  you  know  what  the  huts  were  then  ! 
That  house  there's  mine,  but  I've  often  wished 
For  those  times  in  the  Fern-tree  Glen. 


III. 

We  had  no  care — a  quarrel  at  times 

Might  the  light  of  our  lives  bedim, 

But  a  jump  between  and  "  Don't  be  fools  " 

Would  come  from  Careless  Jim. 

So  our  lives  sped  on  unruffled,  unchanged, 

Till  a  day  all  dreary,  when 

A  shadow  fell  on  the  rude  old  hut 

That  we  built  in  the  Fern-tree  Glen. 


IV. 

It  was  night,  and  beside  a  rough  bush  bed 

We  stood  with  our  eyes  all  dim. 

Watching  the  flickering  lamp  of  life 

In  the  face  of  Careless  Jim. 

How  bright  at  times  it  seemed  to  burn, 

And  then  how  faint  its  glow  ! 

But  'twas  sinking  fast,  and  we  heard  a  voice 

Cry,  "  Good-bye,  boys — I  go." 


BUSH  SONGS.  549 


Wc  dug  a  grave  whore  the  brook  babbles  on, 

Beneath  the  Fern-tree's  shade, 

And  between  two  sheets  of  the  white-gum  bark 

The  form  of  Jim  we  laid  ; 

Then  with  spade  in  hand  all  mute  we  stood, 

Chained  as  it  were  by  a  spell, 

Waiting  each  for  the  other  to  heap  the  clay 

On  the  clay  we  loved  so  well. 


VI. 

'Twas  done  at  length — yet  I  scarce  know  how, 
For  not  a  word  was  said  ; 
And  a  creeper  we  set  at  the  foot  of  that  grave, 
And  a  box-tree  at  his  head. 
And  we  carved  his  name  on  a  blue  gum  near. 
Leastways  all  we  knew, 
In  a  rough,  irregular  sort  of  way — 
"Jim,   1852." 


VII. 

Ten  years  ago  I  saw  that  grave  ; 
The  brook  babbled  on  as  before  ; 
But  the  box-tree  had  pushed  the  fern  aside. 
And  the  creeper  was  there  no  more  ; 
But  I  alone,  sir,  know  that  spot 
(For  my  mates  are  sleeping  too), 
And  I  carved  once  more  on  the  blue-gum  tree, 
"Jim,   1852." 


APPENDIX  II. 


THE  ATHENyEUM  REVIEW  OF  KENDALL'S 
MANUSCRIPT  POEMS. 

A  WRITER  in  the  BritisJi  Weekly  of  February  24th,  evidently 
a  careful  student  of  Australian  literature,  and  other  corre- 
spondents have  asked  me  why  I  did  not  allude  to  the  now 
famous  critique  in  the  AtJienmim  of  September  27,  1862, 
on  some  poems  sent  by  Kendall  in  manuscript — a  review 
which  does  infinite  credit  to  the  sagacity  and  good-hearted- 
ness  of  the  then  editor  (Mr.  Hepworth  Dixon).  At  this 
distance  of  time,  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century,  it  will 
be  interesting  to  many  readers  to  see  this  review  in  exteuso. 
Pace  what  the  writer  in  the  British  IVeekly  says,  the  poems 
in  this  volume  are  mostly  distinctly  inferior  to  Kendall's 
best  work. 

A'FHEN.qiUM,  September  27,   1862, 

We  have  sent  out  poets  to  Australia, — among  others  the 
author  of  "  Orion,"  and  Australia  cannot  as  yet  be  said  to 
have  paid  us  back  in  poetic  coin.  Not  that  there  is  failure 
of  musical  issue  on  that  continent.  Indeed,  much  verse  is 
in  circulation  among  the  gold-finders  and  the  backwoodsmen. 
From  Hobart  Town  to  Morelon  Bay  every  newspaper  has 


THE  "  A  THENCE  UM  "  ON  KENDALL.        5  5 1 

its  poets,  who  set  events  to  music,  like  tlie  Grecian  singers 
and  the  Northern  skalds.  Of  the  rhymes  of  these  poets, 
not  a  trifle  finds  its  way  to  Wellington  Street,  Strand.  By 
nearly  every  mail  comes  an  appeal  from  the  neglect  which 
genius  finds  in  the  Colonies  to  the  more  liberal  and  im- 
partial literary  courts  of  the  mother-country,  justified  by 
parcels  of  manuscript  verse  and  newspaper  cuttings,  which 
the  hopeful  writer  expects  us  to  read  with  patience  and 
indulgence.  ^Vho  could  refuse  ?  The  poor  fellow— often 
a  clever  fellow — lives  16,000  miles  away.  He  has  no  friends 
on  this  northern  side  of  the  glol)e.  You  do  not  know  liini. 
He  has  never  seen  you — perhaps  never  will  see  you.  He 
has  no  other  claim  on  your  kindness  than  his  poverty  of  re- 
source. Often  his  appeal  against  the  injustice  of  Colonial 
editors  has  very  slight  foundation  :  his  verses  halt,  his  cases 
dititer,  his  illustrations  fL^il.  But  we  read  with  hope.  From 
a  new-  country  should  come,  in  time,  a  new  literature. 
Those  images  of  a  virgin  nature,  found  in  the  sky  and 
landscape,  in  the  fauna  and  flora  of  Australia,  must  one  day 
speak  to  the  true  poet  and  find  an  utterance  in  his  song. 
All  the  poetry  of  a  new  land  will  not  escape  in  action.  If  a 
Burke  lives  his  poem,  some  Tennyson  may  arise  to  write  it. 
One  day  or  other  we  shall  catch  the  brightness  of  an  Aus- 
tralian sky  on  the  page  of  an  Australian  bard.  By  the  last 
mail  from  Sydney  came  to  us  the  usual  parcel  from  an 
unknown  hand.  The  note  which  accompanies  the  verses 
sent  for  our  inspection  is  dated  Sydney,  and  signed  Henry 
Kendall.  It  contains  all  that  we  know  of  the  young  poet, 
and  w-e  place  it  textually  before  the  reader  as  a  proper  intro- 
duction to  the  verses  wc  shall  quote  : 

"SvDNF.v,  Nkw  South  Wales,  yiily  19,  1S62. 
"The  inclosed  papers  will  have  travelled   i6,oco  miles 


552  THE  '' ATHEN^UM'' 

when  you  receive  them,  and  on  that  account  I  liope  you  will 
read  them.  I  am  an  Australian  and  a  self-educated  one  j 
hence  there  may  be  technical  errors  in  what  I  send.  Their 
immaturity  must  be  passed  over  for  the  reason  that  I  have 
not  reached  my  twentieth  year.  In  a  maze  of  '  crude  imita- 
tions '  perhaps  if  there  is  anything  holding  out  a  promise  of 
future  excellence  tell  me  of  it.  Don't  turn  from  me,  as 
others  have  done,  because  I  am  a  native  of  a  country  yet 
unrepresented  in  literature,  but  read  what  is  sent  before 
you  condemn.  Rejecting  the  magnificent  patronage  of  our 
would-be  literary  magnates,  I  appeal  to  a  greater  authority 
for  kinder  treatment.  If  there  is  hope,  give  me  some  en- 
couragement by  noticing  me  in  your  journal ;  if  there  is 
none,  I  shall  be  satisfied  with  your  decision.  I  cannot  send 
any  of  my  later  writings,  because  they  are  too  long,  and  too 
Australian  to  be  cared  for  by  Englishmen.  They,  at  least, 
are  my  own.  But  even  in  these,  which  were  written  while  I 
was  in  my  eighteenth  year,  I  have  striven  to  be  original. 
And  a  very  good  opportunity  I  have  had,  being  not  in  a 
position  to  afford  to  buy  books,  and  living  out  of  the  reach 
of  them,  in  the  backwoods  of  the  Colony. 

"  I  am,  &c., 

"  Henry  Kendall." 


Our  readers  will  have  guessed  by  our  introduction  that 
we  think  better  of  Mr.  Kendall's  verse  than  of  the  usual 
receipts  from  Australia.  Mr.  Kendall  has  much  to  learn  ; 
but  he  has  received  from  Nature  some  of  that  strong  poetic 
faculty  and  power  which  no  amount  of  learning  can  bestow. 
The  spirit  of  nearly  all  the  writings  under  our  hand  is  dark 
and  sorrowful,  but  of  their  energy  and  vigour  there  can  be 
little  doubt.     The  following  song  has  not  been  printed  : — 


ON'  KE.NDALL  553 


THE  RIVER  AND  THE  HILL. 

They  shook  their  sweetness  out  in  their  sleep, 

On  the  brink  of  that  beautiful  stream  ; 
But  it  wandered  along  with  a  wearisome  song 
Like  a  lover  that  walks  in  a  dream  : 

So  the  roses  blew 

When  the  winds  went  through, 
In  the  moonlight  so  white  and  so  still ; 

But  the  River  it  beat 

All  night  at  the  feet 
Of  a  cold  and  flinty  hill— 
Of  a  hard  and  senseless  hill ! 

I  said,  "  We  have  often  showered  our  loves 

Upon  something  as  dry  as  the  dust ; 
And  the  faith  that  is  crost,  and  the  hearts  that  arc 

lost — 
Oh  !  how  can  we  wittingly  trust  ? 

[Like  the  stream  which  flows, 

And  wails  as  it  goes, 
Through  the  moonlight  so  soft  and  still, 

But  you  beat  and  you  beat 

All  night  at  the  feet 
Of  that  cold  and  flinty  hill — 
Of  that  hard  and  senseless  hill  ? 

"  River,  I  stay  where  the  sweet  roses  blow, 
And  drink  of  their  pleasant  perfumes  : 

Oh  !  why  do  you  moan,  in  this  world  alone, 
When  so  much  affection  here  blooms  ?] 


554  THE  '' ATHENyEUM'' 

The  winds  wax  faint, 

And  the  moon  hke  a  Saint 
Glides  over  the  waters  so  white  and  still, 

But  you  hear  me  and  beat 

All  night  at  the  feet 
Of  that  cold  and  flinty  hill— 
Of  that  hard  and  senseless  hill. 

[Note  by  the  Editor. — The  last  seven  lines  of  Verse  2  and  first 
four  lines  of  Verse  3  are  omitted  in  the  At]ieuaii))i.'\ 


"  Kiama,"  the  name  of  the  poem  we  shall  next  lay  before 
the  reader,  is  a  hamlet  on  the  coast  of  New  South  Wales, 
about  eighty  miles  south  of  Sydney. 

[Note  by  the  Editor. — In  the  Athemrii»i''s  article  the  first  two 
verses  are  not  quoted.] 

KIAMA. 

Toward  the  hills  of  Jamboroo 
Some  few  fantastic  shadows  haste, 

Uplit  with  fires 

Like  castle  spires 
Outshining  through  a  mirage  waste, 
Behold  a  mournful  glory  sits 
On  feathered  ferns  and  woven  brakes, 
Where  sobbing  wild,  like  restless  child. 
The  gusty  breeze  of  evening  w^kes  ! 
Methinks  I  hear  on  every  breath 
A  lofty  tone  go  passing  by, 

That  whispers — "  Weave, 

Though  wood-winds  grieve. 
The  fadeless  blooms  of  Poesy  !  " 


ON  KENDALL.  555 

A  spirit  liand  lias  been  abroad — 
An  evil  hand  to  pluck  the  flowers ; 

A  world  of  wealth 

And  blooming  health 
Has  gone  from  fragrant  seaside  bowers. 
The  twilight  waxeth  dim  and  dark, 
The  sad  waves  mutter  sounds  of  woe, 
lint  the  evergreen  retains  its  sheen, 
And  happy  hearts  exist  below  ! 
But  pleasure  sparkles  on  the  sward, 
And  voices  utter  words  of  bliss  ; 

And  while  my  bride 

Sits  by  my  side, 
O  1  Where's  the  scene  surpassing  this  ? 

Kiama  slumbers  robed  with  mist, 
All  glittering  in  the  dewy  light 

That,  brooding  o'er 

The  shingly  shore, 
Lies  resting  in  the  arms  of  night ! 
And  foam-flecked  crags  with  surges  chill, 
And  rocks  embraced  by  cold-lipped  spray. 
Are  moaning  loud  where  billows  crowd, 
In  angry  numbers,  up  the  bay. 
The  holy  stars  come  looking  down 
On  windy  heights  and  swarthy  strand  ; 

And  Life  and  Love — 

The  cliffs  above — ■ 
Are  sitting  fondly  hand  in  hand. 

And  life  and  love,  &c. 

I  hear  a  music,  inwardly. 

That  floods  my  soul  with  thoughts  of  joy  ; 


5s6  THE  ^'-  ATHEN^t/M" 

"Within  my  heart 

Emotions  start, 
That  Time  may  still  but  ne'er  destroy 
An  ancient  spring  revives  itself, 
And  days  which  made  the  Past  divine  ; 
And  rich  warm  gleams  from  golden  Dreams 
All  glorious  in  their  summer  shine  ! 
And  songs  of  half-forgotten  hours, 
And  many  a  sweet  melodious  strain 

Which  still  shall  rise 

Beneath  the  skies. 
When  all  things  else  have  died  again. 
Which  still  shall  rise,  &c. 

A  white  sail  glimmers  out  at  sea — 
A  Vessel  walking  in  her  sleep. 

Some  power  goes  past 

That  bends  the  mast 
While  frighted  waves  to  leeward  leap  ! 
The  moonshine  veils  the  naked  sand, 
And  ripples  upward  with  the  tide ; 
As  underground  there  rolls  a  sound 
From  where  the  caverned  waters  glide. 
A  face  that  bears  affection's  glow. 
The  soul  that  speaks  from  gentle  eyes, 

And  joy  which  slips 

From  loving  lips, 
Hath  made  this  spot  my  paradise  ! 

And  joy  which  slips,  &c. 

The  peculiar  mark  of  Mr.  Kendall's  genius — a  wild,  dark, 
Miiller-like  power  of  landscape  painting — is  less  visible  in 
these  little  pieces  than  in  the  following  one  : —    . 


ON  KEXDALL.  557 


FAINTING  BY  THE  WAY. 

Swarthy  wastelands,  wide  and  woodless,  glittering  miles 

and  miles  away, 
Where  the  south  wind  seldom  wanders,  and  the  winters  will 

not  stay, — 
Lurid  wastelands,  pent  in  silence  thick  with  hot  and  thirsty 

sighs, 
Where  the  scanty  thorn-leaves  twinkle  with  their  haggard, 

hopeless  eyes ; 
Furnaced  wastelands,  hunched  with  hillocks  like  to  stony 

billows  rolled, 
Where  the  naked  flats  lie  swirling,  like  a  sea  of  darkening 

gold,— 
Burning  wastelands,  glancing  upwards,  with  a  weird  and 

vacant  stare, 
Where  the  languid  heavens  quiver  o'er  red  depths  of  stirless 

air  ! 

"  O  my  brother,  I  am  weary  of  this  wildering  waste  of  sand; 
In  the  noontide  we  can  never  travel  to  the  promised  land! 
Lo  !  the  desert  broadens  round  us,  glaring  wildly  in  my 

face, 
With  long  leagues  of  sunflame  on  it — O  !  the  barren,  barren 

place ! 
See,  behind  us  gleams  a  green  plot :  shall  we  thither  turn 

and  rest 
Till  a  cool  wind  flutters  over — till  the   Day  is  down  the 

west  ? 
I  would  follow,  but  I  cannot !     Brother,  let  me  here  remain 
For   the   heart  is   dead  within   me,   and    I    may  not   rise 

again  !  " 


5S8  THE  ''  ATHEN.EUM'' 

"  Wherefore  stay  to  talk  of  fainting  ?    Rouse  thee  for  awhile, 

my  friend ; 
Evening  hurries  on  our  footsteps,  and  this  journey  soon  will 

end; — 
Wherefore  stay  to  talk  of  fainting  when  the  Sun  with  sinking 

fire 
Smites  the  blocks  of  broken  thunder  blackening  yonder 

craggy  spire  ? 
Even  now  the  far-off  landscape  broods  and  fills  with  coming 

change. 
And  a  withered  Moon  grows  brighter,  bending  o'er  that 

shadowed  range ; 
At  the  feet  of  grassy  summits  sleeps  a  water  calm  and  clear — 
There  is  surely  rest  beyond  it !    comrade,  wherefore  tarry 

here  ? 


"  Yet  a  little  longer  struggle  ;    we  have  walked  a  wilder 

plain, 
And  have  met  more  troubles,  trust  me,  than  we  e'er  shall 

meet  again  ! 
Can  you  think  of  all  the  dangers   you  and  I  are  living 

through. 
With  a  soul  so  weak  and  fearful — with  the  doubts  /  never 

knew  ? 
Dost  thou  not  remember  that  the  thorns  are  clustered  with 

the  rose  ; 
And  that  every  Zinlike  border  may  a  pleasant  land  en- 
close? 
Oh  !  across  these  sultry  deserts  many  a  fruitful  scene  we'll 

find ; 
And  the  blooms  we  gather  shall  be  worth  tlic  wounds  they 

leave  behind." 


av  KENDALL.  559 

"Ah,   my  brother,   it   is    useless!    see,   o'erburdened  with 

their  load, 
All  the  friends  who  went  before  us  fall  or  fitlter  by  the 

road; 
^Ve  have  come  a  weary  distance  seeking  what  we  may  not 

get ;_ 
And  I  think  we  are  but  children  chasing  rainbows  through 

the  wet ! 
Tell  me  not  of  vernal  valleys  !     Is  it  well  to  hold  a  reed 
Out  for  drowning  men  to  clutch  at  in  the  moments  of  their 

need  ? 
Go  thy  journey  on  without  me,  it  is  better  I  should  stay, 
Since   my  life   is   like   an    evening  fading,   swooning,  fast 

away. 


"Where  are  all  the  springs  you  talked  of?     Have  I  not 

with  pleading  mouth 
Looked  to  Heaven  through  a  silence  stifled  in  the  crimson 

drouth  ? 
Have  I  not,  with  lips  unsated,  watched  to  see  the  fountains 

burst, 
Where  I   searched  the  rocks  for  cisterns,  and  they  only 

mocked  my  thirst  ? 
Oh  !    I  dreamt  of  countries  fertile  bright  with   lakes  and 

flashing  rills 
Leaping  from  their  shady  caverns,  streaming  round  a  thou- 
sand hills  ! 
Leave  me,  brother, — all  is  fruitless, — barren,  measureless, 

and  dry ; 
And  my  God  will  never  help  me,  though  I  pray,  and  faint, 

and  die." 


56o       THE  '' ATHENE UM"  ON  KENDALL. 

"  Up  !— I   tell   thee  this  is  idle  !      O  thou  man  of  little 

faith ;  [death  ! 

Doubting  on  the  verge  of  Aidenn,  turning  now  to  covet 
By  the  fervent  hopes  within  me — by  the  strength  which 

nerves  my  soul — 
By  the  heart  that  yearns  to  help  thee,  we  shall  live  and 

reach  the  goal  ! 
Rise  and  lean  thy  weight  upon  me  !  Life  is  fair,  and  God  is 

just  !  [trust  ; 

And  He  yet  will  show  us  fountains  if  we  only  look  and 
O  !  I  know  it,  and  He  leads  us  to  the  glens  of  stream  and 

shade,  [cannot  fade." 

^Vhere  the  low  sweet  waters  gurgle  round  the  banks  which 

"Thus  he  spake,  my  friend  and  brother;  and  he  took  me 
by  the  hand, 

And  I  think  we  walked  the  desert  till  the  night  was  on  the 
land.  [stream 

Then  we  came  to  ilovvery  hollows,  where  we  heard  a  far-off 

Singing  in  the  moony  twilight  like  the  rivers  of  my  dream. 

And  the  balmy  winds  came  tripping  softly  through  the 
pleasant  trees, 

And  I  thought  they  bore  a  murmur  like  a  voice  from  sleep- 
ing seas.  [part 

So  we  travelled — so  we  reached  it ;  and  I  never  more  will 

With  the  peace,  as  calm  as  sunset,  folded  round  my  weary 
heart." 

Most  readers  who  examine  the  structure  of  these  pieces 
will  agree  with  us  that  a  man  who  can  execute  such  work  at 
the  age  of  twenty  may  hope,  in  his  riper  years  and  ex- 
perience, to  be  heard  of  again  in  the  world  of  letters, 


APPENDIX  III. 


"  FIRST  FRUITS  OF  AUSTRALIAN  POETRY." 

The   following    letter  appeared  in  the  Academy,  Feb.   i8, 
1888  :— 

"  THE    FIRST    AUSTRALIAN    POET. 

"London,  Feb.  14,  1888. 
"  I  am  a  little  surprised  to  find  that,  in  his  '  Australian 
Ballads  and  Rhymes,'  Mr.  Douglas  Sladen  makes  no 
mention  of  Charles  Lamb's  and  Wordsworth's  friend,  Barron 
Field,  and  that  your  reviewer  does  not  pull  him  up  for  the 
omission.  Field's  '  First  Fruits  of  Australian  Poetry  '  was 
privately  printed  by  him  at  Sydney,  New  South  Wales  (where 
he  was  a  judge  of  the  Supreme  Court),  in  181 9,  and  was 
reviewed  by  Lamb  in  Leigh  Hunt's  Examiner  for  January 
16,  1820.  The  review  is  reprinted  in  the  popular  editions 
of  Lamb's  '  Works,'  unfortunately  without  the  quotation  he 
made  of  the  capital  verses  on  the  kangaroo.  The  privately 
printed  volume  would  appear  to  have  contained  only  two 
poems  :  '  Botany  Bay  Flowers  '  and  '  The  Kangaroo  ' ;  but 
with  these  Field  printed  several  others  in  the  appendix  to 
his  *  Geographical  Memoirs  on  New  South  Wales  :  by 
Several  Hands,'  published  by  John  Murray  in  1825.     Mr. 

37 


562  "  FIRST  FRUITS  OF 

Field's  verses  are  strictly   '  Australian,'   and  deserved    the 
place  of  honour  in  any  collection  such  as  Mr.  Sladen's. 

"  J.  Dykes  Campbell." 

To  enable  the  public  to  judge  the  "First  Fruits"  for 
themselves,  the  two  poems  contained  in  the  publication  are 
here  appended.  According  to  Mr.  Henniker-Heaton,  M.P.'s, 
"  Australian  Dictionary  of  Dates,"  the  standard  work  on  the 
subject,  they  had  been  anticipated  twenty-three  years  by 
the  prologue  of  George  Barrington's,  printed  in  our  text. 


BOTANY  BAY  FLOWERS. 

God  of  this  planet  !  for  that  name  best  fits 

The  purblind  view  which  men  of  this  "  dim  spot ' 

Can  take  of  Thee,  the  God  of  suns  and  spheres  ! 

What  desert  forests  and  what  barren  plains 

Lie  unexplored  by  European  eye, 

In  what  our  fathers  called  tJie  great  South  Land  I 

Ev'n  in  those  tracts  which  we  have  visited, 

Though  thousands  of  thy  vegetative  works 

Have,  by  the  hand  of  Science  (as  'tis  called). 

Been  murdered  and  dissected,  pressed  and  dried, 

Till  all  their  blood  and  beauty  are  extinct, 

And  named  in  barbarous  Latin,  men's  surnames, 

With  terminations  of  the  Roman  tongue  : 

Yet  tens  of  thousands  have  escaped  the  search. 

The  decimation,  the  alive-impaling, 

Nick-naming  of  God's  creatures — 'scaped  it  all. 

Still  fewer  (perhaps  none)  of  all  these  flowers 

Have  been  by  poet  sung.     Poets  are  few, 

And  botanists  are  many,  and  good  cheap. 


.•/  USTRA  LI  AN  JVETK  ]?'  56; 

When  first  I  landed  on  Australia's  shore 

(I  neither  botanist  nor  poet  truly, 

But  less  a  seeker  after  facts  than  truth) 

A  flower  gladdened  me  above  the  rest, 

Shaped  trumpet-like,  which  from  a  leafy  stalk 

Hung  clustering,  hyacinthine,  crimson  red 

Melting  to  white.     Botanic  science  calls 

The  plant  epacris  grandijlora,  gives 

Its  class,  description,  habitat,  then  draws 

A  line.     The  bard  of  truth  would  moralize 

The  flower's  beauty,  which  caught  first  my  eye  ; 

But,  having  lived  the  circle  of  the  year, 

I  found  (and  then  he'd  sing  in  Beauty's  praise) 

This  the  sole  plant  that  never  ceased  to  bloom, 

Nor  here  would  stop  : — at  length,  first  love  and  fair. 

And  fair  and  sweet,  and  sweet  and  constant,  pall 

(Alas,  for  poor  humanity  !),  and  then 

The  new,  the  pretty,  and  the  unexpected, 

Ensnare  the  fancy.     Thus  it  was  with  me 

When  first  I  spied  the  flow'ret  in  the  grass 

Which  forms  the  subject  of  this  humble  song, 

And  (treason  to  my  wedded  flower)  cried  : — 

Th'  Australian  "  fringed  violet  " 

Shall  henceforward  be  my  pet ! 

Oh  !  had  this  flow'r  been  seen  by  him 

Who  called  Europa's  "violets  dim. 

Sweeter  than  lids  of  Juno's  eyes," 

He  had  not  let  this  touch  suffice. 

But  had  pronounced  it  (I  am  certain) 

Of  Juno's  eye  the  "  fringt  d  curtain  " — 

Picked  phrase  for  eye-lid,  which  the  poet 

Has  used  elsewhere  ;  and  he  will  know  it 


S64  ''FIEST  FRUITS  OF 

Who  in  his  dramas  is  well  versed, 

Vide  "The  Tempest,"  Act  the  First. 

But  I  am  wandering  from  my  duty  : 

First  to  describe  ray  fringe-eyed  beauty. 

'Tis  then  a  floss-edged  lilac  flower, 

That  opens  only  after  ram, 

Once,  and  never  blows  again  ; 

Shuts  too  on  early  evening's  hour, 

Soon  as  the  sun  has  lost  its  power, 

Tike  a  fairy's  parasol 

(If  fairies  walk  by  day  at  all) ; 

Or,  it  may  quicker  gain  belief 

To  call  it  her  silk  neckerchief, 

Dropt  before  she  blest  the  place 

With  her  last  night's  dancing  grace : 

For  surely  fairies  haunt  a  land 

Where  they  may  have  the  free  command 

Of  beetles,  flowers,  butterflies, 

Of  such  enchanting  tints  and  dyes  : 

Not  beetles  black  (forbidden  things), 

But  beetles  of  enamell'd  wings. 

Or  rather  coats  of  armour,  bossed, 

And  studded  till  the  groundwork's  lost. 

Then,  for  all  other  insects, — here 

Queen  Mab  would  have  no  cause  to  fear 

For  her  respectable  approach, 

Lest  she  could  not  set  up  her  coach. 

Here's  a  fine  grub  for  a  coach-maker, 

Good  as  in  fairy-land  Long  Acre  ; 

And  very-long-indeed-legged  spinners 

To  make  her  waggon-spokes,  the  sinners  \ 

And  here  are  winged  grasshoppers, 

And,  as  to  gnats  for  waggoners, 


AUSTRALIAN  poetry:'  565 

We  have  mosquitoes  will  suffice 

To  drive  her  team  of  atomies. 

If  therefore  she  and  her  regalia 

Have  never  yet  been  in  Australia, 

I  recommend  a  voyage  to  us 

On  board  the  paper  nautilus  ; 

But  I  incline  to  the  opinion 

That  we  are  now  in  her  dominion  ; 

Peri  or  fairies  came  from  the  East, 

D'Herbelot  tells  us  so,  at  least ; 

And  we  dream  all  those  self-same  dreams 

Which  (from  Mercutio)  it  seems 

We  owe  to  Mab's  deliv'rancy. 

As  midwife  and  queen  faery. 

Puck  talks  of  putting  round  the  earth, 

In  forty  minutes'  time,  a  girth  : 

Ob'ron,  though  he  '•'  the  groves  may  tread 

Till  the  Eastern  gate,  all  fiery  red, 

Opens  on  Neptune  with  fair  beams. 

And  turn  to  gold  his  salt-green  streams  : " 

Yet  chooses  he,  "  in  silence  sad, 

To  trip  after  the  night's  shade  : 

He  the  globe  can  compass  soon. 

Swifter  than  the  wand'ring  moon  :  " 

And  Queen  Titania's  made  to  say 

That  she  had  been  in  India, 

And  had  a  mortal  votress  there. 

As  I  hope  too,  among  the  fair 

Of  this  young  land  of  Shakespeare's  tongue, 

That  she  has  here  : — I've  else  judged  wrong. 

Enough,  then,  of  the  fairies  and  the  flower ; 
And,  as  mistaking  Puck  must  sure  have  squeezed 


566  "  FIRST  FR  UFFS  OF 

The  juice  of  that  same  little  purple  flower 

(Why  may  it  not,  ye  botanists,  be  called 

A  species  of  Lcn'e  in  Idleness  ! 

Only  because,  perhaps,  Jussieu  would  say 

It  is  no  violet),  and  dropt  the  liquor 

Into  my  sleeping  eyes,  to  make  me  change 

My  love,  as  erst  Lysander  did  to  Helen 

From  Hermia.     So  may  the  fairy  king, 

Just  Oberon,  see  good  to  break  the  spell 

With  the  epacris'  juice  ;  more  med'cinal 

Than  moly  or  than  harmony — that  moly 

That  Hermes  once  to  wise  Ulysses  gave 

To  disenthral  his  crew  from  Circe's  charms, 

Or  than  that  harmony  of  sovran  use 

'Gainst  the  enchantments  of  her  son,  great  Comu  ^  ; 

Th'  epacris,  whose  least  dew-drop  has  the  virtue 

To  take  from  eyes  all  error,  that  when  next 

They  wake,  all  this  may  seem  a  fruitless  dream. 

"  My  heart  with  that  but  as  guest-wise  sojourn'd, 

And  now  to  this  flower  is  at  home  returned. 

There  to  remain. 

Be  as  thou  wast  wont  to  be  ; 

See  as  thou  wast  wont  to  see ; 

Dian's  bud  o'er  Cupid's  flower 

Hath  such  force  and  blessed  power." 

Dian  that's  lady  of  the  leaf, 

As  Love  is  of  the  flower  chief. 

The  flower  lives  for  half  a  day, 

"  The  life  is  in  the  leaf"  for  aye. 


A  USTRALIAN  POETR  I V  567 

THE  KANGAROO. 

Kangaroo  !  kangaroo  ! 

Thou  spirit  of  Australia, 

That  redeems  from  utter  fiailurc, 

From  perfect  desolation, 

And  warrants  the  creation 

Of  this  fifth  part  of  the  earth  ; 

Which  would  seem  an  after-l)irth, 

Not  conceived  in  tlie  beginning 

(For  God  blessed  his  work  at  first, 

And  saw  that  it  was  good), 

But  emerged  at  the  first  sinning, 

When  the  ground  was  therefore  curst  :  — 

And  hence  this  barren  wood  ! 

Kangaroo,  Kangaroo, 

Tho'  at  first  sight  we  should  say 

In  thy  nature  that  there  may 

Contradiction  be  involved. 

Yet,  like  discord,  well  resolved, 

It  is  quickly  harmonized. 

Sphynx  or  mermaid  realized, 

Or  centaur  unfabulous, 

Would  scarce  be  more  prodigious, 

Or  labyrinthine  minotaur, 

With  which  great  Theseus  did  war, 

Or  Pegasus  poetical ; 

Or  hijipogriff — chimeras  all ! 

But,  what  Nature  would  com[)ile, 

Nature  knows  to  reconcile ; 

And  wisdom,  ever  at  her  side, 

Of  all  her  children  's  justified. 


568  '' FIRST  FR  UITS  OF  A  USTRALIAN  POETR  K*' 

She  had  made  the  squirrel  fragile, 
She  had  made  the  bounding  hart, 
But  a  third  so  strong  and  agile, 
Was  beyond  ev'n  Nature's  art ; 
So  she  joined  the  former  two 

In  thee,  Kangaroo  ! 
To  describe  thee  it  is  hard, 
Converse  of  the  camelopard, 
Which  beginneth  camel-wise, 
But  endeth  of  the  panther  size ; 
Thy  fore  half,  it  would  appear, 
Had  belonged  to  "  some  small  deer,' 
Such  as  liveth  in  a  tree ; 
By  thy  hinder,  thou  should'st  be 
A  large  animal  of  chase, 
Bounding  o'er  the  forest's  space  ; — 
Joined  by  some  divine  mistake. 
None  but  Nature's  hand  can  make — 
Nature,  in  her  wisdom's  play, 
On  Creation's  holiday. 
For  howsoe'er  anomalous, 
Thou  yet  art  not  incongruous. 
Repugnant  or  preposterous. 
Better-proportioned  animal, 
More  graceful  or  ethereal, 
Was  never  followed  by  the  hound, 
With  fifty  steps  to  thy  one  bound. 
Thou  canst  not  be  amended  :  no  ; 
Be  as  thou  art ;  thou  best  art  so. 
When  sooty  swans  are  once  more  rare, 
And  duck-moles  the  museum's  care, 
Be  still  the  glory  of  this  land, 
Happiest  work  of  finest  hand. 


APPENDIX  IV. 


MATERIALS    FOR    A    BIBLIOGRAPHY    OF 
AUSTRALASIAN    POETRY. 


Sir  William  A'Bcckett.  —  The 
Earl's  Choice.  London  :  Smith, 
Elder  &  Co. 

Francis  Adams. — Poetical  Works. 
Brisbane  I'Muir  &  Morcom. 

Alpha  Crucis. — The  Song  of  the 
Stars,  and  other  Poems.  London  : 
Cassell&Co.;  Melbourne:  Geo. 
Robertson.  Preface  dated,  .Syd- 
ney, N.S.W.,  1882. 

Dr.  Andrew  Anderson. — A  Jubilee 
Gift.  Adelaide  :  Sands  & 
McDougall. 

Mrs.  W.  J.  Anderson. — Colonial 
Poems.  London :  E.  Marl- 
borough, 1869. 

Justin  Aubrey. — Carmina  Varia  : 
being  Miscellaneous  Poems. 
Dunedin,  N.Z.  :  Ferguson  6c 
Mitchell. 

Austral  (not  the  author  quoted  in 
this  book).— Lays  from  an  Aus- 
tralian Lyre.  London  Publishing 
Company,  circa  1885. 

An  Australian. — Australian  Glean- 
ings :  a  Reverie.  1st  Part, 
London  :  Algar,  Clement's  Lane, 
1S65  ;  2nd  Part,  London  :  Algar, 
Clement's  Lane,  1866  ;  2nd  Part 
(another  edition),  18S0. 

Australie. —  The  Balance  of  Pain, 


and     other     Poems.       London  : 
George  Bell,  1877. 
The  Author  of  Little  Jessie. — The 
Australian   Babes  in  the   Wood. 
London  :  Griffith  &  Farran. 

Arthur  John  Baker. — Incidents  in 
my  Life.  Adelaide  :  W.  K. 
Thomas  &  Co.,  1884. 

Augustus  Banks.  —  Sunshine  and 
Shadow.  Melbourne :  Walker, 
May  &  Co.,  1874. 

P.  F.  G.  Barry  (Tasmania). — Christ- 
mas Poems,  1864. 

G.  B.  Barton. — Poets  and  Prose- 
writers  of  New  .South  Wales. 
Sydney  :  Gibbs,  Shallard  &  Co., 
1866. 

H.  T.  Mackenzie  Bell.  — Charles 
Whitehead  (sometime  of  Mel- 
bourne), A  Forgotten  Genius. 
London  :  T.  Fisher  Unwin  (2nd 
edition),  18S5. 

Michael  Kilgour  Beveridge.  — 
Gatherings  among  the  (jum 
Trees.  Melbourne  :  James  Reid, 
1863. 

Mrs.  J.  A.  Bode  (Ettie  B.  Aylifte). 
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Mrs.    Boyce    (Sydney). — Gleanings 


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Flowers  of  the  Freelands.  Mel- 
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Lays  of  the  Land  of  the  Maori 

and  the  Moa.  London  :  Samp- 
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John  Le  Gay  Brereton. — Poems. 
London  :  Sampson  Low  &  Co. 

The  Goal  of  Time.  Mel- 
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John  Bright.  —  Wattle-Blossoms, 
and  Wild  Flowers  Gathered  by 
the  Way.  Prahran  and  St. 
Kilda,  Melbourne  :  Crabb  & 
Bretherton,  1886. 

W.  RL  Bromby.— Life  Thoughts. 
Hobart  :  J.  Walch  &  Sons,  1S79. 

Sir  Frederick  Napier  Broome. — 
Poems  from  New  Zealand.  Lon- 
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Hugh  Junor  Browne. — Poems  by  a 
Prose  Writer.  Melbourne  :  Kemp 
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Robert  Bruce. — A  Voice  from  tlie 
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David  Burn. — Plays  and  Fugitive 
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T.  Burtt. — Moonta  Musings  in 
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1855- 
William  Carlelon,  Jun. — The  War- 
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in  Six  Cantos,  and  other  Poems. 
Melbourne :  Clarson,  Massina  & 
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D.  P.  Carter. — The  Crinoliniad  :  an 
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W.  A.  Cawthorne. — The  Legend  of 
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an  Aboriginal  Tradition  of  the 
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J.  I^ewis,  1858;  2nd  edition, 
Adelaide :  A.  N.  Cawthorne, 
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Alfred  T.  Chandler.— A  Bush  Idyll, 
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The  Rev.  W.  B.  Clarke,  A.M.— 
The  River  Derwent.  London  : 
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Lays    of    Leisure.       London  : 

Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  1S29. 

(Miss)  Nellie  S.  Clerk. — Songs  from 
the  Gippsland  Forest.  Mirboo 
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Kinahan  Cornwallis.  —  Yarra 
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coal Sketch  (in  "  Walt  Whit- 
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The  Terraces  of  Rotomahana, 

Auckland,  N.Z.  Auckland,  N.Z.  : 
H.  Brett,  1885. 

A  Daughter  of  the  Soil. — Bush 
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Ralph  Delany. — Poems  and  .Songs. 
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Francis  Plumley  Derham. — Murrin 
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A  USTRALIAN  POETR  \\ 


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Ranolf  and  Amohia 

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Elder  &  Co.,  1S77. 
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tion.       London  :     Kegan 

Trench  it  Co.,  1883. 
Richard  Down. — Stray    Thoughts. 

Melbourne:  IL  T.Dwight,  1S71. 


Venice.    London, 
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Smith, 


2nd  edi- 
Paul, 


An  Englishman  (a  schoolmaster  24 
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Amid  the  Forests  of  the  .South. 
London  :  Sampson  Low,  iSSi. 

John  Farrell. — How  he  Died,  and 
other  Poems.  Sydney :  Turner 
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Dugald  Ferguson. — Castle  Gay,  and 
other  Poems.  Dunedin,  N.Z. : 
John  Mackay,  1883. 

Barron  Field. — First  Fruits  of  Aus- 
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The  Rev.  S.  G.  Fielding.— The 
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John  Finnamore. — Carpio  :  a  Tra- 
gedy in  Five  Acts.  Melbourne  : 
Geo.  Robertson,  1875. 

(Mrs.)  Mary  Hannay  Foott. — Where 
the  Pelican  Builds,  and  other 
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Gotch,  1885. 

Alexander  Porbes. — Voices  from 
the         Bush.  Rockhampton, 

Queensland. 

William  Forstcr. — The  Weir  Wolf: 
a  Tragedy.  London  :  Williams 
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William  Forster.— The  Brothers  :  a 
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Midas.    I^-indon  :  Kegan  Paul, 

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Keighley  Goodchild. — "Who  are 

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Office,  1883. 
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Sea  Spray   and   Smoke  Drift. 

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Bush   Ballads    and    Galloping 

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Some  Characteristics  of  Words- 
worth's Poetry,  and  their  Lessons 
for  us:  an  Essay,  and  some  Poems 
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Henry       Heylin       Hayler.  —  My 


57- 


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ChristiUds  Adventure,  Carboona, 
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Thomas  Heney. — Fortunate  Days. 
Sydney  :  Turner  &  Henderson, 
1886. 

Fidelia  vS.  T.  Hill. — Poems  and 
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T.  Trood, 1840. 

Benjamin  Hoare.  —  The  Maori :  a 
New  Australian  Poem.  Adelaide  : 
Platts&  Co.,  1869. 

Figures  of  Fancy  :  a  Volume  of 

New  Poems — the  Maori,  the 
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Philip  J.  Holdsworth.  —  Station- 
hunting  on  the  Warrego,  At  the 
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Orion.  Library        edition. 

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The  South  Sea  Sisters  :  a  Lyric 

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Prometheus    the     Firebringer. 

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Geo.  Scott 
Great,  or 
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John  Howell 
Australian 


— Rose-leaves  from  an 

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The     Millennium,      an     Epic 

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Wm.     Jamie.  —  The     Emigrant's 

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Bristol    Sculptor's  Idol.   Hobart : 

T.  L.  Hood,  1881. 
D.    Wemyss  Jobson. — A    Metrical 

Version  of  the    Sermon  on   the 

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Dwight,  1864. 
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Land  Warriors,  or  the  Heroes  of 

Cornwall.      In     Three     Cantos. 

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John    Liddcll    Kelly.— Tahiti,    the 

Land   of    Love   and   Beauty  :    a 

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Office,  1885. 
Tarawera,     or    the    Cruise    of 

Tuhotu.         Auckland,       N.Z.  : 

"  Star"  Office,  18S7. 
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Songs    from    the     IMountains. 

Sydney  :  Wm.  Maddock,  18S0. 
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A  USTRALIAN  FOETR  Y. 


573 


N.  C.  Kentish. • — How  to  Sjiccd  the 

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]\.  C  Kentish,  Henry  ITallornn,  &c. 

— Botany  Bay  Effusions,  1832-4. 
Jas.  Knox. — Poetic  Trifles.  Hohart 

Town  :  Tegg,  1S38. 

Tlie  Rev.  John  Dunmore  Lang. — 
Aurora  Austrah's  :  Specimens  of 
Sacred  Poetry  for  the  Colonists 
of  Australia.  Sydney  :  G.  Eagar, 
1S26. 

Charles  Joseph  Latrobe ("Governor 
Latrobe  "). — The  Solace  of  Song. 
London  :  R.  B.  Seeley,  1S37. 

Caroline  W.  Leakey. — Lyra  Austra- 
lis,  or  Attempts  to  Sing  in  a 
Strange  Land.  London  :  Bickers 
&  Bush,  1854. 

Frances  Sescadarowna  Lewin. — 
Songs  of  the  South.  Adelaide  : 
Scrymgour  &  Sons,  1884. 

Geo.  Linley,  Junr.  —  The  Gold 
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G.  E.  Logan. — Wild  Flowers. 

Robert  Lowe,  Viscount  Sherbrooke. 
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Geo.  Gordon  McCrae. — The  Story 
of  Balladeadro.  Melbourne  : 
H.  T.  Dwight,  1867. 

Mamba  the  Bright-eyed.  Mel- 
bourne :   H.  T.  Dwight,  1867. 

The  Man  with  the  Iron  Mask. 

Myra  Marbron. — The  Australasian 
(poetical)  Birthday  Book.  Grifhlh 
iS:  Farran,  S.D. 

Arthur  Patchett  Martin. — Lays  of 
To-day :  Verses  in  Jest  and 
Earnest.  Melbourne  :     Geo. 

Robertson,  1878. 

An  Easter  Omelette  in  Prose 

and  Verse.  Melbourne,  Sydney, 
Adelaide  :  Geo.  Robertson,  1879. 

Fernshawe  :  Sketches  in  Prose 

and   Verse.      Melbourne  ;    Geo. 


Robertson,      iSSi.  London  : 

(hiffith  &  Farran,  1885. 

J.  ^^^  Mcadcn. — Spring-life  Lyrics. 
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Louisa  Meredith. — Poems  with  Il- 
lustrations Drawn  and  Etched  by 
the  Author.     London  :    C.  Tilt, 

1833- 

The  Romance  of  Nature.     The 

Flower  Seasons,  illustrated  in 
Prose  and  \'erse,  with  Coloured 
Plates  from  Drawings  by  the 
Author.  London  :  C.  Tilt  (3rd 
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Some  of  my  Bush  Friends  in 

Tasmania  :  Native  Flowers, 
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Grandmama's   Verse-Book   for 

Young  Australians.  Hobart  : 
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James  L.  Michael. — Songs  without 
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^John   Cumberland  :    a   Poem. 

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Miscellanies  in  Prose  and  Verse- 
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Dr.  Patrick  Moloney. — Sonnets  ad 
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J.  Sheridan  Moore. — Spring  Songs, 
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.Sydney  :  Cole. 

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Francis  H.  Nixon. — The  Legends 
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574 


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Joseph  Earle  Ollivant.— Hine  Moa, 
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John  Boyle  O'Reilly.— Songs  of  the 
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Stolen  Moments.  Sydney :  James 
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Murmurs  of  the  Stream.  Syd- 
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The  Beauteous  Terrorist,   and 

other  Poems,  by  a  Wanderer. 
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Peter  Pindar. — Australian  Celebri- 
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James  White.  —  Forgiveness  :  a 
Sacred  Poem.  Melbourne  ;  Mul- 
len, 1S79. 

John  Whiteman.  —  Sparks  and 
Sounds   from   a   Colonial   Anvil. 


576    BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF  A  USTRALIAN  POETR  Y, 


Melbourne :  Geo.  Robertson, 
1873- 

W.  R.  Wills.— A  Bunch  of  Wild 
Pansies.  Auckland,  N.Z.  :  H. 
Brett,  1885. 

Blossoms  of  Early  Life. 

Songs  for  the  Weary. 

Frederick  Sydney  Wilson. — Austra- 
lian Songs  and  Poems.  Sydney  : 
Gibbs,  Shallard  &  Co.,  1870. 


S.  H.  Wintle  (Tasmania). — Fern 
Fronds  :  a  Book  of  Poems. 

Dr.  Wm.  Woolls. — The  Voyage  :  a 
Moral  Poem.  Sydney  :  Stephens 
&  Stokes,  1832. 

Mrs  Nugent  Wood. — Bush  Flowers, 
from  Australia,  by  a  Daughter  of 
the  Soil.  London  :  Nisbet,  1868 
(circa). 


ADDENDA. 


John  Le  Gay  Brereton. — Beyond, 
and  other  Poems.  Sydney : 
Turner  &  Henderson. 

Sir  Frederick  Napier  Broome. — 
The  Stranger  of  Seriphos.      1869. 


Frank  Cowan. — A  Visit  in  Verse 
to  Halemaumau.  Honolulu  : 
"  P.C.  Advertiser  "  Steam  Print, 
18S5. 


NOTES. 


Page  46.  Em  ma  Fran'CES  (Mis.  W.  J.)  Anderson.  Jn  Aus/ralian 
GirVs  Farewell.  This  poem  derives  additional  pathos  from  the  fact  that 
its  authoress  was  a  young  Australian  girl  who  died  almost  on  her  honey- 
moon at  the  Mauritius,  where  her  husband  lived. 

Page  48.  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  the  students  of  Australian 
literature,  and  though  the  author  wishes  his  name  not  to  appear,  he  has 
revised  the  proofs  of  it  for  us,  so  that  the  world  now  for  the  first  time 
has  the  correct  version  of  the  poem,  Australian  Ballads  and  Rhymes. 

Page  124.  Erasmus  Darwin.  A  Fulfilled  Prophecy.  This  extract 
wiih  the  following  letter  appeared  in  the  Standard  newspaper  about 
January  28,  1888  :— 

"  Chii.dwall,  Richmond,  S.\\^.,  January  zjfh. 
*'  Sir, — Few  predictions — one  might  almost  say  none — have  been  more 
emphatically  fulfilled  than  the  following,  to  which  the  celebration  of  the 
Centenary  of  New  South  Wales,  now  in  progress,  gives,  as  it  seems  to 
me,  a  startling  interest.  I  copy  it  froni  a  broadside  in  my  possession 
dated  in  MS.  (by  Dr.  Lysons),  17S9.  The  lines  are  by  Dr.  Darwin, 
and  they  have  probably  been  published  in  another  shape.  It  is  some- 
what remarkable  that  they  should,  a  hundred  years  ago,  have  been 
thought  of  sufficient  interest  to  be  printed  in  broadside  form. 

"  Mr.  Wedgwood  having  been  favoured  by  Sir  Joseph  Banks  with  a 
specimen  of  clay  from  Sydney  Cove,  has  made  a  few  medallions  of  it, 

38 


57S  NOTES. 

representing  Hope  encouraging  Art  and  Labour,  under  tlie  influence 
of  Peace,  to  pursue  the  employments  necessary  for  rendering  an  infant 
Colony  secure  and  happj'.  The  above  verses  were  written  by  the  author 
of  '  The  Botanic  Garden,'  to  accompany  these  medallions.— I  am,  sir, 
your  obedient  servant,  J.  Eliot  Hodgkix." 

Page  125.  Alfred  Domett,  C.M.G.  Raiiolf  and  AmoJiia.  Of 
this  Longfellow  wrote  :— 

"Cambridge,  August  26,  187S. 

"  ]\Iy  Dear  Sir, — You  have  sent  me  a  splendid  poem.  There  is 
ample  space  in  it  to  move  and  breathe.  It  reminds  me  of  the  great 
pictures  of  the  old  masters.  .  .  .  Your  descriptions  of  scenery  are 
very  powerful  and  beautiful.  And  just  at  present,  while  I  am  busy 
with  poems  of  '  Poems  and  Places,'  you  can  readily  imagine  how 
r.iuch  they  delight  me. 

"  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  making  many  extracts  for  the  volume 
entitled  '  Oceanica.'  .   .  . — AYith  great  regard,  yours  faithfully, 

"  Henry  AY.  Loxgfellovc."' 

Page  181.  Adam  Lindsay  Gordon.  An  Exiles  Farewell. 
Patchett  INIartin  wrote  : — 

"Among  the  mass  of  letters  I  have  received  since  tiie  appearance 
of  the  article  on  '  An  Australian  Poet,'  testifying  to  the  strange 
fascination  of  Gordon's  muse,  came  a  communication  from  a  lady  who 
had  been  a  fellow-passenger  of  his  in  the  ship  yulia,  which  sailed 
for  Adelaide  on  the  7th  of  August,  1853.  This  lady  remarks: — 'I 
urged  him  to  write  in  my  manuscript  book.  He  was  shy  of  doing  so, 
saying  he  had  never  tried  his  hand  at  verse-making.  However,  he  wrote 
the  enclosed  verses — his  first  essay — in  which  you  will  recognize  his 
style.'  AYhat  caused  my  correspondent  to  detect  a  poet  in  the  exiled 
youth  so  moodily  leaving  'home'  I  cannot  say;  it  is  only  another 
illustration  of  the  superiority  of  woman  in  the  insight  born  of  sympathy. 
This  slight  poem  has  all  that  strange  blending  of  outward  cynicism  and 
inward  emotion  which  distinguishes  Gordon's  reflective  verse,  and  is 
very  similar  in  tone  to  the  more  powerful  poem  addressed  to  his  sister 
on  his  leaving  England." 

Page  242.  R.  H.  Horne.  Dldbk  Fellow.  The  Dibble  (or  Devil) 
Fellow,  dancing  in  fog,  represents  the  white  or  grey  appearance,  atlri- 


NOTES.  579 

buted  by  the  native  l^lacks  to  an  evil  spirit.  This  Dibble  comes  from 
New  South  Wales  as  an  omen  of  ill.  The  old  chief  Woolanara  crosses 
the  Murray  into  this  colony  in  warlike  style;  but  "discretion  "  with  the 
blacks  being  by  far  '*  the  better  part  of  valour,"  he  is  advised  to  pass 
over  to  the  Snowy  River  of  Gippsland,  to  wait  his  time  for  an  oppor- 
tunity against  the  white  fellows. 

The  rhythm  of  the  song-dance  here  adopted,  is  that  of  the  blacks 
on  the  Goulburn  River.  The  extra  syllables  at  the  end  of  most  of  the 
lines  is  characteristic  of  the  untaught  singing  of  the  lower  orders  of 
all  nations,  and  with  none  is  it  more  conspicuous  than  among  the  agri- 
cultural labourers  in  the  rural  districts  of  England.  The  only  "in- 
strumental accompaniment  "  to  the  song-dance  of  the  Australian 
corrohoree  is  the  measured  beating  upon  a  sort  of  drum  made  from  a 
dried  opossum  skin. 

Page  245.     J.  L.  Kei.lv.     TJie  Vision  of  Ttthotu. 

Verse  4.  Mount  Tarawera  was  strictly  tapu  (sacred  or  forbidden)  on 
account  of  the  summit  of  the  hill  being  the  burial  place  of  the  chiefs  of 
the  Arawa  Tribe. 

Verse  7.  "  Mahana's  steaming  flood  " — a  reference  to  a  stream  of 
warm  water  which  flowed  from  Rotomahana  {roto — lake,  and  mahana — 
hot)  into  the  large  cold  water  Lake  Tarawera.  This  hot  stream  was  a 
little  over  six  feet  wide  and  about  a  mile  long. 

Verse  7.  Te  Kiipiiaraugi,  "The  Fountain  of  the  Clouded  Sky," 
— better  knownas  the  Pink  Terrace — was  a  marvellously  beautiful  work 
of  Nature,  the  product  of  centuries  of  deposits  of  silicious  matter  from 
a  geyser  or  boiling  cauldron  at  the  summit.  The  hot  water,  over- 
flowing from  the  natural  basin,  formed  many  pools  in  its  descent,  which 
made  delicious  hot  baths.  This  terrace,  which  had  a  delicate  pink  hue 
throughout,  was  eighty  feet  high,  and  the  Maori  name  is  most  poetic- 
ally descriptive  of  its  appearance. 

Verse  7.  Te  Tarata—\.\iQ.  White  Terrace — was  situated  close  to 
Rotomahana,  and  was  larger,  and  in  some  respects  more  beautiful,  than 
Te  Kiiptiaraiigi.  It  had  fifty  steps  ranging  in  breadth  from  one  to  two 
feet,  and  the  appearance  presented  was  that  of  a  structure  of  beau- 
tifully-fashioned white  marble,  with  tiny  cascades  falling  over  it. 

Verse  8.  Rotontaliaiia — now  a  thing  of  the  past — was  one  of  the 
smallest  lakes  of  the  group,  being  a  mile  long  by  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  broad.  It  was  i,oSS  feet  above  the  sea  level,  its  waters  were  hot, 
steaming,  and  frequently  disturbed  by  subterranean  forces. 


5  So  AZOTES. 

Verse  8.  "  The  taiiiwlia  "  was  a  mythical  monster  somewhat  akin  to  a 
dragon,  but  usually  inhabiting  lakes  and  rivers.  It  is  described  in 
Maori  traditions  as  being  the  size  of  a  large  sperm  whale,  but  shaped 
like  a  lizard,  and  covered  with  scales,  while  his  back  was  studded  with 
spines.  This  monster  was  carnivorous,  and  was  held  in  superstitious 
dread  by  the  Maoris.  There  is  no  evidence  that  such  an  animal  ever 
existed  in  New  Zealand,  and  the  traditions  of  it  are  probably  exag- 
gerated alligator  stories  handed  down  by  the  tropic-dwelling  ancestors 
of  the  Maori  race.  Wlien  the  waters  of  Rotomahana  showed  more  than 
ordinary  ebullition  the  natives  were  wont  to  say,  "The  ianhvha'i's, 
turning  in  his  sleep  !  "  Other  natives  of  a  more  practical  turn  of  mind 
tell  tourists  who  cross  Lake  Tarawera  that  there  is  a  danger  of  the 
taniwha  becoming  enraged  and  swamping  their  canoe,  and  the  traveller, 
to  humour  the  guileless  (?)  savage,  usually  leaves  a  coin  on  a  rock  in  the 
centre  of  the  lake  to  appease  the  monster. 

Verse  9.  Scientists  agree  that  the  eruption  started  with  a  great 
earth-fracture,  which  passed  through  Rotomahana,  and  the  waters  of  the 
lake,  descending  into  the  heated  region  beneath,  generated  the  mighty 
forces  which  burst  forth  as  volcanoes. 

Verse  12.  Tarawera,  Wahanga,  and  Ruawahia  were  the  names 
given  distinctively  to  the  three  separate  mountain  peaks,  frequently 
alluded  to  as  one  mountain  under  the  name  of  Tarawera. 

Verse  14.  Rangiheua,  the  chief  of  Te  Ariki  village,  had  gone  to 
live  on  the  island  of  Puwai — one  of  the  two  islets  in  Rotomahana — a 
few  days  before  the  fatal  loth  of  June,  1886.  This  island  was  used  as 
a  health  resort  by  the  natives,  and  on  this  occasion  Rangiheua  was 
accompanied  by  seven  of  his  tribe.  The  island  was  in  the  very  centre 
of  the  original  outburst,  and  these  natives  must  have  been  overtaken  by 
sudden  and  awful  death  in  the  first  fury  of  the  great  convulsion  of  nature. 
Rangiheua,  an  old  man,  used  to  say  with  pride  that  he  was  the  owner 
of  Te  Tarata  and  Te  Kupuarangi,  and,  holding  the  approaches  thereto, 
he  exacted  toll  from  every  visitor.  Both  the  terraces  were  demolished 
by  the  eruption,  but  Tuhotu  makes  no  lament  for  their  loss,  as  the 
jNIaoris  had  no  special  regard  for  them,  and  Tuhotu,  instead  of  deploring 
their  destruction,  would  rather  be  inclined  to  rejoice  that  the  Maoris 
were  deprived  of  a  means  of  degeneracy  and  demoralization  in  the  funds 
which  these  terraces  provided. 

Verse  14.  "Ngatitoi."  Rangiheua  was  chief  of  this  hapu^  'and 
the  whole  settlement  being  destroyed  by  the  eruption,  the  sub-tribe 
became  extinct. 


NOTES.  58 1 

Verse  iS.  "  My  mind  is  dark  " — a  phrase  used  by  llic  Maoris  to 
express  perplexity  or  doubt. 

Verse  19.  "  I  live,  the  last  of  all  my  tribe."  Tuholu's  language 
here  is  not  strictly  correct,  unless  it  be  applied  to  his  /lapu  only.  lie 
is  reputed  to  have  been  a  lineal  descendant  of  Ngatoroirangi,  and  Te 
Ileuheu,  the  present  chief  of  Taupo  district,  is  also  a  direct  descendant 
of  that  great  rangatira  and  tolmiiga. 

Page  271.  IIenky  Kendall.  JMooni.  Written  in  the  shadow  of 
1S72,  as  he  poetically  describes  the  temporary  clouding  of  his  intellect. 

Page  305.  George  Gordon  McCeae.  Balladeddro.  The  quota- 
tion given  in  the  text  is  explained  by  the  note  appended  here  : — 

"The  story  of  Balladeadro  is  founded  on  a  tradition  once  current 
among  the  aborigines  of  our  western  tribes,  the  M.S.  notes  of  which, 
as  taken  down  by  the  wife  of  a  former  protector  of  aborigines,  came 
into  my  hands  many  years  ago. 

"It  is  evident  to  me,  after  repeated  and  careful  perusal  of  the  lady's 
papers,  that  the  story  (which  is  very  gracefully  told)  has  received  little 
if  any  colouring  at  the  hands  of  the  transcriber.  As  regards  the  '  black ' 
or  magic  art,  practised  by  the  doctors  of  the  tribes,  her  information 
agrees  fully  with  my  own  personal  experience. 

"  I  have  been  present  on  two  occasions  when  the  wizard  was  engaged 
in  charming,  or  rather  in  attempting  to  charm  away  the  lives  of  certain 
persons  of  other  and  distant  tribes.  The  ceremony  observed  was  pre- 
cisely similar  to  that  which  I  have  described  in  '  Balladeadro.' 

"An  outline  sketch  of  the  intended  victim  was  engraved  on  the 
shuttle-shaped  body  of  a  spear-rest,  or  throwing-stick,  a  lock  of  the 
doomed  one's  hair  was  suspended  from  the  upper  extremity,  and  the 
lower  or  handle  end  was  wrapped  in  twisted  grass,  in  order  to  prevent 
any  injury  to  the  fingers  of  the  wizard  from  the  poisonous  unguents  with 
which  the  picture  was  smeared. 

"  These  preparations  being  complete,  the  spear-rest  was  stuck  upright 
in  the  ground,  and  very  close  to  the  wizard's  fire.  As  the  heat  caused 
the  poisonous  ointment  to  sink  into  the  ground  he  was  at  hand  to  renew 
it,  singing  the  while,  and  as  the  poison  dried  and  the  image  grew  hot, 
he  told  me  that  the  intended  victim  at  a  distance  was  suflfering  the  most 
terrible  agonies.  Sometimes  wearied  out  with  watching  and  incantation 
the  wizard  leaves  the  stick  to  fate  and  goes  to  sleep.     If  on  awaking  he 


582  N02ES, 

finds  it  has  toppled  over  into  the  fire  he  takes  it  for  granted  that  the 
object  of  his  hate  is  no  more.  I  remember,  in  one  of  these  instances 
which  I  have  quoted,  this  accident  happened,  but  the  victim  singled 
out  (a  young  woman  some  forty  miles  distant  at  the  time)  was  none  the 
worse  in  consequence. 

"  The  wizard  said  that  there  must  have  been  something  wrong  with 
the  picture  or  the  poison,  or  perhaps  something  deficient  in  the 
incantation  itself,  but  nothing  could  shake  his  first  principles  of 
'  oheism.' 

"  Balladeadro  (I  would  wish  to  add),  besides  exhibiting  the  supersti- 
tions and  ceremonies  of  a  rapidly  disappearing  race,  makes  us  aware  of 
a  patriotism  or  love  of  country,  oljtaining  largely  among  a  people  hitherto 
supposed  to  be  incapable  of  such  a  sentiment,  and  added  to  this,  the 
possession  of  natural  affection,  and  the  finer  feelings  which  most  writers 
deny  them." 

Page  307,  line  20.  Karakorok,  according  to  aboriginal  tradition, 
was  a  gigantic  crow  who  befriended  the  human  family.  Shortly  after  the 
creation,  pitying  their  cold  and  fireless  condition,  he  flew  to  the  sun 
and  snatched  a  brand  from  the  hearth  ;  this  he  brought  blazing  in  his 
bill  to  the  world  below.  Karakorok  was  finally  translated  to  the  skies, 
and  became  a  constellation  (Orion). 

Page  307,  line  26.      77ie  Red,  i.e.,  "War  Paint." 

Page  309,  line  22.  The  Mirbangos  and  Darakongs  were  forbidden 
to  intermarry  with  other  tribes. 

Page  309,  line  28.    Balladeadro  or  Ballaladru,  i.e.,  "  Shining  Shell." 

Page  312,  line  25.  Ulirgabecu,  a  young  woman  of  great  beauty,  who 
was  transformed  into  a  star. 

Page  314,  line  9.     Gilha-nee/is,  feather  girdles  worn  in  the  dances. 

Page  318,  line  23.     Pudiiill,  a  wasting  disease. 

Page  359.  John  Boyle  O'Reilly.  The  Editor  will  not  vouch 
for  the  Natural  History  of  the  Dukite  snake. 

Page  366.  Sir  Henry  Parkes,  G.C.M.G.  .Solitude.  This  poem 
has  a  special  interest.  It  was  the  favourite  jDoem  of  the  author  of 
Ranolf  and  Aiitohia,  who  copied  it  out  just  before  his  death  and  sent  it 
to  the  Editor. 

Page  491.      Gerald  Henry  Sui'PLE.     The  Dream  of  Dai/ipicr. 


NOTES.  5S3 

Dampicr  was  the  first  Englishman  who  visited  Australia.  The  bucca- 
neers, of  whom  he  was  one,  figured  in  the  sixteenth  and  scvcnteeiuh 
centuries,  and  were  of  all  nations  except  Spaniards — principally  English 
and  French,  with  many  Dutch  and  Portuguese.  As  Spain  excluded  the 
rest  of  the  world  from  intercourse  with  her  American  possessions,  and 
as  the  buccaneers  retaliated  by  fighting  and  plundering  the  Spaniard, 
they  were  tolerated  by  the  public  opinion  and  the  governments  of  their 
respective  countries ;  and  men  of  all  classes  were  found  in  their  ranks. 
Though  the  great  scene  of  their  operations  was  West  Indian  waters  and 
neighbouring  oasts,  they  sometimes  matle  their  way  into  the  Pacific 
and  Indian  Oceans.  It  was  in  one  of  these  voyages  that  Dampier,  in 
the  year  1686,  reached  the  north  coast  of  Australia,  under  Captain 
Swan,  in  a  vessel  which  that  commander,  in  compliment  to  himself, 
had  named  the  Cygnet.  It  was  the  first  English  ship  which  touched 
these  shores.  Dampier  left  the  Cygnet  during  her  cruise,  and  she  v,as 
afterwards  lost  in  a  bay  of  the  Indian  Ocean.  Returning  to  England, 
Dampier,  who  was  well  versed  in  navigation,  botany,  &c.,  published 
an  account  of  the  voyage ;  and  the  Government  sent  him,  in  command 
of  a  vessel  of  the  Royal  Navy,  to  further  explore  these  seas. 


l^NWIN    DKOTIIEKS,    THE   CRESl.'AM    TKESS,   CIIILWOKTII    AND   LONDON 


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5  LIFE  OF  SAMUEL  JOHNSON.    By  Col.  F.  Grant. 

6  LIFE  OF  DARWIN.     Bv  G.  T.  Bettany. 

7  LIFE     OF     CHARLOTTE     BRONTE.        By 

Augustine  Birrell. 

8  LU^E    OF   THOMAS   CARLYLE.      By  Richard 

Garnett,  LL.D. 

9  LIFE  OF  ADAM  SMITH.     By  R.  B.  Haldane,  ]\I.P. 

10  LIFE  OF  KEATS.     By  W.  M.  Rossettl 

11  LIFE  OF  SHELLEY.     By  William  Sharp. 

12  LH^""E  OF  SMOLLETT.     By  David  Hannay. 

13  LIFE  OF  GOLDSMITH.     By  Austin  Dobson. 

14  LIFE  OF  SCOTT.     By  Professor  C.  D.  YONGE. 

15  LH^E  OF  BURNS.     By  Prof.  J.  Stuart  Blackie. 
\6  LIFE  OF  BUNYAN.     By  Canon  Venables. 

To  be  followed  on  April  25th  by 

LIFE  OF  VICTOR  HUGO.     By  Frank  T.  Marzials. 
Each  volume  contains  a  complete  Bibliography,  carefully  compiled 

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Volumes  in  preparation  by  Edmund  Gosse,  Oscar  Browning, 

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2  WALDEN.     By  Henry  D.  Thoreau. 

3  CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  ENGLISH  OPIUM-EATER. 

By  Thomas  De  Quixcey. 

4  LANDOR'S  IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS. 

5  PLUTARCH'S  LIVES. 

6  SIR  T.  BROWNE'S  RELIGIO  MEDICI,  Etc. 

7  ESSAYS    AND    LETTERS    OF    PERCY    BYSSHE 

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8  PROSE  WRITINGS  OF  SWIFT. 

9  MY  STUDY  WINDOWS.     By  James  R.  Lo^vELL. 

10  GREAT  ENGLISH  PAINTERS.    By  Cunningham. 

11  LORD  BYRON'S  LETTERS. 

12  ESSAYS  BY  LEIGH  HUNT. 

13  LONGFELLOW'S  PROSE. 

14  GREAT  MUSICAL  COMPOSERS. 

15  MARCUS  AURELIUS. 

16  SPECIMEN     DAYS     IN     AMERICA.      By    Walt 

WlIITMAX. 

17  WHITE'S  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  SELBORNE. 

18  CAPTAIN  SINGLETON. 

19  ESSAYS:  Literaiy  and  Political.     By  Joseph  Mazzini 

20  THE  PROSE  WRITINGS  OF  HEINRICH  HEINE. 

21  REYNOLDS'  DISCOURSES. 

22  THE  LOVER,  and  other  Papers  of  Steele  &  Addison. 

23  ROBERT  BURNS'S  LETTERS. 

24  VOLSUNGA  SAGA. 

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28 

By  Kev.   John  Keble. 

29 

:?  COLERIDGE". 

3  LONGFELLOW. 

30 

4  CAMPBELL. 

31 

5  SHELLEY. 

32 

G  WORDSWORTH. 

33 

7  BLAKE. 

8  WHITTIER. 

34 

y  POE. 

35 

10  CHATTERTON. 

3G 

11  BURNS.     Poems. 

37 

12  BURNS.     Songs. 

38 

13  MARLOWE. 

11  KEATS. 

39 

15  HERBERT. 

Id  VICTOR  HUGO. 

40 

17  COWPER. 

IS  SHAKESPEARE: 

41 

So.NGs,  Poems,  and  SoNNE'm. 

42 

19  EMERSON. 

43 

20  SONNETS     OF    THIS 

CENTURY. 

44 

21  WHITMAN. 

45 

22  SCOTT.    Marmion,  etc. 

23  SCOTT.    Lady  of  the 

46 

Lake,  etc. 

47 
48 

21  PRAED. 

25  HOGG. 

26  GOLDSMITH. 

49 

27  LOVE    LETTERS    OF 

50 

A  VIOLINIST,  Etc. 

51 

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1  Women's  Voices.   An  Anthology 

of  the  most  Characteristic  Poems  by   English,    Scotch,    and 
Irish  Women.     Edited  by  Mrs.  William  Sharp. 

2  Sonnets  of  this  Century.     With 

an  Exhaustive  and  Critical  Essay  on  the  Sonnet.     Edited  by 
William  Sharp. 

3  The  Children  of  the  Poets.     An 

Anthology  from    English    and    American    Writers   of    Three 
Centuries.     Edited  by  Eric  S.  Robertson,  M.A. 

4  Sacred     Song.      A  Volume    of 

Religious   Verse.      Selected    and    arranged,  with    Notes,    by 
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5  A  Century  of  Australian  Song. 

Selected  and  Edited  by  Douglas  B.  W.  Sladen,  B.A.,  Oxon. 

6  Jacobite    Songs    and    Ballads. 

Selected  and  Edited,  with  Notes,  by  G.  S.  Macquoid. 

7  Irish  Minstrelsy.     Edited,  with 

Notes  and  Introduction,  by  H.  H.  Sparling. 

8  The    Sonnets    of    Europe.     A 

Volume  of  Translations.      Selected  and  arranged,  with  Notes, 
by  Samuel  Waddington. 

9  Early  English  Poetry.   Selected 

and  Edited  by  H.  Macaulay  Fitzgibbon. 

10  Ballads  of  the  North  Countrie. 

Edited,  with  Introduction,  by  Graham  R.  Tomson. 

11  Songs  and   Poems  of  the  Sea. 

An  Anthology  of  Poems  and  Passages  descriptive  of  the  Sea. 
Edited  by  Mrs.  William  Sharp. 
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2  OLD  CURIOSITY  SKOP. 

3  PICKWICK  PAPERS. 

4  NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 

5  OLIVER  TWIST. 

6  M/\RTIN  CKUZZLEWIT. 

7  SKETCHES  BY  BOZ. 

8  PELHAM. 

9  PAUL  CLIFFORD. 
ID  EUCEf^E  AI^AiVl. 

11  ERNEST  M^LTRAVERS. 

12  ALICE;  or,  ti]e  IV|ysteries. 

13  HIE^ZI. 

14  L^ST  DAYS  OF  POiVlPEil. 

15  L/\ST  OF  THE  BAI^ONS. 
i6  f^lCHT  AfJD  IVIORNINC. 
17  IVANHOE. 

i8  KENILWOI^TH. 

19  BRIDE  OF  LAMIVjEI^MOOR. 

20  HEW  OF  MIDLOTHIAN. 

21  OLD  MOf{Ty\LITY. 

22  JACOB  FAITHFUL. 

23  PETER  SIMPLE. 


24  rvllDSHIPMAN  E/\SY. 

25  RODERICK  R/\NDOM. 

26  PEREGRINE  PICKLE. 

27  THE  SCOTTISH  CHIEFS. 

28  TALES  OF  THE  BORDEl^S. 

29  THE  I^HERITAf^CE. 

30  VICAH  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

31  Prince  of  ihe  House  of  David. 

32  WIDE,  WIDE  WOHLD. 

33  VILLAGE  TALES. 

34  UNCLE  TOIVl'S  CABIN. 

35  ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 

36  CHARLES  O'lVlALLEY. 

37  TOM  CHINGLE'S  LOG. 

38  CRUISE  OF  THE  filDCE. 

39  COLLEE|J  B^WN. 

40  VALEfJTIfJE  VOX. 

41  ETHEL  LINTON. 

42  A  MOUNTAI|<  DAISY. 

43  Hazel  ;  or,  Perilpoint  Lighthouse. 

44  Ben-Hur;  A  Tale  of  the  Ci'irist. 

45  Pilgrin^'s  Progress  and  Holy  War. 

46  FOXE'S  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS. 


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2.  Horace    Hazelwood ;    or,    Little    Things.      By 

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1  Cheery  Lays  for  Dreary  Days. 

2  Songs  in  the  House  of  our  Pilgrimage. 

3  God's  Greetings  in  Nature  and  Man's  Responses. 

4  Bijou  Thoughts  for  Busy  Moments. 

5  Helpful    Counsels   for    those    who    wish    to    make 

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6  Suggestive  Thoughts  for  Meditative  Minds. 

7  Sketches  by  Great  Masters,  of  Scenes,  Places,  and 

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8  The   Compliments   of  the   Season;    or,  Words  for 

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9  On   Business   Only.      Little   Illustrations   and   Sug- 

gestions regarding  Business  Qualifications  and  Successes. 
A  Book  relating  to  Work. 

ID  Home,  Sweet  Home.     Lyrics  and   Songs  on  Home 
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II  In  Fun  and  in    Earnest.      Selections   in    Prose  and 

Verse,  chiefly  humorous. 

\2  Golden  Sands  from  the  German  Ocean  of  Thought. 

Selections  from  German  Authors,  Ancient  and  INIodern. 

13  The  Land  o'  the  Leal,  and  other  Songs. 

14  Bible  Thoughts  for  all  Times. 

15  Golden  Thoughts  from  the  New  Testament. 

16  Gleanings  from  the  Thoughts  of  General  Gordon. 

17  Sayings    of  100    Great    Men    in    Praise    of   Books. 

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18  The  Funniest  Book  but  One.      200  Gems  of  Fun. 

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JVith  an  Exhaustive  and  Critical  Essay  on  the  Sonnet. 
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