^resctttch to of the ^uilrersitlg of ©oionta H the estate of the late William Edvard Kelley THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF AUSTRALIAN VERSE THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF AUSTRALIAN VERSE EDITED BY BERTRAM STEVENS SYDNEY ANGUS AND ROBERTSON, Ltd. 89 CASTLEREAGH STREET 1909 $73 LIBRARY 731273 1 UNiVEHSlTY OF TORONTO GLASGOW : PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSI lY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. PREFACE When " An Anthology of Australian Verse " was pre- pared for publication in 1906 the Editor was unable to obtain permission to use certain copyright poems which he wished to include. Since then the restrictions have been generously removed ; it has therefore been possible to revise the original selection, and to make it more thoroughly representative of the best short poems written by Australians or inspired by the scenery and conditions of life in Australia and New Zealand. A few poems have been included by writers whose residence here has given their work an Australian interest. The arrangement is as nearly as possible chronological ; and the appendix contains notes on the poems, together with brief biographical particulars and an index to the authors quoted. In some cases parts of the original poems have been omitted, and the omissions indicated by asterisks. The arrangement of stanzas in " Where the Dead Men Lie " has been altered. The Editor specially thanks the Bulletin Newspaper Co., Ltd., for permission to quote from the poems of the late Barcroft Boake and Victor Daley; also from those of A. H. Adams, A. A. D. Bayldon, E. J. Brady, C. Brennan, J. Le Gay Brereton, H. Church, A. E. Currie, Mrs. Curlewis, Mrs. Creed, Mrs. Gilmore, J. PREFACE Hebblethwaite, S. Jephcott, J. S. Neilson, B. O'Dowd, D. O'Reilly, R. Quinn, and G. C. Whitney. Acknowledgments are also due to Messrs. Massina & Co. for leave to print some of Adam Lindsay Gordon's poems; to the George Robertson & Co. Proprietary, Ltd., for permission to use the poems of Henry Kendall; to Messrs. Gordon & Gotch for the use of Mrs. Foott's poems; to Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. for the use of two poems by Alfred Domett ; to Messrs. J. M. Dent & Co. for permission to quote from the poems of A. Patchett Martin ; to Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd., for the use of Marcus Clarke's " The Song of Tigilau " ; and to other owners of copy- rights for leave to make selections from matter under their control. In a few cases it has been found impossible to ascertain the addresses of the proper authorities. In addition to those who rendered assistance in connection with " An Anthology of Australian Verse," the Editor is indebted to Mr. E. Wilson Dobbs and to Mr. E. A. Petherick's articles on Australian biblio- graphy. CONTENTS PAGE Introduction, xvii Charles Harpur. Love, "Poems," - i Words, ,, - I A Coast View, .... ,, .2 Daniel Henry Deniehy. Love in a Cottage, Heads of the People (Sydney, 1 847), 4 James Lionel Michael. Personality, - - The Month (Sydney, 1858), 6 Richard Rowe. Superstites Rosae, - " Peter 'Possum's Portfolio," 8 Soul Ferry, - - ,, ,, 8 Sir Henry Parkes. The Buried Chief, - "Fragmentary Thoughts," 11 Adam Lindsay Gordon. A Dedication, - . . . " Poems," - 12 Thora's Song, - . - - ,, - - 14 The Sick Stock -rider, - - ,, - - 15 From " The Rhyme of Joyous Garde," ,, - - 20 George Gordon McCrae. lima de Murska, - - The Australasian {1%"]^), 26 From " A Rosebud from the Garden of the Taj," The Melbourne Review {,\%%i), • - - - 28 vii CONTENTS Henry Kendall. Prefatory Sonnets, " Leaves from Australian Forests," September in Australia, ,, ,, The Last of His Tribe, ,, „ Rose Lorraine, - ,, ,, To a Mountain, - " Songs from the Mountains," After Many Years, - ,, ,, Hy-Brasil, - - ,, ,, Outre Mer, - - - "Poems," Marcus Clarke. The Song of Tigilau, " Austral edition of the collected Works of Marcus Clarke," - Patrick Moloney. Melbourne, - "An Easter Omelette" (Melbourne, 1879), Alfred Domett. An Invitation, - - - " Ranolf and Amohia," A Maori Girl's Song, - ,, ,, James Brunton Stephens. The Dominion of Australia, " Miscellaneous Poems," The Dark Companion, - ,, Day, - - Night, - Thomas Bracken. Not Understood, Ada Cambridge. What of the Night ? Good-bye, The Virgin Martyr, Honour, - Despair, - Faith, "Convict Once," - i> " Musings in Maoriland," Manuscript, 32 33 35 36 39 41 44 47 49 52 53 54 57 59 61 62 64 66 67 68 69 70 70 CONTENTS PAGE Philip Joseph Holdsworth. Quis Separabit ? - - - Manuscript, - 72 My Queen of Dreams, - " Station Hunting on the Warrego," - - 73 Mary Hannay Foott. Where the Pelican Builds, "Morna Lee and other Poems," 75 New Country, - - - ,, „ 76 No Message, - - . ,, „ 77 Happy Days, - - - „ „ 78 Ann Glenny Wilson. Fairyland, - - " A Book of Verses," - 80 A Winter Daybreak, ,, ,, - 81 The Lark's Song, - » »> - 82 Edward Booth Loughran. Dead Leaves, - - " 'Neath Austral Skies," - 84 Ishmonie, - - „ „ - 85 John Liddell Kelly. Immortality, - - - " Heather and Fern," - 87 Robert Richardson. A Ballade of Wattle Blossom, "Willow and Wattle," 88 Nocturne, ... ,, ,, 89 James Lister Cuthbertson. At Cape Schanck, - - " Bar won Ballads," - 91 Wattle and Myrtle, - - - The Australasian, 93 The Australian Sunrise, - The Geelong Grammar School Quarterly, - 94 Ode to Apollo, - - ,, ,, - 95 John Farrell. Australia to England, The Daily Telegraph (Sydney, 1897), - - 98 Arthur Patchett Martin. Bushland, " The Withered Jester, and other Verses," 104 ix CONTENTS PAGE James Hebblethwaite. Perdita, - - - "A Rose of Regret," - 105 Wanderers, - - >» >> ■ 106 Provence, - - ,, ,, - 108 William Pembek Reeves. The Passing of the Forest, - "New Zealand, and other Poems," - 109 Hubert Church. Rosalind, "The West Wind," 113 At Eventide it shall be Light, - ,, ,, 114 Ode, » » 115 Victor James Daley. Dreams, - - - - " At Dawn and Dusk," 116 A Sunset Fantasy, - - ,, ,, 117 The Old Wife and the New, ,, ,, 119 Fragments, ... j, ,, 122 Blanchelys, . . . - . The Bulletin, 125 Romance, . . . . . ^^ 128 To my Soul, „ 131 Alice Werner. Bannerman of the Dandenong, "A Time and Times," 134 Francis W. L. Adams. Gordon's Grave, - - " Poetical Works," - 137 The Decision, ... ,, - 138 Love and Death, - - - Manuscript, - 139 Thomas W. Heney. Absence, " In Middle Harbour, and other Verse," 140 A Riverina Road, - The Echo (Sydney, 1891), 141 Patrick Edward Quinn. A Girl's Grave, The Centennial Magazine (Sydney, 1889), 144 CONTENTS PAGE John Sandes. With Death's Prophetic Ear, " Ballads of Battle," 146 Inez K. Hvland. To a Wave, - "In Sunshine and in Shadow," 148 George Essex Evans. An Australian Symphony, " Loraine, and other Verses," 150 A Pastoral, - - ,, ,, 153 The Women of the West, The Argus (Melbourne), 155 The Secret Key, - "The Secret Key, and other Verses," - - - I57 Mary Colborne-Veel. Saturday Night, - " The Fairest of the Angels, and other Verse," - - 159 Resurgam, - - ,, ,, - - 161 Distant Authors, - - The Author (London), 162 John Bernard O'Hara. Happy Creek, - - - " Lyrics of Nature, " - 163 A Country Village, - - „ - 164 Flinders, - - • - ,, - 167 M. A. Sinclair. The Chatelaine, The Otago Witness (Dunedin, N.Z.), 169 Sydney Jephcott. White Paper, - - "The Secrets of the South," 171 A Ballad of the last King of Thule, Manuscript, 173 A Fragment, ,, 175 A Song of the Tent, - ■ The Bulletin {i^^), 175 Andrew Barton Paterson. The Daylight is Dying, "The Man from Snowy River," 178 Clancy of the Overflow, ,, ,, 180 Black Swans, - ,, ,, 182 CONTENTS PAGE Andrew Barton Vatev.so^ —continued. The Travelling Post Office, " The Man from Snowy River," - - - 185 The Old Australian Ways, ' ' Rio Grande's Last Race, and other Verses," 187 By the Grey Gulf- Water, ,, „ 190 Jessie Mackay. The Grey Company, The Otago Witness (Dunedin, N.Z. ), 192 A Folk Song, - - ,, ,, 194 Dunedin in the Gloaming, ,, ,, 195 The Burial of Sir John Mackenzie, ,, ,, 197 Henry Lawson. Andy's gone with Cattle, " In the Days vi-hen the World was Wide, and other Verses," 199 Out Back, - ,, „ 200 The Star of Australasia, ,, „ 203 The Vagabond, ,, ,, 207 The Sliprails and the Spur, „ „ 211 Barta, - *' When I was King, and other Verses," 213 Arthur A. D. Bayldon. Sunset, - " The Western Track, and other Verses," 215 The Sea, „ „ 215 Marlowe, ,, „ 216 Jennings Carmichael. A Woman's Mood, - - - "Poems," - 217 Agnes L. Storrie. Twenty Gallons of Sleep, - - '• Poems," • 220 A Confession, - . - - -221 CONTENTS PAGB Martha M. Simpson. To an Old Grammar, JV.S. W. Educational Gazette (Sydney), - - - 223 William Gay. To M., - - - " Sonnets, and other Verses," 226 Vestigia Nulla Retrorsum, ,, ,, 226 Primroses, " Christ on Olympus, and other Poems," 227 Edward Dyson. The Old Whim Horse, " Rhymes from the Mines, and other Lines," - 229 DowELL O'Reilly. The Sea Maiden, - - Hermes (Sydney, 1895), 233 Sea-Grief, The Bulletin, 234 David MacDonald Ross. Love's Treasure House, - - "The After Glow," 235 The Silent Tide, . . - „ 236 The Watch on Deck, - - „ 236 Autumn, „ 237 Mary Gilmore. A Little Ghost, The Orange Leader {Oizxige, N.S.W.), 238 Good-Night, - - The Queenslander (Brisbane), 239 Marri'd, The Bulletin, 240 Barcroft Henry Boakk. Where the Dead Men Lie, " Where the Dead Lie, and other Poems," 242 Bernard O'Dowd. Australia, - - • "Dawnwards?" - - 244 Prosperity, - - ,, - - 244 Bacchus, - - " Dominions of the Boundary, 246 An Order for a Song, ,, ,, 249 xiii CONTENTS PAGB Edwin James Brady. McFee of Aberdeen, "The Ways of Many Waters," 252 Will. H. Ogilvie. Habet, - - '* Fair Girls and Gray Horses," 257 Abandoned Selections, ,, ,, 258 Bowmont Water, ,, ,, 260 The Bush, my Lover, ,, ,, 262 Some take no heed, „ „ 265 RODERIC QUINN. The Camp wthin the West, "The Hidden Tide," 266 A Grey Day, ... „ 267 The Lotus-Flower, - - - Manuscript, - 269 The Seeker, The Bulletin^ 271 David McKee Wright. An Old Colonist's Reverie, "Station Ballads, and other Verses," - 274, Christopher J. Brennan. Romance, " XXI Poems : Towards the Source," 277 Cities, - , > 5> 278 " I am shut out of mine own Iveart," The Bulletin, 279 John Le Gay Brereton. The Sea Maid, - "Sea and Sky," 281 Wilfred, - - . - ,, 282 Open Speech, - >> 284 Shaw Neilson. Sheedy was Dying, - The Bulletin (1901), 285 Arthur H. Adams. The Dwellings of our Dead, " Maoriland, and other Verses," 287 The Australian, >» >> 289 Bayswater, W., " London Streets," 292 CONTENTS Blanchk Edith Baughan (Miss). The Hill, - " Shingle Short, and other Verses," Ethel Tdrner. A Trembling Star, - Orphaned by the Sea, " Gum Leaves," The Bulletin (\%<)%), Marie Louise Mack. '* I take my life into my hands," ' ' Dreams in Flower," " I dreamed of Italy," - ,, To Sydney, ... „ Johannes Carl Andersen. Soft, Low and Sweet, - " Songs Unsung," Maui Victor, - The Otago Witness (Dunedin, N.Z.), Dora Wilcox. In London, Hugh McCrae. Metamorphosis, Never Again, • Verses from Maoriland,' " Silvarum Libri," Archibald T. Strong. Ballade of London To\vn, " Sonnets and Songs," - Baudelaire, ... „ ,, Will. Lawson. The Mails, The Shunter, Leslie H. Allen. The Dark Room, "The Red West Road, and other Verses," " Between the Lights," - 295 300 302 304 310 311 313 313 316 319 320 321 322 323 326 • Hermes (Sydney, 1905), 328 CONTENTS PAGB Ernest Currie. Laudabunt Alii, The Timaru Pioneer (Timaru, N.Z. ), 329 George Charles Whitney. The Rime of the Vagabond, The Bulletin (1901), 332 Notes on the Poems, 335 Biographical Notes, 339 Index to Authors, 354 INTRODUCTION As the literature of a country is, in certain respects, a reflex of its character, it may be advisable to intro- duce this anthology with some account of the main circumstances which have affected the production of Australian poetry. Australia was first settled by the British a little more than a century ago, so that we are still a young com- munity. The present population, including that of New Z*ealand, is a little under five millions, or about the same as that of London ; it is chiefly scattered along the coast and the few permanent waterways, and a vast central region is but sparsely inhabited as yet. All climates, from tropical to frigid, are included within the continent, but the want of satisfactory watersheds renders it peculiarly liable to long droughts and sudden floods. The absence of those broad, out- ward signs of the changing seasons which mark the pageant of the year in the old world is probably a greater disadvantage than we are apt to suspect. Here, too, have existed hardly any of the conditions which obtained in older communities where great literature arose. There is no glamour of old Romance about our early history, no shading off from the actual into a dim region of myth and fable ; our beginnings are clearly defined and of an eminently prosaic char- acter. The early settlers were engaged in a hand-to- 6 xvii INTRODUCTION hand struggle with nature, and in the establishment of the primitive industries. Their strenuous pioneering days were followed by the feverish excitement of the gold period and a consequent rapid expansion of all industries. Business and politics have afforded ready roads to success, and have absorbed the energies of the best intellects. There has been no leisured class of cultured people to provide the atmosphere in which literature is best developed as an art; and, until recently, we have been content to look to the mother country for our artistic standards and supplies. The principal literary productions of our first century came from writers who had been born elsewhere, and naturally brought with them the traditions and senti- ments of their home country. We have not yet had time to settle down and form any decided racial characteristics ; nor has any great crisis occurred to fuse our common sympathies and create a national sentiment. Australia has produced no great poet, nor has any remarkable innovation in verse forms been successfully attempted. But the old forms have been so coloured by the strange conditions of a new country, and so charged with the thoughts and feelings of a vigorous, restless democracy now just out of its adolescence, that they have an interest and a value beyond that of perhaps technically better minor poetry produced under English skies. The first verses actually written and published in Australia seem to have been the Royal Birthday Odes of Michael Robinson, which were printed as broadsides from 1810 to 182 1. Their publication in book form INTRODUCTION was announced in The Hobart Town Gazette of 23rd March, 1822, but no copy of such a volume is at present known to exist. The famous " Prologue," containing the lines •' True patriots all, for be it understood We left our country for our country's good," which was said to have been recited at the first dramatic performance in Australia, on January i6th, 1796 (when Dr. Young's tragedy " The Revenge " was played by a company of convicts in Sydney), for a long time erroneously ranked as the first verse pro- duced in Australia. It was printed in what is known as Barrington's " History of New South Wales," pub- lished in London in parts during 1802-1803. The notorious George Harrington was then in New South Wales; and had nothing to do with the " History " or the " Prologue." The lines first appeared in a volume called " Original Poems and Translations chiefly by Susannah Watts," published in London in 1802, a few months before the appearance of "the com- pilation called Barrington's " History." In Susannah Watts' book the Prologue is stated to be written by " A Gentleman," and is printed under the following heading : " The newspapers having announced that a theatre was to be opened at Sydney Town, Botany Bay, and Plays to be performed by the convicts, this Prologue is supposed to have been spoken by the cele- brated Mr. B-rr-ngt-n on that occasion. 1801." Mr. Barron Field, Judge of the Supreme Court of New South Wales, printed in Sydney in 1819 his " First &2 xix INTRODUCTION Fruits of Australian Poetry," for private circulation. Field was a friend of Charles Lamb, who addressed to him the letter printed in " The Essays of Elia " under the title of " Distant Correspondents." Lamb re- viewed the " First Fruits " in The Examiner, and one wishes for his sake that the verses were more worthy. The first poem of any importance by an Australian is William Charles Wentworth's '* Australasia," written in 1823 at Cambridge University in competition for the Chancellor's medal. There were twentj'-seven com- petitors, and the prize was awarded to W. Mackworth Praed, Wentworth being second on the list. Went- worth's poem was printed in London in the same year, and shortly afterwards in The Sydney Gazette, the first Australian newspaper. After an historical and descrip- tive account of the country, the poem concludes with the following- prophecy : "And, O Britannia! shouldst thou cease to ride Despotic Empress of old Ocean's tide ; — Should thy tamed Lion — spent his former might, — No longer roar the terror of the fight; — Should e'er arrive that dark disastrous hour. When bow'd by luxury, thou yield'st to pow'r ; — When thou, no longer freest of the free. To some proud victor bend'st the vanquish'd knee ; — May all thy glories in another sphere Relume, and shine more brightly still than here ; May this, thy last-born infant, then arise. To glad thy heart and greet thy parent eyes ; And Australasia float, with flag unfurl'd, A new Britannia in another world." In 1826 there was printed at the Albion Press, INTRODUCTION Sydney, " Wild Notes from the Lyre of a Native Minstrel " by Charles Tompson, Junior, the first verse of an Australian-born writer published in this country. There was also published in Sydney in 1826 a book of verses by Dr. John Dunmore Lang, called " Aurora Australis. " Both Lang and VVentworth afterwards conducted newspapers and wrote histories of New South Wales, but their names are more famous in the political than in the literary annals of the country. At Hobart Town in 1827 appeared " The Van Diemen's Land Warriors, or the Heroes of Corn- wall " by " Pindar Juvenal," the first book of verse published in Tasmania. During the next ten years various poetical effusions were printed in the colonies, which are of bibliographical interest but of hardly any intrinsic value. Newspapers had been established at an early date, but until the end of this period they were little better than news-sheets or official gazettes, giving no opportunities for literature. The proportion of well-educated persons was small, the majority of the free settlers being members of the working classes, as very few representatives of British culture came will- ingly to this country until after the discovery of gold. It was not until 1845 that the first genuine, though crude, Australian poetry appeared, in the form of a small volume of sonnets by Charles Harpur, who was born at Windsor, N.S.W., in'~iBTf- He^^assed his best years in the lonely bush, an^~wrote largely under the influence of Wordsworth and Shelley. He had some imagination and^ocflt faCufty of the contempla- tive order, but the disadvantages of his life were many. xxi INTRODUCTION Harpur's best work is in his longer poems, from which extracts cannot convenient!)' be given here. The year 1842 had seen the publication of Henry Parkes' " Stolen Moments," the first of a number of volumes of verse which that statesman bravely issued, the last being published just before his eightieth year. The career of Parkes is coincident with a long and im- portant period of our history, in which he is the most striking figure. Not the least interesting aspect of his character, which contained much of rugged greatness, was his love of poetry and his unfailing kindness to the struggling writers of the colony. Others who deserve remembrance for their services at this time are Nicol D. Stenhouse and Dr. Woolley. Among the writers of the period D. H. Deniehy, Henry Halloran, J. Sheridan Moore and Richard Rowe contributed fairly good verse to the newspapers, the principal of which were The Atlas (1845-9), ^'^^ Empire (1850-8), and two papers still in existence — The Freeman's Journal (1850) and The Sydney Morning Herald, which began as The Sydney Herald in 1831. None of their writings, how- ever, reflected to any appreciable extent the scenery or life of the new country. With the discovery of gold a new era began for Australia. That event induced the flow of a large stream of immigration, and gave an enormous impetus to the development of the colonies. Among the ardent spirits attracted here were J. Lionel Michael, Robert Sealy, R. H. Hornc, William Howitt, Henry Kingsley and Adam Lindsay Gordon. Michael was a friend of Millais, and an early champion of the Pre-Raphaelite INTRODUCTION Brotherhood. Soon after his arrival in Sydney he abandoned the idea of digging for gold, and began to practise again as a solicitor. Through Sheridan Moore he became acquainted with Henry Kendall, a lad of eighteen who had already written some promising verses, and gave him work in his office. Later on he removed to Grafton on the Clarence River; where Kendall joined him. Michael, discerning his promise, encouraged him to write, and most of Kendall's early verses were sent from Michael's office to Parkes, who printed them in his paper The Empire. Kendall left Grafton in 1861 ; and his first volume, " Poems and Songs," was published in Sydney in October, 1862. It was not long before he recognised the extreme weak- ness of most of its contents, and did what he could to suppress the book. In the meantime he had sent speci- mens of his best work to the London Athenceum, and wrote a pathetic letter to the Editor, w^hich was printed in the issue of 27th September, 1862, together with some of the poems and a most kindly comment. Kendall soon wrote again, sending more poems, and received encouraging notices in The Aihcncciim on iQth September, 1863, 27th February, 1864, and 17th February, 1866. These form the first favourable pronouncement upon Australian poetry by an English critical journal of importance. Their stimulating effect upon Kendall was very great. From the in- difTerence of the many and the carping criticisms of some of the magnates here, he had appealed to one of the highest literary authorities in England, and received praise beyond his wildest expectations. INTRODUCTION Meanwhile the colony of Victoria, which began its independent career in 1851, had been advancing even more rapidly than New South Wales. The Argus newspaper had been in existence since 1846, and other periodicals sprang up in Melbourne which gave further scope to letters. The Australasian was established in 1854, and soon became the most important literary journal in Australia. Adam Lindsay Gordon, who had landed in Adelaide in the same year as Henry Kingsley — 1853 — published a little book of verse in 1864 at Mt. Gambler, S.A., and began to contribute verses to a Melbourne sporting paper in 1866. These were printed anonymously, and attracted some attention ; but a collection of his ballads — " Sea Spray and Smoke Drift " — brought very little praise and no profit. Marcus Clarke came to Melbourne in 1864, and soon afterwards began to write for The Argus and other papers. About the same time the presence of R. H. Home, the distinguished author of " Orion," in Mel- bourne lent a lustre to that city, which was for the time the literary centre of Australia. Home corresponded with Kendall, and contributed to a paper edited by Dcniehy in Sydney — The Southern Cross (1859-60). He was the presiding genius of the literary gatherings at Dw^ight's book-shop in Melbourne, and no doubt exercised a benefirial influence upon the writers around him. In 1870, after a series of crushing disappoint- ments, Gordon committed suicide. His dramatic end awakened sympathy and gave an additional interest to his writings. It was soon found that in the city INTRODUCTION and the bush many of his spirited racing ballads were well known. The virile, athletic tone of his verse, which taught "How a man should uphold the sports of his land And strike his best with a strong right hand And take his strokes in return " — and the practical philosophy, summed up in the well- known quatrain — " Life is mostly froth and bubble, Two things stand like stone ; Kindness in another's trouble, Courage in your own" — appeal strongly to Australians. Gordon's work cannot be considered as peculiarly Australian in character; but much of it is concerned with the horse, and all of it is a-throb with the manly, reckless personality of the writer. Horses and horse-racing are especially in- teresting to Australians, the Swinburnian rush of Gordon's ballads charms their ear, and in many respects he embodies their ideal of a man. There are few Australians who do not know some of his poems, even if they know no others, and his influence upon subsequent writers has been very great. Brunton Stephens, who came to Queensland in 1866, wrote there a long poem called " Convict Once " which, when published in London in 1871, gained high praise from competent critics, and gave the author an academic reputation. A little book of humorous verses issued in Melbourne in 1873 almost immediately became popular, and a later volume of " Miscellaneous XXV INTRODUCTION Poems " (1880), containing some fine patriotic utter- ances as well as many in lighter vein, established him as one of our chief singers. The first important poem from New Zealand — Domett's " Ranolf and Amohia "—was published in London in 1872. Domett spent thirty years in New Zealand. He wrote a good deal of verse before leaving England and after his return, but " Ranolf and Amohia " is the only poem showing traces of Australasian influence. It is a miscellany in verse rather than an epic, and contains some fine descrip- tions of New Zealand scenery. The death of Kendall in Sydney in 1882 closed what may be regarded as the second literary period. He had published his finest work in " Songs from the Mountains " (1880), and had the satisfaction of know- ing that it was a success, financially -and otherwise. Kendall's audience is not so large as Gordon's, but it is a steadily growing oiie ; and many readers who have been affected by his musical verse hold the ill- fated singer in more tender regard than any other. He lived at a time when Australians had not learned to think it possible that any good thing in art could come out of Australia, and were too fully occupied with things of the market-place to concern themselves much about literature. Several attempts have been made to maintain magazines and reviews in Sydney and Melbourne, but none of them could compete successfully with the imported English periodicals. The Colonial Monthly, The Melbourne Review, The Sydney Quarterly, and INTRODUCTION The Centennial Magazine were the most important of these. They cost more to produce than their English models, and the fact that their contents were Australian was not sufficient in itself to obtain for them adequate support. Newspapers have plaj-ed a far more impor- tant part in our literary world. The Australasian, Sydney Mail and Queenslander have done a good deal to encourage local writers, but the most powerful influence has been that of The Bulletin, which was started in Sydney in 1880. Its racy, irreverent tone and its humour are characteristically Australian, and through its columns the first realistic Australian verse of any importance — the writings of Henry Lawson and A. B. Paterson — became widely known. When published in book form, their verses met with pheno- menal success, and Paterson's " The Man from Snowy River " (1895) has already attained a circulation of over forty thousand copies. It is the first of a long series of volumes, issued during the last fourteen years, whose character is far more distinctively Australian than that of their predecessors. Their number and success are evidences of the lively interest taken by the present generation here in its native literature. Australia has now come of age, and is becoming conscious of its strength and its possibilities. Its writers to-day are, as a rule, self-reliant and hopeful. They have faith in their own country ; they write of it as they see it, and of their work and their joys and fears, in simple, direct language. It may be that none of it is poetry in the grand manner, and that some of it is lacking in technical finish ; but it is a vivid and INTRODUCTION faithful portrayal of Australia, and its ruggedness is in character. It is hoped that this selection from the verse that has been written up to the present time will be found a not unworthy contribution to the great literature of the English-speaking peoples. CHARLES HARPUR LOVE She loves me ! From her own bliss-breathing lips The live confession came, like rich perfume From crimson petals bursting into bloom ! And still my heart at the remembrance skips Like a young lion, and my tongue, too, trips As drunk with joy ! while every object seen In life's diurnal round wears in its mien A clear assurance that no doubts eclipse. And if the common things of nature now Are like old faces flushed with new delight, Much more the consciousness of that rich vow Deepens the beauteous, and refines the bright, While throned I seem on love's divinest height 'Mid all the glories glowing round its brow. WORDS Words are deeds. The wcwds we hear May revolutionize or rear A mighty state. The words we read May be a spiritual deed Excelling any fleshly one, 1 I CHARLES HARPUR As much as the celestial sun Transcends a bonfire, made to throw A light upon some raree-show. A simple proverb tagged with rhyme May colour half the course of time ; The pregnant saying of a sage May influence every coming age; A song in its effects may be More glorious than Thermopylee, And many a lay that schoolboys scan A nobler feat than Inkerman. A COAST VIEW High 'mid the shelves of a grey cliff, that yet Riseth in Babylonian mass above, In a benched cleft, as in the mouldered chair Of grey-beard Time himself, I sit alone, And gaze with a keen wondering happiness Out o'er the sea. Unto the circling bend That verges Heaven, a vast luminous plain It stretches, changeful as a lever's dream — Into great spaces mapped by light and shade In constant interchange — either 'neath clouds The billows darken, or they shimmer bright In sunny scopes of measureless expanse. 'Tis Ocean dreamless of a stormy hour. Calm, or but gently heaving ; — yet, O God ! What a blind fate-like mightiness lies coiled In slumber, under that wide-shining face 1 While o'er the watery gleam — there where its edge 2 CHARLES HARPUR Banks the dim vacancy, the topmost sails Of some tall ship, whose hull is yet unseen, Hang as if clinging to a cloud that still Comes rising with them from the void beyond; Like to a heavenly net, drawn from the deep And carried upward by ethereal hands. DANIEL HENRY DENIEHY LOVE IN A COTTAGE A COTTAGE small be mine, with porch En wreathed with ivy green, And brightsome flowers with dew-filied bells, 'Mid brown old wattles seen. And one to wait at shut of eve, With eyes as fountain clear. And braided hair, and simple dress, My homeward step to hear. On summer eves to sing old songs, And talk o'er early vows. While stars look down like angels' eyes Amid the leafy boughs. When Spring flowers peep from flossy cells. And bright-winged parrots call, In forest paths be ours to rove Till purple evenings fall. The curtains closed, by taper clear To read some page divine, 4 DANIEL H. DENIEITi' On winter nights, the hearth beside, Her soft, warm hand in mine. And so to gUde through busy life, Like some small brook alone, That winds its way 'mid grassy knolls, Its music all its own. JAMES LIONEL MICHAEL PERSONALITY "Death is to us change, not consummation." Heart o/ Midlothian. A CHANGE 1 no, surely, not a change, The change must be before we die; Death may confer a wider range. From pole to pole, from sea to sky. It cannot make me new or strange To mine own Personality I For what am I ? — this mortal flesh, These shrinking nerves, this feeble frame. For ever racked with ailments fresh And scarce from day to day the same — A fly within the spider's mesh, A moth that plays around the flame ! This is not I — within such coil The immortal spirit rests awhile : When this shall lie beneath the soil, Which its mere mortal parts defile, That shall for ever live and foil Mortality, and pain, and guile. Whatever Time may make of me Eternity must see me still 6 J. LIONEL MICHAEL Clear from the dross of earth, and free From every stain of every ill ; Yet still, where-e'er — what-e'er I be, Time's work Eternity must fill. When all the worlds have ceased to roll. When the long light has ceased to quiver When we have reached our final goal And stand beside the Living River, This vital spark — this loving soul, Must last for ever and for ever. To choose what I must be is mine, Mine in these few and fleeting days, I may be if I will, divine. Standing before God's throne in praise, — Through all Eternity to shine In yonder Heaven's sapphire blaze. Father, the soul that counts it gain To love Thee and Thy law on earth. Unchanged but free from mortal stain, Increased in knowledge and in worth. And purified from this world's pain, Shall find through Thee a second birth. A change ! no surely not a change I The change must be before we die ; Death may confer a wider range From world to world, from sky to sky, It cannot make me new or strange To mine own Personality ! 7 RICHARD ROWE SUPERSTITES ROS^ The grass is green upon her grave, The west wind whispers low : " The corn is changed, come forth, come forth. Ere all the blossoms go ! " In 'vain. Her laughing eyes are sealed, And cold her sunny brow ; Last year she smiled upon the flowers — They smile above her now 1 SOUL FERRY High and dry upon the shingle lies the fisher's boat to-night ; From his roof-beam dankly drooping, raying phos- phorescent light. Spectral in its pale-blue splendour, hangs his heap of scaly nets, And the fisher, lapt in slumber, surge and seine alike forgets. 8 RICHARD ROWE Hark ! there comes a sudden knocking, and the fisher starts from sleep, As a hollow voice and ghostly bids him once more seek the deep ; Wearily across his shoulder flingeth he the ashen oar, And upon the beach descending finds a skiff beside the shore. Tis not his, but he must enter — rocking on the waters dim. Awful in their hidden presence, who are they that wait for him? Who are they that sit so silent, as he pulleth from the land — Nothing heard save rumbling rowlock, wave soft- breaking on the sand? Chill adown the tossing channel blows the wailing, wand 'ring breeze. Lonely in the murky midnight, mutt'ring mournful memories, — Summer lands where once it brooded, wrecks that widows' hearts have wrung— Swift the dreary boat flies onwards, spray, like rain, around it flung. On a pebbled strand it grateth, ghastly cliffs around it loom, Thin and melancholy voices faintly murmur through the gloom ; 9 RICHARD ROWE Voices only, lipless voices, and the fisherman turns pale, As the mother greets her children, sisters landing brothers hail. Lightened of its unseen burden, cork-like rides the rocking bark. Fast the fisherman flies homewards o'er the billows deep and dark ; That boat needs no mortal's mooring — sad at heart he seeks his bed, For his life henceforth is clouded — he hath piloted the Deadl lO SIR HENRY PARKES THE BURIED CHIEF (November 6th, 1886) With speechless lips and solemn tread They brought the Lawyer-Statesman home They laid him with the gather 'd dead, Where rich and poor like brothers come. How bravely did the stripling climb. From step to step the rugged hill : His gaze thro' that benighted time Fix'd on the far-off beacon still. He faced the storm that o'er him burst, With pride to match the proudest born : He bore unblench'd Detraction's worst, — Paid blow for blow, and scorn for scorn. He scaled the summit while the sun Yet shone upon his conquer 'd track : Nor falter'd till the goal was won, Nor struggling upward, once look'd back. But what avails the " pride of place," Or winged chariot rolling past? He heeds not now who wins the race, Alike to him the first or last. II ADAM LINDSAY GORDON A DEDICATION They are rhymes rudely strung with intent less Of sound than of words, In lands where bright blossoms are scentless, And songless bright birds ; Where, with fire and fierce drought on her tresses, Insatiable summer oppresses Sere woodlands and sad wildernesses, And faint flocks and herds. Where in dreariest days, when all dews end, And all winds are warm, Wild Winter's large flood-gates are loosen 'd, And floods, freed from storm, From broken-up fountain heads, dash on Dry deserts with long pent up passion- Here rhyme was first framed without fashion^ Song shaped without form. Whence gather 'd? — The locust's glad chirrup May furnish a stave ; The ring of a rowel and stirrup, The wash of a wave ; ADAM LINDSAY GORDON The chaunt of the marsh frog in rushes, That chimes through the pauses and hushes Of nightfall, the torrent that gushes. The tempests that rave ; In the deep'ning of dawn, when it dapples The dusk of the sky. With streaks like the redd'ning of apples, The ripening of rye. To eastward, when cluster by cluster. Dim stars and dull planets, that muster, Wax wan in a world of white lustre That spreads far and high ; In the gathering of night gloom o'erhead, in The still silent change. All fire-flush 'd when forest trees redden On slopes cf the range. When the gnarl'd, knotted trunks Eucalyptian Seem carved, like weird columns Egyptian, With curious device, quaint inscription. And hieroglyph strange; In the Spring, when the wattle gold trembles 'Twixt shadow and shine, When each dew-laden air draught resembles A long draught of wine ; When the sky-line's blue burnish'd resistance Makes deeper the dreamiest distance, Some song in all hearts hath existence, — • Such songs have been mine. 13 ADAM LINDSAY GORDON THORA'S SONG We severed in Autumn early, Ere the earth was torn by the plough ; The wheat and the oats and the barley Are ripe for the harvest now. We sunder'd one misty morning Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain; Through the flowers those hills adorning — Thou comest not back again. My heart is heavy and weary With the weight of a weary soul; The mid-day glare grows dreary, And dreary the midnight scroll. The corn-stalks sigh for the sickle, 'Neath the load of their golden grain ; I sigh for a mate more fickle — Thou comest not back again. The warm sun riseth and setteth, The night bringeth moistening dew. But the soul that longeth forgetteth The warmth and the moisture too. In the hot sun rising and setting There is naught save feverish pain ; There are tears in the night-dews wetting- Thou comest not back again. Thy voice in my ear still mingles With the voices of whisp'ring trees, •4 ADAM LINDSAY GORDON Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles At each kiss of the summer breeze. While dreams of the past are thronging For substance of shades in vain, I am waiting, watching and longing — Thou comest not back again. Waiting and watching ever, Longing and lingering yet ; Leaves rustle and corn-stalks quiver, Winds murmur and waters fret. No answer they bring, no greeting. No speech, save that sad refrain. Nor voice, save an echo repeating — He cometh not back again. THE SICK STOCK-RIDER Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade. Old man, you've had your work cut out to guide Both horses, and to hold me in the saddle when I swayed, AU 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 Vy fence, I was dreaming on the Limestone cattle camp. 15 ADAM LINDSAY GORDON We crossed the creek at Carricksford, and sharply through the haze, And suddenly the sun shot flaming forth ; To southward lay " Katawa," with the sand peaks all ablaze, And the flushed fields of Glen Lomond lay to north. Now westward winds the bridle-path that leads to Lindisfarm, And yonder looms the double-headed Bluff^ ; From the far side of the first hill, when the skies are clear and calm, You can see Sylvester's woolshed fair enough. Five miles we used to call it from our homestead to the place Where the big tree spans the roadway like an arch ; 'Twas here we ran the dingo down that gave us such a chase Eight years ago — or was it nine? — last March. Twas merry in the glowing morn among the gleam- ing 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 black woods, when we spied the station roofs, To wheel the wild scrub cattle at the yard, i6 ADAM LINDSAY GORDON With a running fire of stock whips and a fiery run of hoofs ; Oh ! the hardest day was never then too hard ! Aye 1 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 'a ; And the golden-tinted fern leaves, how they rustled underneath ; And the honeysuckle osiers, how they crash 'd I We led the hunt throughout, Ned, on the chestnut and the grey. And the troopers were three hundred yards behind, While we emptied our six-shooters on the bushrangers at bay, In the creek with stunted box-trees for a blind ! There you grappled with the leader, man to man, and horse to horse. And you roU'd together when the chestnut rear'd; He blazed away and missed you in that shallow water- course— A narrow shave — his powder singed your beard ! 2 17 ADAM LINDSAY GORDON In these hours when life is ebbing, how those days when life was young Come back to us ; how clearly I recall Even the yarns Jack Hall invented, and the songs Jem Roper sung; And where are now Jem Roper and Jack Hall? Ay ! nearly all our comrades of the old colonial school. Our ancient boon companions, Ned, are gone; Hard livers for the most part, somewhat reckless as a rule, It seems that you and I are left alone. There was Hughes, who got in trouble through that business with the cards, It matters little what became of him ; But a steer ripp'd up Macpherson in the Cooraminta yards. And Sullivan was drown 'd at Sink-or-Swim ; And Mostyn — poor Frank Mostyn — died at last, a fear- ful 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 reck so long I Ah ! those days and nights we squandered at the Logans' in the glen — The Logans, man and wife, have long been dead. i8 ADAM LINDSAY GORDON Elsie's tallest girl seems taller than your little Elsie then ; And Ethel is a woman grown and wed. I've had my share of pastime, and I've done my share of toil, And life is short — the longest life a span ; I care not now to tarry for the corn or for the oil, Or for wine that maketh glad the heart of man ; For good undone, and gifts misspent, and resolutions vain, 'Tis somewhat late to trouble. This I know — I should live the same life over. If I had to live again ; And the chances are I go where most men go. The deep blue skies wax dusky, and the tall green trees grow dim, The sward beneath me seems to heave and fall ; And sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy sun- light swim, And on the very sun's face weave their pall. Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blos- soms 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 19 ADAM LINDSAY GORDON THE RHYME OF JOYOUS GARDE Let me gather a little strength to think, As one who reels on the outermost brink, To the innermost gulf descending. In that truce the longest and last of all, In the summer nights of that festival — Soft vesture of samite and silken pall — The beginning came of the ending. And one trod softly with sandall'd feet — Ah ! why are the stolen waters sweet ? — And one crept stealthily after ; I would I had taken him there and wrung His knavish neck when the dark door swung, Or torn by the roots his treacherous tongue, And stifled his hateful laughter. So the smouldering scandal blazed — but he, My King, to the last put trust in me — Aye, well was his trust requited ! Now priests may patter, and bells may toll, He will need no masses to aid his soul ; When the angels open the judgment scroll. His wrong will be tenfold righted. ADAM LINDSAY GORDON Then dawn'd the day when the mail was donn'd, And the steed for the strife caparison 'd, But not 'gainst the Norse invader, Then was blood shed — not by untoward chance, As the blood that is drawn by the jouster's lance, The fray in the castle of Melegrance, The fight in the lists with Mador. Then the guilt made manifest ; then the siege, When the true men rallying round the liege Beleaguer'd his base betrayer; Then the fruitless parleys, the pleadings vain, And the hard-fought battles with brave Gawaine, Twice worsted, and once so nearly slain, I may well be counted his slayer. Then the crime of Modred — a little sin At the side of mine, though the knave was kin To the king by the knave's hand stricken. And the once loved knight, was he there to save That knightly King who that knighthood gave? Ah, Christ ! will He greet me as knight or knave In the day when the dust shall quicken? Had he lightly loved, had he trusted less, I had sinn'd perchance with the sinfulness That through prayer and penance is pardon 'd, Oh, love most loyal! Oh, faith most sure! In the purity of a soul so pure I found my safeguard — 1 sinn'd secure. Till my heart to the sin grew harden 'd. ADAM LINDSAY GORDON We were glad together in gladsome meads, When they shook to the strokes of our snorting steeds ; We were joj'ful in joyous lustre When it flush 'd the coppice or fill'd the glade, Where the horn of the Dane or the Saxon bray'd, And we saw the heathen banner display 'd And the heathen lances cluster. Then a steel-shod rush and a steel-clad ring, And a crash of the spear staves splintering, And the billowy battle blended, Riot of chargers, revel of blows. And fierce flush 'd faces of fighting foes, From croup to bridle, that reel'd and rose, In a sparkle of sword-play splendid. And the long, hthe sword in the hand became As a leaping light, as a falling flame, As a fire through the f^ax that hasted ; Slender, and shining, and beautiful, How it shore through shivering casque and skull. And never a stroke was void and null. And never a thrust was wasted. I have done for ever with all these things — Deeds that were joyous to knights and kings, In days that with songs were cherish 'd. The songs are ended, the deeds are done. There shall none of them gladden me now, not one ; There is nothing good for me under the sun, But to perish as these things perish 'd. 22 ADAM LINDSAY GORDON Shall it profit me aught that the Bishop seeks My presence daily, and duly speaks Soft words of comfort and kindness? Shall it aught avail me? " Certes," he said, " Though thy soul is darkened, be not afraid — God hateth nothing that He hath made — His light shall disperse thy blindness." I am not afraid for myself, although I know I have had that light, and I know The greater my condemnation. When I well-nigh swoon 'd in the deep drawn bliss, Of that first long, sweet, slow, stolen kiss, I would gladly have given for less than this Myself, with my soul's salvation. I would languish thus in some loathsome den. As a thing of naught in the eyes of men. In the mouths of men as a by-word. Through years of pain, and when God saw fit. Singing His praises my soul should flit To the darkest depth of the nethermost pit, If hers could be wafted skyward. Lord Christ ! have patience a little while ; I have sinn'd because I am utterly vile. Having light, loving darkness rather. And I pray Thee deal with me as Thou wilt. Yet the blood of Thy foes I have freely spilt. And, moreover, mine is the greater guilt In the sight of Thee and Thy Father. 23 ADAM LINDSAY GORDON That saint, Thy servant, was counted dear Whose sword in the garden grazed the ear Of Thine enemy, Lord Redeemer 1 Not thus on the shattering visor jarr'd In this hand the iron of the hilt cross-barr'd, When the blade was swallow 'd up to the guard Through the teeth of the strong blasphemer. If ever I smote as a man should smite, If I struck one stroke that seem'd good in Thy sight. By Thy loving mercy prevailing, Lord I let her stand in the light of Thy face. Cloth 'd with Thy love and crown 'd with Thy grace, When I gnash my teeth in the terrible place That is fill'd with weeping and wailing. Shall I comfort my soul on account of this? In the world to come whatsoever it is, There is no more earthly ill-doing — For the dusty darkness shall slay desire. And the chaff may burn with unquenchable fire. But for green wild growth of thistle and briar, At least there is no renewing. And this grievous burden of life shall change In the dim hereafter, dreamy and strange. And sorrows and joys diurnal. And partial blessings, and perishing ills Shall fade in the praise, or the pang that f-.lls The glory of God's eternal hills. Or the gloom of His gulf eternal. ADAM LINDSAY GORDON Yet if all things change to the glory of One Who for all ill-doers gave His Own sweet Son, To His goodness so shall He change ill, When the world as a wither'd leaf shall be. And the sky like a shrivell'd scroll shall flee. And souls shall be summon 'd from land and sea, At the blast of His bright archangel. 25 GEORGE GORDON McCRAE ILMA DE MURSKA She sings — and, like a falcon, I Sail wings-on-edge against the wind Across the Pusztas bare and dry, Brown, boundless heath I (not all unkind) And as I sail — beneath my glance The farmer's cot and stacks swim past, The growing crops all wave and dance And rustle in the whistling blast. White, meek-ej'ed oxen at the plough Strain shoulder-forward 'gainst the yoke ; The rosy milk-maid seeks her cow With warbled song — while round the oak Are swine, 'mid leaves and mast, nose-deep, And, stretched supine and lazily. The swarthy swine-herd sound asleep. A shepherd there in sheepskin cloak, With pipe aglow behind a rock. And watching thro' the wreathed smoke The gentle movements of the flock. On ! on ! o'er moorland and morass (She sings ! ) I pass where sombre trees Spread robes of shadow on the grass 26 GEORGE G. McCRAE Or wave grave welcomes to the breeze — Now 'tis a pond — a tiny lake, Wherein some moss-grown thatch is glassed ; Beside whose marge a bowery break, With flowers a-fire and foliage massed. There ! perched aloft, the stork behold ! Up on the chimney, black and bare, Cut sharply out against the gold Of Magyar sunset past compare ; And round him see the gem-neck 'd doves, That coo, and sob, and wheel, and light, Vexing the sweet air with their loves. Proclaimed from rustic roof-tree's height; And out beyond, view miles of vine In marshall'd ranks — and here, the press Whence pours the flood of Magyar wine, All night— and this! but nothingness. She sings ! I see the Danube glance 'Tween fields of crimson-tassell'd maize. She sings ! For me the maidens dance 'Neath the dear trees of olden days. Ah ! spring ! 'Tis Magyar spring-tide here ! With opening flowers and hum of bee; The stork stands knee-deep in the mere, The air Is faint with melody. Oh! spring thou'rt full of nightingales! The breeze a-tremble as each note. Fraught with sad sweetness, sweeps the sails, Where lovers down the Danube float; The faithful stork returns with spring — Silent — he is our sentinel, 27 GEORGE G. McCRAE All night the nightingale doth sing, While joyous pains her bosom swell, Or 'mid the gentle forest glooms By twilight, near the rippling tide, Or 'mid the moon-lit grove's perfumes, She sings alike for maid and bride. Yes! yes! to-night I've heard her voice — Lain 'tween the olive and the vine — Danced a wild measure. Soul ! rejoice, Thou'rt drunk with true Hungarian wine; Rich fragrance from the fields she brought, The rustling of the river-reeds. The smiling maid I madly sought, The land of heroes and their deeds. Yes ! She, another Hebe, poured For me, (the while) another Jove, The wine of song — and swift up soared My soul to brighter skies above. Fresh colour to a faded life The old-world song of hers has given ; The pain, the care, the bootless strife. Forgotten straight — and all is Heaven. A ROSEBUD FROM THE GARDEN OF THE TAJ ******** Above me on a bracket lay The sandal-casket with the Rose, Below — the town all swathed in gray, Forgot in sleep its joys and woes. 28 GEORGE G. McCRAE The flickering fire-light danced and played, And wavered on my shelves and chair; Subsided — rose — and creeping strayed Around the glimmering wainscot bare. And as all melted into air, Methought I saw the faded Rose Appear— unfolding, fresh and fair In beauty from its long repose. Behind the flow'r a bosom fair, Half indistinct in dappled shade, Where soft the circumambient air A painter's atmosphere had made. She passed away, but still the flow'r. Expanding wide its pallid bloom. Breathed of the sighing, scented bow'r. That shed its sweetness o'er the " Tomb." Oh ! glamoured soul ! I lay and dreamed- Grand panoramas rolling past — Of turban 'd hosts, whose sabres gleamed. Whose clarions poured a warlike blast. I saw the haughty Genghiz-Khan Pavilioned round with purple silk, O'er which the fire of jewels ran — I saw his charger white as milk, 29 GEORGE G. McCBlAE His Tartar guards, with glancing spears, And steel caps glittering in the sun ; His chiefs, astrologers and seers, And all the glories he had won. Next, Tamerlane the Mighty, who, A stern-browed, pale, imperial ghost, Limped slowlj' past through mists of blue — A scourge, a terror, and a boast ! And Sultan Babur all ablaze With mingled fire of gold and gems. Whose stolen suns of burning rays Were snatched from fallen diadems. Grave Huma3'oon, Swart Ukbur proud; Juhangeer glided grandly by — And then the Imperial tambours loud Of Shah Jehan rolled gloriously. Oh ! wondrous reign of pearl and gold, Of marble courts and jewelled walls, Of crystal founts, whence, pure and cold. The shower of diamonds glittering falls. On, ever on, the pictures sail. Unfolding slow, and rolling out With varied charms of hill and dale And foaming rill, whence fountains spout. 30 GEORGE G. McCRAE A mist descended on the scene. Which faded swiftly into night; No more the pepul's glossy sheen — No more the citron's gentle green Brought dreams of calm delight. But all my soul advancing far, And farther in my lengthening dream, Saw rising, radiant as a star, The Taj-Mahal o'er Jumna's stream. 31 HENRY KENDALL PREFATORY SONNETS I. I PURPOSED once to take my pen and write, Not songs, like some, tormented and awry With passion, but a cunning harmony Of words and music caught from glen and height, And lucid colours born of woodland light And shining places where the sea-streams lie. But this was when the heat of youth glowed white, And since I've put the faded purpose by. 1 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 32 HENRY KENDALL 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 c tree I Lo, when a stranger in soft Syrian glooms Shot through with sunset treads the cedar dells, And hears the breezy ring of elfin bells Far down by where the white-haired cataract booms, He, faint with sweetness caught from forest smells, Bears thence, unwitting, plunder of perfumes. SEPTEMBER IN AUSTRALL4 Grey Winter hath gone, like a wearisome guest, .^nd, behold, for repayment, Septembsr 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 1 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 bv her fingers. ^ ' 33 HENRY KENDALL The stream from its home in the hollow hill slips In a darling old fashion ; And the day goeth down with a song on its lips Whose key-note is passion ; Far out in the fierce, bitter front of the sea I stand, and remember Dead things that were brothers and sisters of thee, Resplendent September. The West, when it blows at the fall of the noon And beats on the beaches. Is filled with a tender and tremulous tune That touches and teaches ; The stories of Youth, of the burden of Time, And the death of Devotion, Come back with the wind, and are themes of the rhyme In the waves of the ocean. We, having a secret to others unknown, In the cool mountain-mosses, May whisper together, September, alone Of our loves and our losses. One word for her beauty, and one for the grace She gave to the hours ; And then we may kiss her, and suffer her face To sleep with the flowers. Oh, season of changes — of shadow and shine — September the splendid 1 34 HENRY KENDALL My song hath no music to mingle with thine, And its burden is ended ; But thou, being born of the winds and the sun, By mountain, by river, Mayst lighten and listen, and loiter and run, With thy voices for ever. THE LAST OF HIS TRIBE He crouches, and buries his face on his knees, And hides in the dark of his hair ; For he cannot look up to the storm-smitten trees, Or think of the loneliness there : Of the loss and the loneliness there. The wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass. And turn to their coverts for fear ; But he sits in the ashes and lets them pass Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear : With the nullah, the sling, and the spear. Uloola, behold him ! The thunder that breaks On the tops of the rocks with the rain, And the wind which drives up with the salt of the lakes. Have made him a hunter again : A hunter and fisher again. For his eyes have been full with a smouldering thought ; But he dreams of the hunts of yore, 35 HENRY KENDALL And of foes that he sought, and of fights that he fought With those who will battle no more : Who will go to the battle no more. It is well that the water which tumbles and fills Goes moaning and moaning along; For an echo rolls out from the sides of the hills, And he starts at a wonderful song : At the sounds of a wonderful song. And he sees, through the rents of the scattering fogs, The corrobboree warlike and grim, And the lubra who sat by the fire on the logs, To watch, like a mourner, for him : Like a mother and mourner, for him. Will he go in his sleep from these desolate lands. Like a chief, to the rest of his race. With the honey-voiced woman who beckons, and stands. And gleams like a Dream in his face — Like a marvellous Dream in his face? ROSE LORRAINE Sweet water-moons, blown into lights Of flying gold on pool and creek. And many sounds and many sights Of younger days are back this week. 36 HENRY KENDALL I cannot say I sought to face Or greatly cared to cross again The subtle spirit of the place Whose life is mixed with Rose Lorraine. What though her voice rings clearly through A nightly dream I gladly keep, No wish have I to start anew Heart fountains that have ceased to leap. Here, face to face with different days, And later things that plead for love. It would be worse than wrong to raise A phantom far too vain to move But, Rose Lorraine — ah I Rose Lorraine, I'll whisper now, where no one hears — If you should chance to meet again The man you kissed in soft, dead years, Just say for once " He suffered much," •And add to this " His fate was worst Because of me, my voice, my touch " — There is no passion like the first I If I that breathe your slow sweet name, As one oreathes low notes on a flute, Have vext your peace with word of blame, The phrase is dead — the lips are mute. Yet when I turn towards the wall, In stormy nights, in times of rain, I often wish you could recall Your tender speeches. Rose Lorraine. 37 HENRY KENDALL Because, you see, I thought them true, And did not count you self-deceived, And gave myself in all to you. And looked on Love as Life achieved. Then came the bitter, sudden change. The fastened lips, the dumb despair : The first few weeks were very strange. And long, and sad, and hard to bear. No woman lives with power to burst My passion's bonds, and set me free; For Rose is last where Rose was first, And only Rose is fair to me. The faintest memory of her face, The wilful face that hurt me so, Is followed by a iiery trace That Rose Lorraine must never know. I keep a faded ribbon string You used to wear about your throat; And of this pale, this perished thing, I think I know the threads by rote. God help such love 1 To touch your hand, To loiter where your feet might fall, You marvellous girl, my soul would stand The worst of hell — its fires and all 1 38 HENRY KENDALL 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 f!ame, Whose heads are where the gods are, and whose sides Of strength are belted round with all the zones Of all the world, I dedicate these songs. And if, within the compass of this book, There lives and glows one verse in which there beats The pulse of wind and torrent — if one line Is here that like a running water sounds. And seems an echo from the lands of leaf. Be sure that line is thine. Here, in this home. Away from men and books and all the schools, I take thee for my Teacher. In thy voice Of deathless majesty, I, kneeling, hear God's grand authentic Gospel! Year by year, The great sublime cantata of thy storm Strikes through my spirit— fills it with a life Of startling beauty ! Thou my Bible art With holy leaves of rock, and flower, and tree, And moss, and shining runnel. From each page That helps to make thy awful volume, I Have learned a noble lesson. In the psalm Of thy grave winds, and in the liturgy Of singing waters, lo ! my soul has heard The higher worship; and from thee, indeed. The broad foundations of a finer hope Were gathered in ; and thou hast lifted up 39 HENRY KENDALL The blind horizon for a larger faith ! Moreover, walking in exalted woods Of naked glory, in the green and gold Of forest sunshine, I have paused like one With all the life transfigured : and a flood Of light ineffable has made me feel As felt the grand old prophets caught away By flames of inspiration ; but the words Sufficient for the story of my Dream Are far too splendid for poor human lips ! But thou, to whom I turn with reverent eyes — O stately Father, whose majestic face Shines far above the zone of wind and cloud, Where high dominion of the morning is — Thou hast the Song complete of which my songs Are pallid adumbrations ! Certain sounds Of strong authentic sorrow in this book May have the sob of upland torrents — these. And only these, may touch the great World's heart; For, lo ! they are the issues of that grief Which makes a man more human, and his life More like that frank exalted life of thine. But in these pages there are other tones In which thy large, superior voice is not — Through which no beauty that resembles thine Has ever shone. These are the broken words Of blind occasions, when the World has come Between me and my Dream. No song is here Of mighty compass ; for my singing robes I've worn in stolen moments. All my days Have been the days of a laborious life, 40 HENRY KENDALL And ever on my struggling ?oul has burned The fierce hoat of thi? hurried sphere. But thou, To whose fair majesty I dedicate My book of rhymes — thou hast the perfect rest Which makes the heaven of the highest gods ! To thee the noises of this violent time Are far, faint whispers ; and, from age to age, Within the world and yet apart from it. Thou standest ! Round thy lordly capes the sea Rolls on with a superb indifference For ever; in thy deep, green, gracious glens The silver fountains sing for ever. Far Above dim ghosts of waters in the caves, The royal robe of morning on thy head Abides for ever ! Evermore the wind Is thy august companion ; and thy peers Are cloud, and thunder, and the face sublime Of blue mid-heaven ! On thy awful brow Is Deity ; and in that voice of thine There is the great imperial utterance Of God for ever ; and thy feet are set Where evermore, through all the days and years. There rolls the grand hymn of the deathless wave. 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 : 41 HENRY KENDALL The perfect verses, to the tune Of woodland music set, As beautiful as afternoon, Remain unwritten yet. It is too late to write them now — The ancient fire is cold ; No ardent lights illume the brow. As in the days of old. I cannot dream the dream again; But, when the happy birds Are singing in the sunny rain, I think I hear its words. I think I hear the echo still Of long-forgotten tones, When evening winds are on the hill And sunset fires the cones ; But only in the hours supreme. With songs of land and sea, The lyrics of the leaf and stream. This echo comes to me. No longer doth the earth reveal Her gracious green and gold ; I sit where youth was once, and feel That I am growing old. The lustre from the face of things Is wearing all away; Like one who halts with tired wings, I rest and muse to-day. 42 HENRY KENDALL 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 I wonder if the waterfalls, The singers far and fair, That gleamed between the wet, green walls, Are still the marvels there ! Ahl let me hope that in that place Those old familiar things To which I turn a wistful face Have never taken wings. Let me retain the fancy still That, past the lordly range. There always shines, in folds of hill, One spot secure from change ! I trust that yet the tender screen That shades a certain nook Remains, with all its gold and green, The glory of the brook. 43 HENRY KENDALL 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 r. jed 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 ram The troubled torrent fills, I often think I see again The river in the hills ; And when the day is very near, And birds are on the wing, My spirit fancies it can hear The song I cannot sing. HY-BRASIL " Daughter," said the ancient father, pausing by the evening sea, " Turn thy face towards the sunset — turn thy face and kneel with me ! 44 HENRY KENDALL Prayer and praise and holy fasting, lips of love and life of light, These and these have made thee perfect — shining saint with seraph's sight! Look towards that flaming crescent — look beyond that glowing space — Tell me, sister of the angels, what is beaming in thy face? " And the daughter, who had fasted, who had spent her days in prayer, Till the glory of the Saviour touched her head and rested there, Turned her eyes towards the sea-line — saw beyond the fiery crest, Floating over waves of jasper, far Hy-Brasil in the West. All the calmness and the colour — all the splendour and repose. Flowing where the sunset flowered, like a silver- hearted rose ! There indeed was singing Eden, where the great gold river runs Past the porch and gates of crystal, ringed by strong and shining ones ! There indeed was God's own garden, sailing down the sapphire sea- Lawny dells and slopes of summer, dazzling stream and radiant tree I Out against the hushed horizon — out beneath the reverent day, Flamed the Wonder on the waters — flamed, and flashed, and passed away. 45 HENRY KENDALL And the maiden who had seen it felt a hand within her own, And an angel that we know not led her to the lands unknown. Never since hath eye beheld it — never since hath mortal, dazed By its strange, unearthly splendour, on the floating Eden gazed I Only once since Eve went weeping through a throng of glittering wings, Hath the holy seen Hy-Brasil where the great gold river sings 1 Only once by quiet waters, under still, resplendent skies. Did the sister of the seraphs kneel in sight of Paradise 1 She, the pure, the perfect woman, sanctified by patient prayer, Had the eyes of saints of Heaven, all their glory in her hair : Therefore God the Father whispered to a radiant spirit near — " Show Our daughter fair Hy-Brasil — show her this, and lead her here." But beyond the halls of sunset, but within the wondrous West, On the rose-red seas of evening, sails the Garden of the Blest. 46 HENRY KENDALL Still the gates of glassy beauty, still the walls of glowing light, Shine on waves that no man knows of, out of sound and out of sight. Yet the slopes and lawns of lustre, yet the dells of sparkling streams. Dip to tranquil shores of jasper, where the watching angel beams. But, behold ! our eyes are human, and our way is paved with pain, We can never find Hy-Brasil, never see its hills again I Never look on bays of crystal, never bend the reverent knee In the sight of Eden floating — floating on the sapphire sea I OUTRE MER I SEE, as one in dreaming, A broad, bright, quiet sea ; Beyond it lies a haven — The only home for me. Some men grow strong with trouble, But all my strength is past. And tired and full of sorrow, I long to sleep at last. By force of chance and changes Man's life is hard at best; And, seeing rest is voiceless, The dearest thing is rest. 47 HENRY KENDALL Beyond the sea — behold it, The home I wish to seek, The refuge of the weary, The solace of the weak I Sweet angel fingers beckon, Sweet angel voices ask My soul to cross the waters ; And yet I dread the task. God help the man whose trials Are tares that he must reap ! He cannot fat 3 the future — His only hope is sleep. Across the main a vision Of sunset coasts, and skies, And widths of waters gleaming, Enchant my human eyes. I, who have sinned and suffered, Have sought — with tears have sought To rule my life with goodness, And shape it to my thought. And yet there is no refuge To shield me from distress. Except the realm of slumber And great forgetfulness. 48 MARCUS CLARKE THE SONG OF TIGILAU The song of Tigilau the brave, Sina's wild lover, Who across the heaving wave From Samoa came over : Came over, Sina, at the setting moon ! The moon shines round and bright ; She, with her dark-eyed maidens at her side, Watches the rising tide. While balmy breathes the starry southern night, While languid heaves the lazy southern tide ; The rising tide, O Sina, and the setting moon ! The night is past, is past and gone. The moon sinks to the West, The sea-heart beats opprest, And Sina's passionate breast Heaves like the sea, when the pale moon has gone, Heaves like the passionate sea, Sina, left by the moon alone I Silver on silver sands, the rippling waters meet — Will he come soon? 4 49 MARCUS CLARKE The rippling waters kiss her delicate feet, The rippling waters, lisping low and sweet, Ripple with the tide, The rising tide. The rising tide, O Sina, and the setting moon ! He comes! — her lover! Tigilau, the son of Tui Viti. Her maidens round her hover. The rising waves her white feet cover. O Tigilau, son of Tui Viti, Through the mellow dusk thy proas glide. So soon ! So soon by the rising tide. The rising tide, my Sina, and the setting moon ! The mooring-poles are left, The whitening waves are cleft. By the prows of Tui Viti ! By the sharp keels of Tui Viti ! Broad is the sea, and deep, The yellow Samoans sleep. But they will wake and weep — Weep in their luxurious odorous vaies. While the land breeze swells the sails Of Tui Viti ! Tui Viti — far upon the rising tide. The rising tide — The rising tide, my Sina, beneath the setting moon J She leaps to meet him ! Her mouth to greet him Burns at his own. 50 MARCUS CLARKE Away ! To the canoes. To the yoked war canoes 1 The sea in murmurous tone Whispers the story of their loves, Re-echoes the story of their loves — The story of Tui Viti, Of Sina and Tui Viti, By the rising tide, The rising tide, Sina, beneath the setting moon !! She has gone ! She has fled ! Sina ! Sina, for whom the warriors decked their shining hair. Wreathing with pearls their bosoms brown and bare, Flinging beneath her dainty feet Mats crimson with the feathers of the parrakeet. Ho, Samoans ! rouse your warriors full soon. For Sina is across the rippling wave. With Tigilau, the bold and brave. Far, far upon the rising tide ! Far upon the rising tide 1 Far upon the rising tide, Sina, beneath the setting moon. SI PATRICK MOLONEY MELBOURNE 0 SWEET Queen-city of the golden South, Piercing the evening with thy star-lit spires, Thou wert a witness when I kissed the mouth Of her whose eyes outblazed the skyey fires. 1 saw the parallels of thy long streets. With lamps like angels shining all a-row, While overhead the empyrean seats Of gods were steeped in paradisic glow. The Pleiades with rarer fires were tipt, Hesper sat throned upon his jewelled chair, The belted giant's triple stars were dipt In all the splendour of Olympian air, On high to bless, the Southern Cross did shine. Like that which blazed o'er conquering Constantine. 52 ALFRED DOMETT AN INVITATION Well I if Truth be all welcomed with hardy reliance, All the lovely unfoldings of luminous Science, All that Logic can prove or disprove be avowed : Is there room for no faith — though such Evil intrude — In the dominance still of a Spirit of Good? Is there room for no hope — such a handbreadth we scan — In the permanence yet of the Spirit of Man ? — May we bless the far seeker, nor blame the fine dreamer? Leave Reason her radiance — Doubt her due cloud ; Nor their Rainbows enshroud? — From our Life of realities — hard — shallow-hearted, Has Romance — has all glory idyllic departed — From the workaday World all the wonderment flown? Well, but what if there gleamed, in an Age cold as this. The divinest of Poets' ideal of bliss? Yea, an Eden could lurk in this Empire of ours, With the loneliest love in the loveliest bowers? — 53 ALFRED DOMETT In an era so rapid with railway and steamer, And with Pan and the Dryads like Raphael gone — What if this could be shown ? O my friends, nevei' deaf to the charms of Denial, Were its comfortless comforting worth a life-trial — Discontented content with a chilling despair? — Better ask as we float down a song-flood unchecked, If our Sky with no Iris be glory-bedecked? Through the gloom of eclipse as we wistfully steal If no darkling aureolar rays may reveal That the Future is haply not utterly cheerless : While the Present has joy and adventure as rare As the Past when most fair? And if weary of mists you will roam undisdaining To a land where the fanciful fountains are raining Swift brilliants of boiHng and beautiful spray In the violet splendour of skies that illume Such a wealth of green ferns and rare crimson tree- bloom ; Where a people primeval is vanishing fast, With its faiths and its fables and ways of the past : O with reason and fancy unfettered and fearless. Come plunge with us deep into regions of Day — Come away — and away ! — A MAORI GIRL'S SONG " Alas, and well-a-day ! they are talking of me still : By the tingling of my nostril, I fear they are talking iU; 54 ALFRED DOMETT 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 I 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 I O, 'tis a foolish feeling — all this fond, sweet pain ! " When I was quite a child — not so many moons ago— A happy little maiden — O, then it was not so ; Like a sunny-dancing wavelet then I sparkled to and fro; And 1 never had this feeling — O, this sad, sweet pain ! " I think it must be owing to the idle life T 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 I " So in this pleasant islet, O, no longer will I stay — And the shadowy summer dwelling I will leave this very day ; 55 ALFRED DOMETT On Arapd I'll launch my skiff, and soon be borne away ^ From all that feeds this feeling— O, this fond, sweet pain I " I'll go and see dear Rima — she'll welcome me, I know, And a flaxen cloak — her gayest — o'er my weary shoulders throw, With purfle red and points so free — O, quite a lovely show — To charm away this feeling — O, this sad, sweet pain 1 "Two feathers I will borrow, and so gracefully I'll wear Two feathers soft and snowy, for my long, black, lustrous hair. Of the albatross's down they'll be — O, how charming they'll look there — All to chase away this feeling — O, this fond, sweet pain ! " Then the lads will flock around me with flattering talk all day— And, with anxious little pinches, sly hints of love convey ; And I shall blush with happy pride to hear them, I daresay, And quite forget this feeling— O, this sad, sweet pam in! " 56 JAMES BRUNTON STEPHENS THE DOMINION OF AUSTRALIA (A Forecast, 1877) She is not yet ; but he whose ear Thrills to that finer atmosphere Where footfalls of appointed things, Reverberant of days to be, Are heard in forecast echoings, Like wave-beats from a viewless sea — Hears in the voiceful tremors of the sky Auroral heralds whispering, " She is nigh." She is not yet ; but he whose sight Foreknows the advent of the light, Whose soul to morning radiance turns Ere night her curtain hath withdrawn, And in its quivering folds discerns The mute monitions of the dawn. With urgent sense strained onward to descry Her distant tokens, starts to find Her nigh. Not yet her day. How long " not yet "? . There comes the flush of violet ! 57 JAMES BRUNTON STEPHENS And heavenward faces, all aflame With sanguine imminence of morn, Wait but the sun-kiss to proclaim The Day of The Dominion born. Prelusive baptism 1 — ere the natal hour Named with the name and prophecy of power. Already here to hearts intense, A spirit-force, transcending sense, In heights unsealed, in deeps unstirred, Beneath the calm, above the storm, She waits the incorporating word To bid her tremble into form. Already, like divining-rods, men's souls Bend down to where the unseen river rolls ; — For even as, from sight concealed, By never flush of dawn revealed. Nor e'er illumed by golden noon. Nor sunset-streaked with crimson bar, Nor silver-spanned by wake of moon, Nor visited of any star. Beneath these lands a river waits to bless (So men divine) our utmost wilderness, — Rolls dark, but yet shall know our skies. Soon as the wisdom of the wise Conspires with nature to disclose The blessing prisoned and unseen, Till round our lessening wastes there glows A perfect zone of broadening green, — 58 JAMES BRUNTON STEPHENS Till all our land, Australia Felix called, Become one Continent-Isle of Emerald ; So flows beneath our good and ill A viewless stream of Common Will, A gathering force, a present might, That from its silent depths of gloom At Wisdom's voice shall leap to light. And hide our barren feuds in bloom, Till, all our sundering lines with love o'ergrown. Our bounds shall be the girdling seas alone. THE DARK COMPANION There is an orb that mocked the lore of sages Long time with mystery of strange unrest ; The steadfast law that rounds the starry ages Gave doubtful token of supreme behest. But they who knew the ways of God unchanging, Concluded some far influence unseen — Some kindred sphere through viewless ethers ranging, Whose strong persuasions spanned the void between. And knowing it alone through perturbation And vague disquiet of another star, They named it, till the day of revelation, " The Dark Companion " — darkly guessed afar. But when, through new perfection of appliance, Faith merged at length in undisputed sight. The mystic mover was revealed to science, No Dark Companion, but — a speck of light. 59 JAMES BRUNTON" STEPHENS No Dark Companion, but a sun of glory; No fell disturber, but a bright compeer ; The shining complement that crowned the story; The golden link that made the meaning clear. Oh, Dark Companion, journeying ever by us, Oh, grim Perturber of our works and ways — Oh, potent Dread, unseen, yet ever nigh us. Disquieting all the tenor of our days — Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose wide embraces O'ertake remotest change of clime and skies — Oh, Dark Companion, Death, whose grievous traces Are scattered shreds of riven enterprise — Thou, too, in this wise, when, our eyes unsealing, The clearer day shall change our faith to sight, Shalt show thyself, in that supreme revealing, No Dark Companion, but a thing of light. No ruthless wrecker of harmonious order; No alien heart tf discord and caprice; A beckoning light upon the Blissful Border; A kindred element of law and peace. So, too, our strange unrest in this our dwelling, The trembling that thou joinest with our mirth, Are but thy magnet-communings compelling Our spirits farther from the scope of earth. 60 JAMES BRUNTON STEPHENS So, doubtless, when beneath thy potence swerving, 'Tis that thou lead'st us by a path unknown. Our seeming deviations all subserving The perfect orbit round the central throne. The night wind moans. The Austral wilds are round me. The loved who live — ah, God ! how few they are I I looked above ; and heaven in mercy found me This parable of comfort in a star. DAY Linger, oh Sun, for a little, nor close yet this day of a million ! Is there not glory enough in the rose-curtained halls of the West? Hast thou no joy in the passion-hued folds of thy kingly pavilion? Why shouldst thou only pass through it? Oh rest thee a little while, rest ! Why should the Night come and take it, the w.an Night that cannot enjoy it. Bringing pale argent for golden, and changing vermilion to grey? Why should the Night come and shadow it, entering but to destroy it? Rest 'mid thy ruby-trailed splendours ! Oh stay thee a little while, stay ! 6i JAMES BRUNTON STEPHENS Rest thee at least a brief hour in it ! 'Tis a right royal pavilion. Lo, there are thrones for high dalliance all glori- ously canopied o'er! Lo, there are hangings of purple, and hangings of blue and vermilion. And there are fleeces of gold for thy feet on the diapered floor ! Linger, a little while linger. To-morrow my heart may not sing to thee : This shall be Yesterday, numbered with memories, folded away. Now should my flesh-fettered soul be set free ! I would soar to thee, cling to thee. And be thy rere-ward Aurora, pursuing the skirts of To-day I NIGHT Hark how the tremulous night-wind is passing in joy-laden sighs ; Soft through my window it comes, like the fanning of pinions angelic. Whispering to cease from myself, and look out on the infinite skies. Out on the orb-studded night, and the crescent effulgence of Dian ; Out on the far-gleaming star-dust that marks where the angels have trod ; 62 JAMES BRUNTON STEPHENS Out on the gem-pointed Cross, and the glittering pomp of Orion, Flaming in measureless azure, the coronal jewels of God; Luminous streams of delight in the silent immensity flowing, Journeying surgelessly on through impalpable ethers of peace. How can I think of myself when infinitude o'er me is glowing, Glowing with tokens of love from the land where my sorrows shall cease? Oh, summer-night of the South ! Oh, sweet languor of zephyrs love-sighing ! Oh, mighty circuit of shadowy solitude, holy and still 1 Music scarce audible, echo-less harmony joyously dying, Dying in faint suspirations o'er meadow, and forest, and hill 1 I must go forth and be part of it, part of the night and its gladness. But a few steps, and I pause on the marge of the shining lagoon. Here then, at length, I have rest; and I lay down my burden of sadness. Kneeling alone 'neath the stars and the silvery arc of the moon. 63 THOMAS BRACKEN NOT UNDERSTOOD Not understood, we move along asunder; Our paths grow wider as the seasons creep Along the years ; we marvel and we wonder Why life is life, and then we fall asleep Not understood. Not understood, we gather false impressions And hug them closer as the years go by; Till virtues often seem to us transgressions ; And thus men rise and fall, and live and die Not understood. Not understood I Poor souls with stunted vision Oft measure giants with their narrow gauge ; The poisoned shafts of falsehood and derision Are oft impelled 'gainst those who mould the age. Not understood. Not understood i The secret springs of action Which lie beneath the surface and the show, Are disregarded ; with self-satisfaction We judge our neighbours, and they often go Not understood. 64 THOMAS BRACKEN Not understood ! How trifles often change us ! The thoughtless sentence and the fancied slight Destroy long years of friendship, and estrange us, And on our souls there falls a freezing blight ; Not understood. Not understood 1 How many breasts are aching For lack of sympathy 1 Ah I day by day How many cheerless, lonely hearts are breaking I How many noble spirits pass away, Not understood. O God ! that men would see a little clearer, Or judge less harshly where they cannot see ! O God ! that men would draw a little nearer To one another, — they'd be nearer Thee, And understood. 65 ADA CAMBRIDGE WHAT OF THE NIGHT? To you, who look below, Where little candles glow — Who listen in a narrow street, Confused with noise of passing feet — To you 'tis wild and dark ; No light, no guide, no ark, For travellers lost on moor and lea, And ship-wrecked mariners at sea. But they who stand apart. With hushed but wakeful heart — They hear the lulling of the gale. And see the dawn-rise faint and pale. A dawn whereto they grope In trembling faith and hope, If haply, brightening, it may cast A gleam on path and goal at last. 66 ADA CAMBRIDGE GOOD-BYE Good-bye ! — 'tis like a churchyard bell — good-bye ! Poor weeping eyes I Poor head, bowed down with woe! Kiss me again, dear love, before you go. Ah, me, how fast the precious moments Hy ! Good-bye ! Good-bye 1 We are like mourners when they stand and cry At open grave in wintry wind and rain. Yes, it is death. But you shall rise again — Your sun return to this benighted sky. Good-bye ! Good-bye 1 The great physician. Time, shall pacify This parting anguish with another friend. Your heart is broken now, but it will mend. Though it is death, yet still you will not die. Good-bye ! Good-bye ! Dear heart ! dear eyes I dear tongue, that cannot lie ! Your love is true, your grief is deep and sore; But love will pass — then you will grieve no more. New love will come. Your tears will soon be dry. Good-bye I Good-bye 1 67 ADA CAMBRIDGE THE VIRGIN MARTYR Every wild she-bird has nest and mate in the warm April weather, But a captive woman, made for love — no mate, no nest has she. In the spring of young desire, young men and maids are wed together, And the happy mothers flaunt their bliss for all the world to see : Nature's sacramental feast for these — an empty board for me. I, a young maid once, an old maid now, deposed, despised, forgotten — I, like them have thrilled with passion and have dreamed of nuptial rest. Of the trembling life within me of my children un- begotten, Of a breathing new-born body to my yearning bosom prest, Of the rapture of a little soft mouth drinking at my breast. Time, that heals so many sorrows, keeps mine ever freshly aching ; Though my face is growing furrowed and my brown hair turning white. Still I mourn my irremediable loss, asleep or waking — 68 ADA CAMBRIDGE Still I hear my son's voice calling " mother " in the dead of night, And am haunted by my girl's eyes that will never see the light. O my children that I might have had ! my children, lost for ever ! O the goodly years that might have been — now desolate and bare 1 O malignant God or Fate, what have I done that I should never Take my birthright like the others, take the crown that women wear, And possess the common heritage to which all flesh is heir? HONOUR Me let the world disparage and despise — As one unfettered with its gilded chains, As one untempted by its sordid gains. Its pleasant vice, its profitable lies ; Let Justice, blind and halt and maimed, chastise The rebel spirit surging in my veins, Let the Law deal me penalties and pains And make me hideous in my neighbours' eyes. But let me fall not in mine own esteem. By poor deceit or selfish greed debased. Let me be clean from secret stain and shame, 69 ADA CAMBRIDGE Know myself true, though false as hell I seem — Know myself worthy, howsoe'er disgraced — Know myself right, though every tongue should blame. DESPAIR Alone ! Alone ! No beacon, far or near ! No chart, no compass, and no anchor stay ! Like melting fog the mirage melts away In all-surrounding darkness, void and clear. Drifting, I spread vain hands, and vainly peer And vainly call for pilot, — weep and pray; Beyond these limits not the faintest ray Shows distant coast whereto the lost may steer, O what is life, if we must hold it thus As wind-blown sparks hold momentary fire? What are these gifts without the larger boon ? O what is art, or wealth, or fame to us Who scarce have time to know what we desire? O what is love, if we must part so soon? FAITH And is the great cause lost beyond recall? Have all the hopes of ages come to naught? Is life no more with noble meaning fraught? Is life but death, and love its funeral pall? 70 ADA CAMBRIDGE Maybe. And still on bended knees I fall, Filled with a faith no preacher ever taught. O God — my God — by no false prophet wrought — I believe still, in despite of it all ! Let go the myths and creeds of groping men. This clay knows naught — the Potter understands. I own that Power divine beyond my ken, And still can leave me in His shaping hands. But, O my God, that madest mc to feel, Forgive the anguish of the turning wheel 1 71 PHILIP JOSEPH HOLDSWORTH QUIS SEPARABIT? All my life's short years had been stern and sterile— I stood like one whom the blasts blow back — As with shipmen whirled through the straits of Peril, So fierce foes menaced my every track. But I steeled my soul to a strong endeavour, I bared my brow as the sharp strokes fell. And I said to my heart — " Hope on ! Hope ever : Have Courage — Courage, and all is well." Then, bright as the blood in my heart's rich chalice, O Blossom, Blossom! — you came from far; And life rang joy, till the World's loud malice Shrilled to the edge of our utmost star. And I said : " On me let the rough storms hurtle. The great clouds gather and shroud my sun — But you shall be Queen where the rose and myrtle Laugh with the year till the year is done." So my Dream fell dead ; and the fluctuant passion — The stress and strain of the past re-grew. The world laughed on in its heedless fashion. But Earth whirled worthless, because of you 1 72 PHILIP JOSEPH HOLDSWORTH In that Lake of Tears which my grief discovered, I laid dead Love with a passionate kiss, And over those soundless depths has hovered The sweet, sad wraith of my vanished bliss. Heart clings to Heart — let the strange years sever The fates of two who had met — to part ; Love's strength survives, and the harsh world never Shall crush the passion of heart for heart ; For I know my life, though it droop and dwindle. Shall leave me Love till I fade and die, And when hereafter our Souls re-kindle, Who shall be fonder — You or I ? MY QUEEN OF DREAMS In the warm flushed heart of the rose-red west, When the great sun quivered and died to-day, You pulsed, O star, by yon pine-clad crest — And throbbed till the bright eve ashened grey — Then I saw you swim By the shadowy rim Where the grey gum dips to the western plain, And you rayed delight As you winged your flight To the mystic spheres where your kinsmen reign. O star, did you see her? My queen of dreams I 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? 73 PHILIP JOSEPH HOLDSWORTH 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 I 74 MARY HANNAY FOOTT WHERE THE PELICAN BUILDS The horses were ready, the rails were down, But the riders lingered still — One had a parting word to say, And one had his pipe to fill. Then they mounted, one with a granted prayer, And one with a grief unguessed. " We are going," they said, as they rode away — " Where the pelican builds her nest I " They had told us of pastures wide and green. To be sought past the sunset's glow; Of rifts in the ranges by opal lit ; And gold 'neath the river's flow. And thirst and hunger were banished words When they spoke of that unknown West ; No drought they dreaded, no flood they feared. Where the pelican builds her nest I The creek at the ford was but fetlock deep When we watched them crossing there ; The rains have replenished it thrice since then. And thrice has the rock lain bare. 75 MARY HANNAY FOOTT But the waters of Hope have flowed and fled, And never from blue hill's breast Come back — by the sun and the sands devoured- Where the pelican builds her nest. NEW COUNTRY CONDE had come with us all the way — Eight hundred miles— but the fortnight's rest Made him fresh as a youngster, the sturdy bay ! And Lurline was looking her very best. Weary and footsore, the cattle strayed 'Mid the silvery saltbush well content; Where the creeks lay cool 'neath the gidya's shade The stock-horses clustered, travel-spent. In the bright spring morning we left them all — Camp, and cattle, and white, and black — And rode for the Range's westward fall, Where the dingo's trail was the only track. Slow through the clay-pans, wet to the knee, With the cane-grass rustling overhead ; Swift o'er the plains with never a tree; Up the cliffs by a torrent's bed. Bridle on arm for a mile or more We toiled, ere we reached Bindanna's verge And saw — as one sees a far-off shore — The blue hills bounding the forest surge. 76 MARY HANNAY FOOTT An ocean of trees, by the west wind stirred, Rolled, ever rolled, to the great cliff's base; And its sound like the noise of waves was heard 'Mid the rocks and the caves of that lonely place. We recked not of wealth in stream or soil As we heard on the heights the breezes sing; We felt no longer our travel-toil ; We feared no more what the years might bring. NO MESSAGE She heard the story of the end, Each message, too, she heard ; And there was one for every friend; For her alone — no word. And shall she bear a heavier heart, And deem his love was fled ; Because his soul from earth could part Leaving her name unsaid? No — No! — Though neither sign nor sound A parting thought expressed — Not heedless passed the Homeward-Bound Of her he loved the best. Of voyage-perils, bravely borne. He would not tell the tale ; Of shattered planks and canvas torn, And war with wind and gale. 77 MARY HANNAY FOOTT He waited till the light-house star Should rise against the sky; And from the mainland, looming far. The forest scents blow by. He hoped to tell — assurance sweet ! — That pain and grief were o'er — What blessings haste the soul to meet, Ere yet within the door. Then one farewell he thought to speak When all the rest were past — As in the parting-hour we seek The dearest hand the last. And while for this delaying but To see Heaven's opening Gate — Lo, it received him — and was shut — Ere he could say " I wait." HAPPY DAYS A FRINGE of rushes — one green line Upon a faded plain ; A silver streak of water-shine — Above, tree-watchers twain. It was our resting-place awhile, And still, with backward gaze. We say : " *Tis many a weary mile- But there were happy days." 78 MARY HANNAY FOOTT And shall no ripple break the sand Upon our farther way? Or reedy ranks all knee-deep stand? Or leafy tree-tops sway? The gold of dawn is surely met In sunset's lavish blaze; And — in horizons hidden yet — There shall be happy days. 79 ANN GLENNY WILSON FAIRYLAND Do you remember that careless band, Riding o'er meadow and wet sea-sand, One autumn day, in a mist of sunshine, Joyously seeking for fairyland? The wind in the tree-tops was scarcely heard, The streamlet repeated its one silver word, And far away, o'er the depths of wood-land. Floated the bell of the parson-bird. Pale hoar-frost glittered in shady slips, Where ferns were dipping their finger-tips, From mossy branches a faint perfume Breathed o'er honeyed Clematis lips. At last we climbed to the ridge on high Ah, crystal vision ! Dreamland nigh ! Far, far below us, the wide Pacific Slumbered in azure from sky to sky. And cloud and shadow, across the deep Wavered, or paused in enchanted sleep, And eastward, the purple-misted islets Fretted the wave with terrace and steep. 80 ANN GLENNY WILSON We looked on the tranquil, glassy bay, On headlands sheeted in dazzling spray, And the whitening ribs of a wreck forlorn That for twenty years had wasted away. All was so calm, and pure and fair. It seemed the hour of worship there. Silent, as where the great North-Minster Rises for ever, a visible prayer. Then we turned from the murmurous forest-land, And rode over shingle and silver sand. For so fair was the earth in the golden autumn. That we sought no farther for Fairyland. A WINTER DAYBREAK From the dark gorge, where burns the morning star, I hear the glacier river rattling on And sweeping o'er his ice-ploughed shingle-bar, While wood owls shout in sombre unison. And fluttering southern dancers glide and go ; And black swan's airy trumpets wildly, sweetly blow. The cock crows in the windy winter morn. Then must I rise and fling the curtain by. All dark ! But for a strip of fiery sky Behind the ragged mountains, peaked and torn. One planet glitters in the icy cold, Poised like a hawk above the frozen peaks. And now again the wild nor'-wester speaks. And bends the cypress, shuddering, to his fold. ANN GLENNY WILSON While every timber, every casement creaks. But still the skylarks sing aloud and bold; The wooded hills arise ; the white cascade Shakes with wild laughter all the silent shadowy glade. Now from the shuttered east a silvery bar Shines through the mist, and shows the mild day- star. The storm- wrapped peaks start out and fade again, And rosy vapours skirt the pastoral plain ; The garden paths with hoary rime are wet ; And sweetly breathes the winter violet; The jonquil half unfolds her ivory cup, With clouds of gold-eyed daisies waking up. Pleasant it is to turn and see the fire Dance on the hearth, as he would never tire; The home-baked loaf, the Indian bean's perfume, Fill with their homely cheer the panelled room. Come, crazy storm ! And thou, wild glittering hail. Rave o'er the roof and wave your icy veil; Shout in our ears and take your madcap way ! I laugh at storms ! for Roderick comes to-day. THE LARK'S SONG The morning is wild and dark, The night mist runs on the vale. Bright Lucifer dies to a spark, And the wind whistles up for a gale. 82 ANN GLENNY WILSON And stormy the day may be That breaks through its prison bars, But it brings no regret to me, For I sing at the door of the stars ! Along the dim ocean-verge I see the ships labouring on ; They rise on the lifting surge One moment, and they are gone. I see on the twilight plain The flash of the flying cars ; Men travail in joy or pain — But I sing at the door of the stars I I see the green, sleeping world. The pastures all glazed with rime; The smoke from the chimney curled ; I hear the faint church bells chime. I see the grey mountain crest. The slopes, and the forest spars, With the dying moon on their breast — While I sing at the door of the stars I 83 EDWARD BOOTH LOUGHRAN DEAD LEAVES When these dead leaves were green, love, November's skies were blue, And summer came with lips aflame, The gentle spring to woo ; And to us, wandering hand in hand, Life was a fairy scene, That golden morning in the woods When these dead leaves were green I How dream-like now that dewy morn, Sweet with the wattle's flowers. When love, love, love was all our theme. And youth and hope were ours I 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 j'ou pluck these leaves From the acacia's bough, To mark the lyric we had read — I can repeat it now ! 84 EDWARD BOOTH LOUGHRAN While came the words, like music sweet, Your smiling lips between — *' So fold my love within your heart," When these dead leaves were green 1 How many springs have passed since then? Ah, wherefore should we count. The years that sped, like waters fled From Time's unstaying fount? We've had our share of happiness, Our share of care have seen ; But love alone has never flown Since these dead leaves were green. Your heart is kind and loving still, Your face to me as fair, As when, that morn, the sunshine played Amid your golden hair. So, dearest, sweethearts still we'll be. As we have ever been, And keep our love as fresh and true As when these leaves were green. ISHMONIE The traveller tells how, in that ancient clime Whose mystic monuments and ruins hoar Still struggle with the antiquary's lore. To guard the secrets of a by-gone time, 85 EDWARD BOOTH LOUGHRAN He saw, uprising from the desert bare, Like a white ghost, a city of the dead. With palaces and temples wondrous fair. Where moon-horn 'd I sis once was worshipped. But silence, like a pall, did all enfold. And the inhabitants were turn'd to stone — Yea, stone the very heart of every one ! Once to a rich man I this tale re-told. "Stone hearts! A traveller's myth! " — he turn'd aside. As Hunger begg'd, pale-featured and wild-eyed. 86 JOHN LIDDELL KELLY IMMORTALITY At twenty-five I cast my horoscope, And saw a future with all good things rife — A firm assurance of eternal life In worlds beyond, and in this world the hope Of deathless fame. But now my sun doth slope To setting, and the toil of sordid strife, The care of food and raiment, child and wife. Have dimmed and narrowed all my spirit's scope. Eternal life — a river gulphed in sands ! Undying fame — a rainbow lost in clouds i What hope of immortality remains But this : " Some soul that loves and understands Shall save thee from the darkness that enshrouds "; And this : " Thy blood shall course in others' veins "? 87 ROBERT RICHARDSON A BALLADE OF WATTLE BLOSSOM There's a land that is happy and fair, Set gem-like in halcyon seas ; The white winters visit not there, To sadden its blossoming leas, More bland than the Hesperides, Or any warm isle of the West, Where the wattle-bloom perfumes the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest. When the oak and the elm are bare. And wild winds vex the shuddering trees ; There the clematis whitens the air, And the husbandman laughs as he sees The grass rippling green to his knees. And his vineyards in emerald drest — Where the wattle-bloom bends in the breeze. And the bell-bird builds her nest. What land is with this to compare? Not the green hills of Hybla, with bees Honey-sweet, are more radiant and rare In colour and fragrance than these Boon shores, where the storm-clouds cease, ROBERT RICHARDSON And the wind and the wave are at rest — Where the wattle-bloom waves in the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest. Envoy Sweetheart, let them praise as they please Other lands, but we know which is best — Where the wattle-bloom perfumes the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest. NOCTURNE The fine line makes a perfect arc Above the level brows ; No lily mates the swift white throat That e'er in garden blows; The little parted lips make pale The red heart of the rose. Guerdon beyond all dream were his (Seeking no other prize) Who'll kiss the violet-veined lids That screen the twilight eyes. And hear her heart leap on his heart, And die there in faint sighs. Her voice is like the wind-harp's voice, Which the warm west wind guides ; Now floating low and tremulous On passionate song-tides ; 89 ROBERT RICHARDSON Now like the bell-bird's one dear note That tells where the cool creek hides. Sometimes at night, 'twixt dark and light, She visits me in dreams ; About her, like a midnight robe, Her dusk-gold hair down streams ; And the deep violet of her eyes Softer than star-mist gleams. And then my lady finds such words As by day she may not speak ; And with lips grown cold for trembling I kiss her mouth and cheek ; And my lady is no longer strange, But maiden-sweet and meek. All this is dream. By day my voice Her still heart cannot stir ; And at this wayward geste of fate I may make no demur- Knowing aright nor day or night Can make me meet for her. 90 JAMES LISTER CUTHBERTSON AT CAPE SCHANCK Down to the lighthouse pillar The rolling woodland comes, Gay with the gold of she-oaks And the green of the stunted gums, With the silver-grey of honeysuckle, With the wasted bracken red, With a tuft of softest emerald And a cloud- flecked sky o'erhead. We climbed by ridge and boulder. Umber and yellow scarred, Out to the utmost precipice, To the point that was ocean-barred, Till we looked below on the fastness Of the breeding eagle's nest, And Cape Wollomai opened eastward And the Otway on the west. Over the mirror of azure The purple shadows crept. League upon league of rollers Landward evermore swept, 91 JAMES L. CUTHBERTSON And burst upon gleaming basalt, And foamed in cranny and crack, And mounted in sheets of silver, And hurried reluctant back. And the sea, so calm out yonder, Wherever we turned our eyes. Like the blast of an angel's trumpet Rang out to the earth and skies, Till the reefs and the rocky ramparts Throbbed to the giant fray. And the gullies and jutting headlands Were bathed in a misty spray. Oh, sweet in the distant ranges. To the ear of inland men. Is the ripple of falling water In sassafras-haunted glen, The stir in the ripening cornfield That gently rustles and swells, The wind in the wattle sighing, The tinkle of cattle bells. But best is the voice of ocean, That strikes to the heart and brain, That lulls with its passionate music Trouble and grief and pain. That murmurs the requiem sweetest For those who have loved and lost, And thunders a jubilant anthem To brave hearts tempest-tossed. 92 JAMES L. CUTHBERTSON That takes to its boundless bosom The burden of all our care, That whispers of sorrow vanquished, Of hours that may yet be fair, That tells of a Harbour of Refuge Beyond life's stormy straits, Of an infinite peace that gladdens, Of an infinite love that waits. WATTLE AND MYRTLE Gold of the tangled wilderness of wattle, Break in the lone green hollows of the hills, Flame on the iron headlands of the ocean, Gleam on the margin of the hurrying rills. Come with thy saffron diadem and scatter Odours of Araby that haunt the air, Queen of our woodland, rival of the roses. Spring in the yellow tresses of thy hair. Surely the old gods, dwellers on Olympus, Under thy shining loveliness have strayed, Crowned with thy clusters, magical Apollo, Pan with his reedy music may have played. Surely within thy fastness, Aphrodite, She of the sea-ways, fallen from above, Wandered beneath thy canopy of blossom. Nothing disdainful of a mortal's love. 93 JAMES L. CUTHBERTSON Aye, and Her sweet breath lingers on the wattle, Aye, and Her myrtle dominates the glade, And with a deep and perilous enchantment Melts in the heart of lover and of maid. THE AUSTRALIAN SUNRISE The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea. And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free. The lustrous purple blackness of the soft Australian night. Waned in the gray awakening that heralded the light ; Still in the dying darkness, still in the forest dim The pearly dew of the dawning clung to each giant limb, Till the sun came up from ocean, red with the cold sea mist, And smote on the limestone ridges, and the shining tree-tops kissed ; Then the fiery Scorpion vanished, the magpie's note was heard, And the wind in the she-oak wavered, and the honey suckles stirred. The airy golden vapour rose from the river breast. The kingfisher came darting out of his crannied nest. And the bulrushes and reed-beds put off their sallow gray And burnt with cloudy crimson at dawning of the day. 94 JAMES L. CUTHBERTSON ODE TO APOLLO "Tandem venias precamur Nube candentes humeros amictus Augur Apollo." Lord of the golden lyre Fraught with the Dorian fire, Oh ! fair-haired child of Leto, come again ; And if no longer smile Delphi or Delos' isle, Come from the depth of thine i^tnean glen, Where in the black ravine Thunders the foaming green Of waters writhing far from mortals' ken; Come o'er the sparkling brine, And bring thy train divine — The sweet-voiced and immortal violet-crowned Nine. For here are richer meads, And here are goodlier steeds Than ever graced the glorious land of Greece ; Here waves the yellow corn, Here is the olive born — The gray-green gracious harbinger of peace ; Here too hath taken root A tree with golden fruit. In purple clusters hangs the vine's increase, And all the earth doth wear The dry clear Attic air That lifts the soul to liberty, and frees the heart from care. 95 JAMES L. CUTHBERTSON Or if thy wilder mood Incline to solitude, Eternal verdure girds the lonely hills. Through the green gloom of ferns Softly the sunset burns, Cold from the granite flow the mountain rills ; And there are inner shrines Made by the slumberous pines. Where the rapt heart with contemplation fills, And from wave-stricken shores Deep wistful music pours And floods the tempest-shaken forest corridors. Oh, give the gift of gold The human heart to hold With liquid glamour of the Lesbian line ; With Pindar's lava glow. With Sophocles' calm flow, Or ^schylean rapture airy fine ; Or with thy music's close Thy last autumnal rose Theocritus of Sicily, divine; O Pythian Archer strong, Time cannot do thee wrong, With thee they live for ever, thy nightingales of song. We too are island-born ; Oh, leave us not in scorn — A songless people never yet was great. We, suppliants at thy feet, Await thy muses sweet Amid the laurels at thy temple gate, 96 JAMES L. CUTHBERTSON Crownless nnd voiceless yet, But on our brows is set The dim unwritten prophecy of fate, To mould from out of mud An empire with our blood, To wage eternal warfare with the fire and flood. Lord of the minstrel choir, Oh, grant our hearts' desire, To sing of truth invincible in might, Of love surpassing death That fears no fiery breath. Of ancient inborn reverence for right. Of that sea-woven spell That from Trafalgar fell And keeps the star of duty in our sight : Oh, give the sacred fire. And our weak lips inspire With laurels of thy song and lightnings of thy lyre. 97 JOHN FARRELL AUSTRALIA TO ENGLAND June 22nd, 1897 What of the years of Englishmen ? What have they brought of growth and grace Since mud-built London by its fen Became the Briton's breeding-place? What of the Village, where our blood Was brewed by sires, half man, half brute, In vessels of wild womanhood, From blood of Saxon, Celt and Jute? What are its gifts, this Harvest Home Of English tilth and English cost. Where fell the hamlet won by Rome And rose the city that she lost ? O ! terrible and grand and strange Beyond all phantasy that gleams When Hope, asleep, sees radiant Change Come to her through the halls of dreams I A heaving sea of life, that beats Like England's heart of pride to-day, And up from roaring miles of streets Flings on the roofs its human spray ; 98 JOHN FARRELL And fluttering miles of flags aflow, And cannon's voice, and boom of bell, And seas of fire to-night, as though A hundred cities flamed and fell ; While, under many a fair festoon And flowering crescent, set ablaze With all the dyes that English June Can lend to deck a day of days. And past where mart and palace rise, And shrine and temple lift their spears, Below five million misted eyes Goes a grey Queen of Sixty Years — Go lords, and servants of the lords Of earth, with homage on their lips. And kinsmen carrying English swords, And offering England battle-ships ; And tribute-payers, on whose hands Their English fetters scarce appear ; And gathered round from utmost lands Ambassadors of Love and Fear ! Dim signs of greeting waved afar, Far trumpets blown and flags unfurled, And England's name an Avatar Of light and sound throughout the world- Hailed Empress among nations. Queen Enthroned in solemn majesty. On splendid proofs of what has been. And presages of what will be ! 99 JOHN FARRELL For this your sons, foreseeing not Or heeding not, the aftermath, Because their strenuous hearts were hot Went first on many a cruel path. And, trusting first and last to blows, Fed death with such as would gainsay Their instant passing, or oppose With talk of Right strength's right of way I For this their names are on the stone Of mountain spires, and carven trees That stand in flickering wastes unknown Wait with their dying messages ; When fire blasts dance with desert drifts The English bones show white below. And, not so white, when summer lifts The counterpane of Yukon's snow. Condemned by blood to reach for grapes That hang in sight, however high, Beyond the smoke of Asian capes. The nameless, dauntless, dead ones lie; And where Sierran morning shines On summits rolling out like waves, By many a brow of royal pines The noisiest find quiet graves. By lust of flesh and lust of gold. And depth of loins and hairy breadth Of breast, and hands to take and hold, And boastful scorn of pain and death. JOHN FARRELL And somolhing more of manliness Than tamer men, and growing shame Of sliameful things, .md something less Of final faith in sword and flame — By many a battle fought for wrong. And many a battle fought for right, So have you grown august and strong. Magnificent in all men's sight — A voice for which the kings have ears, A face the craftiest statesmen scan ; A mind to mould the after years. And mint the destinies of man ! Red sins were yours : the avid greed Of pirate fathers, smocked as Grace, Sent Judas missioners to read Christ's Word to many a feebler race — False priests of Truth who made their tryst At Mammon's siirine, and reft or slew — Some hands you taught to pray to Christ Have prayed His curse to rest on you I Your way has been to pluck the blade Too readily, and train the guns. We here, apart and unafraid Of envious foes, are but your sons : We stretched a heedless hand to smutch Our spotless flag with Murder's blight — For one less sacrilegious touch God's vengeance blasted Uzza white! lOI JOHN FARRELL You vaunted most of forts and fleets, And courage proved in battle-feasts, The courage of the beast that eats His torn and quivering fellow-beasts; Your pride of deadliest armament — What is it but the self-same dint Of joy with which the Caveman bent To shape a bloodier axe of flint? But praise to you, and more than praise And thankfulness, for some things done; And blessedness, and length of days As long as earth shall last, or sun 1 You first among the peoples spoke Sharp words and angry questionings Which burst the bonds and shed the yoke That made your men the slaves of Kings ! You set and showed the whole world's school The lesson it will surely read, That each one ruled has right to rule — The alphabet of Freedom's creed Which slowly wins it proselytes And makes uneasier many a throne ; You taught them all to prate of Rights In language growing like your own I And now your holiest and best And wisest dream of such a tie As, holding hearts from East to West, Shall strengthen while the years go by : JOHN FARRELL And of a time when every man For every fellow-man will do His kindliest, working by the plan God set him. May the dream come truel And greater dreams I O Englishmen, Be sure the safest time of all For even the mightiest State is when Not even the least desires its fall I Make England stand supreme for aye. Because supreme for peace and good, Warned well by wrecks of yesterday That strongest feet may slip in blood 1 103 ARTHUR PATCHETT MARTIN BUSHLAND Not sweeter to the storm-tossed mariner Is glimpse of home, where wife and children wait To welcome him with kisses at the gate, Than to the town-worn man the breezy stir Of mountain winds on rugged pathless heights : His long-pent soul drinks in the deep delights That Nature hath in store. The sun-kissed bay Gleams thro' the grand old gnarled gum-tree boughs Like burnished brass ; the strong-winged bird of prey Sweeps by, upon his lonely vengeful way — While over all, like breath of holy vows. The sweet airs blow, and the high- vaulted sky Looks down in pity this fair Summer day On all poor earth-born creatures doomed to die. KM JAMES HEBBLETHWAITE PERDITA The sea coast of Bohemia Is pleasant to the view When singing larks spring from the grass To fade into the blue, And all the hawthorn hedges break In wreaths of purest snow, And yellow daffodils are out, And roses half in blow. The sea coast of Bohemia Is sad as sad can be, The prince has ta'en our flower of maids Across the violet sea ; Our Perdita has gone with him, No more we dance the round Upon the green in joyous play, Or wake the tabor's sound. The sea coast of Bohemia Has many wonders seen. The shepherd lass wed with a king. The shepherd with a queen ; 105 JAMES HEBBLETHWAITE But such a wonder as my love Was never seen before, It is my joy and sorrow now To love her evermore. The sea coast of Bohemia Is haunted by a light Of memory of lady's eyes, And fame of gallant knight ; The princes seek its charmed strand, But, ah, it was our knell When o'er the sea our Perdita Went with young Florizel ! The sea coast of Bohemia Is not my resting place. For with her waned from out the day A beauty and a grace : O had I kissed her on the lips I would no longer weep, But live by that until the day I fall to shade and sleep. WANDERERS As I rode in the early dawn. While stars were fading white, I saw upon a grassy slope A camp-fire burning bright; io6 JAMES HEBBLETHWAITE With tent behind and blaze before, Three loggers in a row Sang all together joyously — Pull up the stakes and go I As I rode on by Eagle Hawk, The wide blue deep of air. The wind through the glittering leaves, The flowers so sweet and fair, The thunder of the rude salt waves, The creek's soft overflow, All joined in chorus to the words — Pull up the stakes and go! Now by the tent on forest skirt, By odour of the earth, By sight and scent of morning smoke, By evening camp-fire's mirth, By deep-sea call and foaming green, By new stars' gleam and glow, By summer trails in antique lands — Pull up the stakes and go! The world is wide, and we are young, And sounding marches beat, And passion pipes her sweetest call In lane and field and street ; So rouse the chorus, brothers all. We'll something have to show When Death comes round and strikes our tent- Pull up the stakes and go I 107 JAMES HEBBLETHWAITE PROVENCE In old Provence I long to stray All for the old love's sake, For there in far-off times a lay To minstrel harp at close of day, 1 sang beside the lake. Sad in the summer twilight air — O dusk of summer eves ! Around sat knight and lady fair : I saw them not, for you were there, My love, beneath the leaves. io8 WILLIAM PEMBER REEVES THE PASSING OF THE FOREST All glory cannot vanish from the hills, Their strength remains, their stature of command, Their flush of colour when calm evening stills Day's clamour, and the sea-breeze cools the land. Refreshed when rain-clouds swell a thousand rills, Ancient of days in green old age they stand In grandeur that can never know decay, Though from their flanks men strip the woods away. But thin their vesture now — the restless grass, Bending and dancing as the breeze goes by, Catching quick gleams and cloudy shades that pass, As shallow seas reflect a wind-stirred sky. Ah ! nobler far their forest raiment was From crown to feet that clothed them royally, Shielding their mysteries from the glare of day. Ere the dark woods were reft and torn away. Well may these plundered and insulted kings. Stripped of their robes, despoiled, uncloaked, dis- crowned. Draw down the clouds with white enfolding wings, And soft aerial fleece to wrap them round, 109 WILLIAM PEMBER REEVES To hide the scars that every season brings, The fire's black smirch, the landslip's gaping wound ; Well may they shroud their heads in mantle grey, Since from their brows the leaves were plucked away. Gone is the forest world, its wealth of life. Its jostling, crowding, thrusting, struggling race, Creeper with creeper, bush with bush at strife. Warring and wrestling for a breathing space ; Below, a realm with tangled rankness rife. Aloft, tree columns, shafts of stateliest grace. Gone is the forest nation. None might stay; Giant and dwarf alike have passed away. Gone are the forest birds, arboreal things. Eaters of honey, honey-sweet of song, The tui, and the bell-bird — he who sings That brief, rich music we would fain prolong. Gone the wood-pigeon's sudden whirr of wings; The daring robin, all unused to wrong. Wild, harmless, hamadryad creatures, they Lived with their trees, and died, and passed away. And with the birds the flowers, too, are gone That bloomed aloft, ethereal, stars of light. The clematis, the kowhai like ripe corn, Russet, though all the hills in green were dight ; The rata, draining from its tree forlorn Rich life-blood for its crimson blossoms bright, Red glory of the gorges — well-a-day ! Fled is that splendour, dead and passed away, iro WILLIAM PEMBER REEVES Lost is the scent of resinous, sharp pines; Of wood fresh cut, clean-smelling, for the hearth ; Of smoke from burning logs, in wavering lines Softening the air with blue; of cool, damp earth And dead trunks fallen among coiling vines. Brown, mouldering, moss-coated. Round the girth Of the green land the winds brought hill and bay Fragrance far-borne, now faded all away. Lost is the sense of noiseless, sweet escape From dust of stony plains, from sun and gale. When the feet tread where shade and silence drape The stems with peace beneath the leafy veil. Or where a pleasant rustling stirs each shape Creeping with whisperings that rise and fail Through labyrinths half-lit by chequered play Of light on golden moss now burned away. Gone are the forest tracks, where oft we rode Under the silver fern-fronds climbing slow, In cool, green tunnels, though fierce noontide glowed And glittered on the tree-tops far below. There, 'mid the stillness of the mountain road, We just could hear the valley river flow, Whose voice through many a windless summer day Haunted the silent woods, now passed away. Drinking fresh odours, spicy wafts that blew, We watched the glassy, quivering air asleep, Midway between tall cliffs that taller grew Above the unseen torrent calling deep ; III WILLIAM PEMBER REEVES Till, like a sword, cleaving" the foliage through, The waterfall flashed foaming down the steep. White, living- water, cooling with its spray Dense plumes of fragile fern, now scorched away. Keen is the axe, the rushing fire streams brig+it, Clear, beautiful, and fierce it speeds for Man, The Master, set to change and stern to smite, Bronzed pioneer of nations. Ay, but scan The ruined beauty wasted in a night. The blackened wonder God alone could plan, And builds not twice ! A bitter price to pay Is this for progress — beauty swept away. 112 HUBERT CHURCH ROSALIND Rosalind has come to town ! All the street's a meadow, Balconies are beeches brown With a drowsy shadow, And the long-drawn window panes Are the foliage of her lanes. Rosalind about me brings Sunny brooks that quiver Unto palpitating wings Ere they kiss the river. And her eyes are trusting birds That do nestle without words. Rosalind ! to me you bear Memories of a meeting When the love-star smote the air With a pulse's beating : Does your Spirit love to pace In the temple of that place? Rosalind ! be thou the fane For my soul's uprising, i»3 HUBERT CHURCH Where my heart may reach again Thoughts of heaven's devising: Be the solace self-bestowed In the shrine of Love's abode! " AT EVENTIDE IT SHALL BE LIGHT Is daylight fading, Margaret? Are those the bells of eventide? Does Darkness gather in her net The stars that in the sunbeams hide? The children's voices, are they not Hushed in the garden's dewy breath To whisper in some far-off spot The simple things of love and death? Your hand is cold, my Margaret, Your eyes are dim through stealthy tears, Ah, all my soul with grief is wet To know you not in all these years ! Sweet, now too late I see in vain Your heart was poured to shallow mould That could not hold it : once again Kiss me, and let me lie a-cold. 114 HUBERT CHURCH ODE Break as all vows of love that unabides, Roll on thy strand the slow, smooth arch that gleams With fettered magic of the girdling tides And the ungathered glories of youth's dreams; Pierce thy green depths on rocks that are a-cold, Touch with thy rainbow curve this lonely shore, But even as thou diest, oh I unfold The voices I have heard, and hear no more. O Sanctuary ! whose eternal foam Drapes for thanksgiving pedestals profound Sunk in the depths, — whose altar tops are home For the white clouds, — shed on me what was wound In the young years about my heart, and rolled Through all my being, a celestial sense . . . Love that still lips and shuttered eyes have told, Smiles that elude sad Memory's impotence ! Then thy too solemn dirge shall softly float Upon the muted strings of Memory's pain. As a tired wind that fades upon a moat Too still to welcome its secluded rain ; And if one tremor shall recall a throb Long buried in old graves, oh ! Lord, how sweet To feel thy benediction in a sob, And see thee in the tears about my feet . . . "5 VICTOR JAMES DALEY DREAMS I HAVE been dreaming all a summer day Of rare and dainty poems I would write ; Love-lyrics delicate as lilac-scent, Soft idylls woven of wind, and flower, and stream, And songs and sonnets carven in fine gold. The days is fading and the dusk is cold ; Out of the skies has gone the opal gleam, Out of my heart has passed the high intent Into the shadow of the falling night- Must all my dreams in darkness pass away? I have been dreaming all a summer day : Shall I go dreaming so until Life's light Fades in Death's dusk, and all my days are spent? Ah, what am I the dreamer but a dream ! The day is fading and the dusk is cold. My songs and sonnets carven in fine gold Have faded from me with the last day-beam That purple lustre to the sea-line lent, And flushed the clouds with rose and chrysolite; So days and dreams in darkness pass away. ii6 VICTOR J. DALEY I have been dreaming all a summer day Of songs and sonnets carven in fine gold ; But all my dreams in darkness pass away ; The day is fading, and the dusk is cold. A SUNSET FANTASY Spellbound, by a sweet fantasy At evenglow I stand Beside an opaline strange sea That rings a sunset land. The rich lights fade out one by one, And like a peony Drowning in wine, the crimson sun Sinks down in that strange sea. His wake across the ocean-floor In a long glory lies. Like a gold wave-way to the shore Of some sea paradise. My dream flies after him, and I Am in another land ; The sun sets in another sky. And we sit hand in hand. Gray eyes look into mine; such eyes I think the angels' are — Soft as the soft light in the skies When shines the morning star, 117 VICTOR J. DALEY And tremulous as morn, when thin Gold lights begin to glow, Revealing the bright soul within As dawn the sun below. So, hand in hand, we watch the sun Burn down the Western deeps, Dreaming a charmed dream, as one Who in enchantment sleeps ; A dream of how we twain some day, Careless of map or chart. Will both take ship and sail away Into the sunset's heart. Our ship shall be of sandal built, Like ships in old-world tales, Carven with cunning art, and gilt. And winged with scented sails Of silver silk, whereon the red Great gladioli burn, A rainbow-flag at her masthead, A rose-flag at her stern ; And, perching on the point above Wherefrom the pennon blows. The figure of a flying dove. And in her beak a rose. And from the fading land the breeze Shall bring us, blowing low, ii8 VICTOR J. DALEY Old odours and old memories, And airs of long ago — A melody that has no words Of mortal speech a part, Yet touching all the deepest chords That tremble in the heart : A scented song blown oversea, As though from bowers of bloom A wind-harp in a lilac-tree Breathed music and perfume. And we, no more with longings pale, Will smile to hear it blow ; I in the shadow of the sail, You in the sunset glow. THE OLD WIFE AND THE NEW He sat beneath the curling vines That round the gay verandah twined. His forehead seamed with sorrow's lines, An old man with a weary mind. His young wife, with a rosy face And brown arms ambered by the sun, Went flitting all about the place — Master and mistress both in one. 119 VICTOR J. DALEY What caused that old man's look of care? Was she not blithe and fair to see? What blacker than her raven hair, What darker than her eyes might be? The old man bent his weary head ; The sunlight on his gray hair shone ; His thoughts were with a woman dead And buried, years and years agone : The good old wife who took her stand Beside him at the altar-side, And walked with him, hand clasped in hand, Through joy and sorrow till she died. Ah, she was fair as heart's desire. And gay, and supple-limbed, in truth, And in his veins there leapt like fire The hot red blood of lusty youth. She stood by him in shine and shade. And, when hard-beaten at his best, She took him like a child and laid His aching head upon her breast. She helped him make a little home Where once were gum-trees gaunt and stark. And bloodwoods waved green-feathered foam — Working from dawn of day to dark, Till that dark forest formed a frame For vineyards that the gods might bless, VICTOR J. DALEY And what was savage once became An Eden in the wilderness. And how at their first vintage-time She laughed and sang — you see such shapes On vases of the Grecian prime — And danced a reel upon the grapes ! And ever, as the years went on, All things she kept with thrifty hand, Till never shone the sun upon A fairer homestead in the land. Then children came — ah, me! ah, me! Sad blessings that a mother craves ! That old man from his seat could see The shadows playing o'er their graves. And then she closed her eyes at last, Her gentle, useful, peaceful life Was over — garnered with the past; God rest thee gently, Good Old Wife ! His j'oung wife has a rosy face, And laughs, with reddest lips apart. But cannot fill the empty place Within that old man's lonely heart. His young wife has a rosy face. And brown arms ambered by the sun. Goes flitting all about the place. Master and mistress both in one; 121 VICTOR J. DALEY But though she sings, or though she sighs, He sees her not — he sees instead A gray-haired Shade with gentle eyes— The good old wife, long dead, long dead. He sits beneath the curling vines. Through which the merry sunrays dart. His forehead seamed with sorrow's lines — An old man with a broken heart. FRAGMENTS I. — MIDSUMMER IN A HAWKESBURY VALLEY Fierce Nature, glaring with a face Of savage scorn at my despair, Withered my heart. From cone to base The hills were full of hollow eyes That rayed out darkness, dead and dull ; Gray rocks grinned under ridges bare. Like dry teeth in a mouldered skull ; And ghastly gum-tree trunks did loom Out of black clefts and rifts of gloom, As sheeted spectres that arise From yawning graves at dead of night To fill the living with afTright ; And, like to witches foul that bare Their withered arms, and bend, and cast Dread curses on the sleeping lands In awful legends of the past, 122 VICTOR J. DALEY Red gums, with outstretched bloody hands, Shook maledictions in the air. And I saw Sorrow everywhere : In blackened trees and rust-red ferns, Blasted by bush-fires and the sun ; And by the salt-flood — salt as tears — Where the wild apple-trees hung low, And evermore stooped down to stare At their drowned shadows in the wave, Wringing their knotted hands of woe ; And the dark swamp-oaks, row on row, Lined either bank — a sombre train Of mourners with down-streaming hair. II. — SUNSET The day and its delights are done ; So all delights and days expire : Down in the dim, sad West the sun Is dying like a dying fire. The fiercest lances of his light Are spent; I watch him droop and die Like a great king who falls in fight; None dared the duel of his eye Living, but, now his eye is dim, The eyes of all may stare at him. How lovely in his strength at morn He orbed along the burning blue ! 123 VICTOR J. DALEY The blown gold of his flying hair Was tangled in green-tressed trees. And netted in the river sand In gleaming links of amber clear; But all his shining locks are shorn, His brow of its bright crown is bare. The golden sceptre leaves his hand. And deeper, darker, grows the hue Of the dim purple draperies And cloudy banners round his bier. O beautiful, rose-hearted dawn ! — O splendid noon of gold and blue ! — Is this wan glimmer all of you? Where are the blush and bloom ye gave To laughing land and smiling sea? — The swift lights that did flash and shiver In diamond rain upon the river, And set a star in each blue wave? Where are the merry lights and shadows That danced through wood and over lawn, And flew across the dewy meadows Like white nymphs chased by satyr lovers? Faded and perished utterly. All delicate and all rich colour In flower and cloud, on lawn and lea. On butterfly, and bird, and bee, A little space and all are gone — And darkness, like a raven, hovers Above the death-bed of the day. 124 VICTOR J. DALEY BLANCH ELYS With little hands all filled with bloom, The rose-tree wakes from her long trance And from my heart, as from a tomb, Steals forth the ghost of dead Romance. I know not whether wave, or clay. Or living lips your sweet lips kiss ; But you are mine alone to-day, As in the old days, Blanchelys ! Yea, you are mine to clasp and hold. In your young loveliness aglow. As in the time of rose and gold That faded, long and long ago. Upon the moonlight balcony We stand once more in silvered shade ; The perfume of the red rose-tree Floats upward like a serenade ; A faery music faint and fine, A scented song, a tender tune; It is the melody divine That lovers hear beneath the moon. The air is full of incense spilled From censers of the seraphim. The Chalice of the Night is filled With Wine of Magic to the brim. 125 VICTOR J. DALEY Your heart is trembling, lilce a dove New-caught, within your breast — as though, With struggling pinions, rosy Love Were prisoned in a drift of snow. I walked with fair Philosophy, Whose eyes are like two holy wells, In gardens where the Attic bee Makes honey from the asphodels. Her speech was slow and silver-clear, A river flowing full and deep. She said that Love, divine and dear. Was but a dream of fevered sleep. But Memory, with tender sighs. Breathed softly in the myrtle blooms ; And Passion with her glowing eyes Stared at me from the pine-tree glooms. All ballads of true lovers sung. All stories of true lovers told, Bring back the days when I was 30ung — The vanished days of rose-and-gold. And, in the falling of the year. Dead leaves beneath the poplar tree Like old love-letters, worn and sere, Their mournful stories tell to me. 126 VICTOR J. DALEY I sat me down on many a night When gilded lamps like moons did shine, And cheeks were flushed, and eyes were bright, To drown my thoughts in crimson wine. In vain ; there never grew the grape On Greek or Lusitanian shore, Whose juice can help us to escape The thought of days that are no more. In visions of the night I take Your heart to my heart, lover-wise ; And, in the morning, I awake With empty hands and burning eyes. Life yet within me pulses strong, And in my veins the blood runs red, But, O dear God ! the days are long, And all the world to me is dead. I had a dream of wringing hands. And tear- wet eyes, and faces wan. And heard a cry from all the lands — " O where have our Beloved gone?" Of all that once to me you were In years of yore, I hold but this — A silken tress of tawny hair : Come back, come back, O Blanchelys ! 127 VICTOR J. DALEY ROMANCE They say that fair Romance is dead, and in her cold grave lying low, The green grass waving o'er her head, the mould upon her breasts of snow ; Her voice, they say, is dumb for aye, that once was clarion-clear and high— But in their hearts, their frozen hearts, they know that bitterly they lie. Her brow of white, that was with bright rose-garland in the old days crowned. Is now, they say, all shorn of light, and with a fatal fillet bound. Her eyes divine no more shall shine to lead the hardy knight and good Unto the Castle Perilous, beyond the dark Enchanted Wood. And do they deem, these fools supreme, whose iron wheels unceasing whirr, That, in this rushing Age of Steam, there is no longer room for Her? — That, as they hold the Key of Gold that shuts or opens Mammon's Den, Romance has vanished from the earth and left the homes and hearts of men? Yea, some there be who fain would see this consum- mation sad and drear, And set their god Machinery with iron rod to rule the year. 128 VICTOR J. DALEY They got their way, day after day, with forward-star- ing, famished eyes. Whose level glances never stray — fixed fast upon a sordid prize ! The sun may rise in godlike g^Jise, the stars like burning seraphs shine, But, ah, for those sad souls unwise, nor Earth nor Heaven bears a sign. All visions fair, in earth or air, they gaze upon with sullen scorn. God knows His own great business best ; He only knows why they were born. They never saw, with sacred awe, the Vision of the Starry Stream That is the source of Love and Law ; they never dreamt the Wondrous Dream ; They never heard the Magic Bird, whose strains the poet's soul entrance ; Their souls are in their moneybags — what should they know of fair Romance? She still is here, the fair and dear, and walks the Earth with noiseless feet ; Her eyes are deep, and dark, and clear, her scarlet mouth is honey-sweet ; A chaplet fair of roses rare and lordly laurel crowns her head ; Her path is over land and sea. She is not dead ; she is not dead. 9 129 VICTOR J. DALEY On roads of clay, 'neath skies of grey, though Fate compel us to advance. Beyond the turning of the way there sits and waits for us Romance. Around yon cape, of lion-shape, that meets the wave with lion-brow, A ship sails in from lands unknown ; Romance stands shining on her prow. At dead of night, a fiery light from out the heart of darkness glares ; The engine, rocking in its flight, once more into the darkness flares ; The train flies fast, the bridge is past ; white faces for a moment gleam — And at the window sits Romance and gazes down into the stream. When first the child, with wonder wild, looks on the world with shining eyes, Romance becomes his guardian mild, and tells to him her stories wise. And when the light fades into night, and ended is this life's short span. To other wonder- worlds she leads the spirit of the Dying Man. Right grim gods be Reality, and iron-handed Circum- stance. Cast off their fetters, friend ! Break free ! — and seek the shrine of fair Romance. 130 VICTOR J. DALEY And when dark days with cares would craze your brain, then she will take your hand, And lead you on by greenwood ways unto a green and pleasant land. There you will see brave company, all making gay and gallant cheer — Blanaid the Fair, the Deirdri rare, and Gold Gudrun and Guinevere; And Merlin wise, with dreaming eyes, and Tristram of the Harp and Bow ; While from the Wood of Broceliande the horns of Elf land bravely blow. TO MY SOUL Be patient, O my Soul ; the prison bars That check thy flight Will break beneath the sun, or silent stars. Some day or night. Be still and wait ; the Body seems to reign In pride serene; But darkly in its pathway crouches Pain, With poniard keen. Grieve not when it is grieved, nor, when it errs — 'Tis naught to thee ; Its sins and sorrows are but ministers To set thee free. 131 VICTOR J. DALEY Behold, it is a bondslave to the Earth From which it springs ; Its laugh is loudest in the Masque of Mirth — It loves all things, That make the world seem beautiful and gay, But live not long — The joy of springtime and the dawn of day, Wine, Women, Song. Red-tongued it rushes, like a hound unchained, To hunt Desire; But thou remainest still a proud, unstained Spirit of fire. It has no part in thee ; thou hast no mate To share thy throne. Thou art invincible, inviolate. White and alone. Dost thou not feel in rapt imaginings. In dreams sublime, The sovran sweep of thy immortal wings Through Space and Time? The stars and suns whose magnitudes appal Shall seem to thee Like twinkling lights of some small port of call Seen far at Sea. Be still and wait, O caged Immortal Bird ! Thou shalt be free ; 132 VICTOR J. DALEY Not all in vain hast thou the voices heard Of lives to be. Be still and wait I No Being that draws breath Thy bounds can set ; Though God Himself forget thee, Faithful Death Will not forget. 133 ALICE WERNER BANNERMAN OF THE DANDENONG I RODE through the Bush in the burning noon, Over the hills to my bride,^ — The track was rough and the way was long, And Bannerman of the Dandenong, He rode along by my side. A day's march off my Beautiful dwelt. By the Murray streams in the West ; — Lightly lilting a gay love-song Rode Bannerman of the Dandenong, With a blood-red rose on his breast. *' Red, red rose of the Western streams " Was the song he sang that day — Truest comrade in hour of need, — Bay Mathlnna his peerless steed — I had my own good grey. There fell a spark on the upland grass — The dry Bush leapt into flame ; — And I felt my heart go cold as death, And Bannerman smiled and caught his breath ,- But I heard him name Her name. 134 ALICE WERNER Down the hill-side the fire-floods rushed, On the roaring eastern wind ; — Neck and neck was the reckless race, — Ever the bay mare kept her pace, But the grey horse dropped behind. He turned in the saddle — " Let's change, I say! " And his bridle rein he drew. He sprang to the ground, — "Look sharp! "he said With a backward toss of his curly head — " I ride lighter than you! " Down and up — it was quickly done — No words to waste that day! — Swift as a swallow she sped along, The good bay mare from Dandenong, — And Bannerman rode the grey. The hot air scorched like a furnace blast From the very mouth of Hell :• — The blue gums caught and blazed on high Like flaming pillars into the sky ; . . . The grey horse staggered and fell. " Ride, ride, lad, — ride for her sake!" he cried; — Into the gulf of flame Were swept, in less than a breathing space The laughing eyes, and the comely face. And the lips that named Her name. 135 ALICE WERNER She bore mc bravely, the good bay mare; — Stunned, and dizzy and blind, I heard the sound of a mingling roar 'Twas the Lachlan River that rushed before, And the flames that rolled behind. Safe — safe, at Nammoora gate, I fell, and lay like a stone. O love 1 thine arms were about me then, Thy warm tears called me to life again, — But — O God ! that I came alone ! — We dwell in peace, my beautiful one And I, by the streams in the West, — But oft through the mist of my dreams along Rides Bannerman of the Dandenong, With the blood-red rose on his breast 136 FRANCIS W. L. ADAMS GORDON'S GRAVE All the heat and the glow and the hush of the summer afternoon ; the scent of the sweet-briar bush over bowing grass-blades and broom ; the birds that flit and pass; singing the song he knows, the grass-hopper in the grass ; the voice of the she-oak boughs. Ah, and the shattered column crowned with the poet's wreath. Who, who keeps silent and solemn his passing place beneath? This was a poet that loved God's breath; his life was a passionate quest; he looked down deep in the wells of death, and now he is taking his rest. 137 FRANCIS ADAMS THE DECISION Far on the hills the morn-light is breaking', breaking" in silver that soon shall be gold. Here at my window, as one that Is taking his view of fate's victory, with hungry heart aching I wait and I watch it, now fearful, now bold. For O in an hour, an hour that's a minute, an hour that's an age, I shall be by her side! And then shall we ride a ride that has in it a race for a soul! Ah, God! shall I win it? Better it would be than fail to have died. O queen, my queen, I could kneel here and pray for you, pray not for love, not for pity for me — pray that God's glory for ever shall stay for you as a. crown of your joy and your beauty; ah, pray for you, till mine eyes' light in death and its darkness doth flee! O queen, my queen, be it winning or losing that heaves in thy heart, that breathes in thy breath, queen art thou ever and, queenly, thy choosing is true as God's truth; be it winning or losing, be it light, life, and love, be it darkness and death ! 138 FRANCIS ADAMS LOVE AND DEATH Death? is it death you give? So be it ! O Death, thou hast been long my friend, and now thy pale cool cheek shall have my kiss, while the faint breath expires on thy still lips, O lovely Death I Come then, loose hands, fair Life, without a wail ! We've had good hours together, and you were sweet what time love whispered with the nightingale, tho' ever your music by the lark's would fail. Come then, loose hands! Our lover time is done. Now is the marriage with the eternal sun. The hours are few that rest, are few and fleet. Good-bye ! The game is lost : the game is won. '39 THOMAS W. HENEY ABSENCE Ah, happy air that, rough or soft, May kiss that face and stay ; And happy beams that from above May choose to her their way ; And happy flowers that now and then Touch lips more sweet than they ! But it were not so blest to be Or light or air or rose ; Those dainty fingers tear and toss The bloom that in them glows; And come or go, both wind and ray She heeds not, if she knows. But if I come thy choice should be Either to love or not — For if I might I would not kiss And then be all forgot; And it were best thy love to lose If love self-scorn begot. 140 THOMAS W. HENEY A RIVERINA ROAD Now while so many turn with love and longing- To wan lands lying in the grey North Sea, To thee we turn, hearts, mem'ries, all belonging, Dear land of ours, to thee. West, ever west, with the strong sunshine marching Beyond the mountains, far from this soft coast, Until we almost see the great plains arching, In endless mirage lost. A land of camps where seldom is sojourning. Where men like the dim fathers of our race, H.-ilt for a time, and next day, unreturning, Fare ever on apace. Last night how many a leaping blaze affrighted The wailing birds of passage in their file; And dawn sees ashes dead and embers whited Where men had dwelt awhile. The sun may burn, the mirage shift and vanish And fade and glare by turns along the sky ; The haze of heat may all the distance banish To the uncaring eye. By speech, or tongue of bird or brute, unbroken .Silence may brood upon the lifeless plain, Nor any sign, far off or near, betoken Man in this vast domain. 141 THOMAS W. HENEY Though tender grace the landscape lacks, too spacious, Impassive, silent, lonely, to be fair, Their kindness swiftly comes more soft and gracious, Who live or tarry there. All that he has, in camp or homestead, proffers, To stranger guest at once a stranger host, Proudest to see accepted what he offers, Given without a boast. Pass, if you can, the drover's cattle stringing Along the miles of the wide travelled road, Without a challenge through the hot dust ringing, Kind though abrupt the mode. A cloud of dust where polish 'd wheels are flashing Passes along, and in it rolls the mail. Comes from the box as on the coach goes dashing The lonely driver's hail. Or in the track a station youngster mounted Sits in his saddle smoking for a " spell," Rides a while onward; then, his news recounted. Parts with a brief farewell. To-day these plains may seem a face defiant, Turn'd to a mortal foe, yet scorning fear; As when, with heaven at war, an Earth-born giant Saw the Olympian near. 142 THOMAS W. HENEY Come yet again ! No child's fair face Is sweeter With young- delight than this cool blooming land, Silent no more, for songs than wings are fleeter, No blaze, but sunshine bland. Thus In her likeness that strange nature moulding Makes man as moody, sad and savage too ; Yet in his heart, like her, a passion holding, Unselfish, kind and true. Therefore, while many turn with love and longing To wan lands lying on the grey North Sea, To-day possessed by other mem Vies thronging We turn, wild West, to thee! 23rd December, 1891. 143 PATRICK EDWARD QUINN A GIRL'S GRAVE "Aged 17, oj a broken heart, January ist, 1841." What story is here of broken love, What idyllic sad romance, What arrow fretted the silken dove That met with such grim mischance? I picture you, sleeper of long ago, When you trifled and danced and smiled, All golden laughter and beauty's glow In a girl life sweet and wild. Hair with the red gold's luring tinge, Fine as the finest silk, Violet eyes with a golden fringe And cheeks of roses and milk. Something of this you must have been. Something gentle and sweet. To have broken your heart at seventeen And died in such sad defeat. 144 10 PATRICK EDWARD QUINN Hardly one of your kinsfolk live, It was all so long ago, The tale of the cruel love to give That laid you here so low. Loving, trusting, and foully paid — The story is easily guessed, A blotted sun and skies that fade And this grass-grown grave the rest. Whatever the cynic may sourly say, With a dash of truth, I ween. Of the girls of the period, in your day They had hearts at seventeen. Dead of a fashion out of date, Such folly has passed away Like the hoop and patch and modish gait That went out with an older day. The stone is battered and all awry, The words can be scarcely read. The rank reeds clustering thick and high Over your buried head. I pluck one straight as a Paynim's lance To keep your memory green, For the lordly sake of old Romance And your own, sad seventeen. 145 JOHN SANDES "WITH DEATH'S PROPHETIC EAR" Lay my rifle here beside me, set rny Bible on my breast, For a moment let the warning bugles cease; As the century is closing I am going to my rest, Lord, lettest Thou Thy servant go in peace. But loud through all the bugles rings a cadence in mine ear, And on the winds my hopes of peace are strowed. Those winds that waft the voices that already I can hear Of the rooi-baatjes singing on the road. Yes, the red-coats are returning, I can hear the steady tramp, After twenty years of waiting, lulled to sleep. Since rank and file at Potchefstroom we hemmed them in their camp. And cut them up at Bronkerspruit like sheep. They shelled us at Ingogo, but we galloped into range. And we shot the British gunners where they showed. I guessed they would return to us, I knew the chance must change — Hark I the rooi-baatjes singing on the road ! 146 JOHN SANDES But now from snow-swept Canada, from India's torrid plains, From lone Australian outposts, hither led, Obeying their commando, as they heard the bugle's strains. The men in brown have joined the men in red. They come to find the colours at Majuba left and lost. They come to pay us back the debt they owed ; And I hear new voices lifted, and I see strange colours tossed, 'Mid the rooi-baatjes singing on the road. The old, old faiths must falter, and the old, old creeds must fail — I hear it in that distant murmur low — The old, old order changes, and 'tis vain for us to rail, The great world does not want us — we must go. And veldt, and spruit, and kopje to the stranger will belong, No more to trek before him we shall load ; Too wbII, too well, I know it, for I hear it in the song Of the rooi-baatjes singing on the road. 147 INEZ K. HYLAND TO A WAVE Where were you yesterday? In Gulistan, With roses and the frenzied nightingales? Rather would I believe you shining ran With peaceful floods, where the soft voice prevails Of building doves in lordly trees set high, Trees which enclose a home where love abides — His love and hers, a passioned ecstasy; Your tone has caught its echo and derides My joyless lot, as face down pressed I lie Upon the shifting sand, and hear the reeds Voicing a thin, dissonant threnody Unto the cliff and wind-tormented weeds. As with the faint half-lights of jade toward The shore you come and show a violet hue, I wonder if the face of my adored Was ever held importraitured by you. Ah, no I if you had seen his face, still prest Within your hold the picture dear would be, Like that bright portrait which so moved the breast Of fairest Gurd with soft unrest that she, Born in ice halls, she who but raised her eyes And scornful questioned, "What is love, indeed? 148 INEZ K. HYLAND None ever viewed it 'neath these northern skies," — Seeing the face soon learned love's gentle creed; But you hold nothing to be counted dear — Only a gift of weed and broken shells ; Yet I will gather one, so I can hear The soft remembrance which still in it dwells : For in the shell, though broken, ever lies The murmur of the sea whence it was torn — So in a woman's heart there never dies The memory of love, though love be lorn. 149 GEORGE ESSEX EVANS AN AUSTRALIAN SYMPHONY Not as the songs of other lands Her song shall be Where dim Her purple shore-line stands Above the sea ! As erst she stood, she stands alone ; Her inspiration is her own. From sunlit plains to mangrove strands Not as the songs of other lands Her song shall be. O Southern Singers ! Rich and sweet, Like chimes of bells, The cadence swings with rhythmic beat The music swells; But undertones, weird, mournful, strong. Sweep like swift currents thro' the song. In deepest chords, with passion fraught, In softest notes of sweetest thought, This sadness dwells. 150 GEORGE ESSEX E.VANS Is this her song, so weirdly strange, So mixed with pain, That whereso'er her poets range Is heard the strain? Broods there no spell upon the air But desolation and despair? No voice, save Sorrow's, to intrude Upon her mountain solitude Or sun-kissed plain ? The silence and the sunshine creep With soft caress O'er billowy plain and mountain steep And wilderness — A velvet touch, a subtle breath, As sweet as love, as calm as death, On earth, on air, so soft, so fine, Till all the soul a spell divine O'ershadoweth. The gray gxims by the lonely creek, The star-crowned height, The wind-swept plain, the dim blue peak. The cold white light, The solitude spread near and far Around the camp-fire's tiny star. The horsc-bcll's melody remote. The curlew's melancholy note Across the night. 15' GEORGE ESSEX EVANS These have their message ; yet from these Our songs have thrown O'er all our Austral hills and leas One sombre tone. Whence doth the mournful keynote start? From the pure depths of Nature's heart? Or from the heart of him who sings And deems his hand upon the strings Is Nature's own? Could tints be deeper, skies less dim, More soft and fair, Dappled with milk-white clouds that swim In faintest air? The soft moss sleeps upon the stone, Green scrub-vine traceries enthrone The dead gray trunks, and boulders red. Roofed by the pine and carpeted With maidenhair. But far and near, o'er each, o'er all. Above, below. Hangs the great silence like a pall Softer than snow. Not sorrow is the spell it brings. But thoughts of calmer, purer things. Like the sweet touch of hands we love, A woman's tenderness above A fevered brow. 152 GEORGE ESSEX EVANS These purple hills, these yellow leas, These forests lone, These mangrove shores, these shimmermg seas. This summer zone — Shall they inspire no nobler strain Than songs of bitterness and pain? Strike her wild harp with firmer hand, And send her music thro' the land. With loftier tone ! Her song is silence ; unto her Its mystery clings. Silence is the interpreter Of deeper things. O for sonorous voice and strong To change that silence into song. To give that melody release Which sleeps in the deep heart of peace With folded wings ! A PASTORAL Nature feels the touch of noon ; Not a rustle stirs the grass ; Not a shadow flecks the sky. Save the brown hawk hovering nigh ; Not a ripple dims the glass Of the wide lagoon. Darkly, like an armed host Seen afar against the blue, 153 GEORGE ESSEX EVANS Rise the hills, and yellow-grey Sleeps the plain in cove and bay, Like a shining sea that dreams Round a silent coast. From the heart of these blue hills, Like the joy that flows from peace, Creeps the river far below Fringed with willow, sinuous, slow. Surely here there seems surcease From the care that kills. Surely here might radiant Love Fill with happiness his cup, Where the purple lucerne-bloom Floods the air with sweet perfume. Nature's incense floating up To the Gods above. 'Neath the gnarled-boughed apple trees Motionless the cattle stand; Chequered cornfield, homestead white, Sleeping in the streaming light, For deep trance is o'er the land. And the wings of peace. Here, O Power that moves the heart. Thou art in the quiet air; Here, unvexed of code or creed, Man may breathe his bitter need; Nor with impious lips declare What Thou wert and art. 154 GEORGE ESSEX EVANS All the strong souls of the race Thro' the aeons that have run, They have cried aloud to Thee— " Thou art that which stirs in me ! " As the flame leaps towards the sun They have sought Thy face. But the faiths have flowered and flown, And the truth is but in part ; Many a creed and many a grade For Thy purpose Thou hast made. None can know Thee what Thou art, Fathomless ! Unknown ! THE WOMEN OF THE WEST They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill, The houses in the busy streets where life is never still, The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best : For love they faced the wilderness — the Women of the West. The roar, and rush, and fever of the city died away, And the old-time joys and faces — they were gone for many a day ; In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creak- ing bullock chains. O'er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains. '55 GEORGE ESSEX EVANS In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run, In the tent beside the bankment of a railway just begun, In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man's unrest. On the frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West. The red sun robs their beauty, and, in weariness and pain, The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again ; And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say — The nearest woman's face may be a hundred miles away. The wide bush holds the secrets of their longing and desires. When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar fires, And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast — Perchance He hears and understands the Women of the West. For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts — They only hear the beating of their gallant, loving hearts. 156 GEORGE ESSEX EVANS But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above — The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love. Well have we held our father's creed. No call has passed us by. We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die. And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o'er all the rest, The hearts that made the Nation were the Women of the West. THE SECRET KEY There is a magic kingdom of strange powers, Thought-hidden, lit by other stars than ours; ."Xnd, when a wanderer through its mazes brings Word of things seen, men say: " A poet sings." Its gates are guarded in a sterile land — Mountain and deep morass, and shifting sand ; Storm-barred are they, and may not opened be Save by the hand that finds the secret key. That key, some say, lies in the sunset glow, Or the white arc of dawn, or where the flow Of some lone river stems the shoreward wave In shuddering silver on its ocean grave. Some say that when the wind wars with the sea. In that stern music, one may find the key; 157 GEORGE ESSEX EVANS Or, in green glooms of forests, where the pine Uplifts her spear amid great wreaths of vine; Or, where the streaming mist's white rollers climb The dark ravine and precipice sublime — A filmy sea that twines and intertwines Wreathes the low hills, and veils the mighty lines Of sovran mountains, crimsoned and aglow In crystal pomp, crested with jewelled snow; But still, with souls afire, men seek that land, And die in deep morass and shifting sand. To those alone its iron gates are free. Who find, within their hearts, the secret key; For Earth, with all the colour of her day. Is not their country — that lies far away. 158 MARY COLBORNE-VEEL SATURDAY NIGHT Saturday night in the crowded town ; Pleasure and pain going up and down, Murmuring low on the ear there beat Echoes unceasing of voice and feet. Withered age, with its load of care. Come in this tumult of life to share, Childhood glad in its radiance brief. Happiest-hearted or bowed with grief, Meet alike, as the stars lo©k down Week by week on the crowded town. And in a kingdom of mystery, Rapt from this weariful world to see Magic sights in the yellow glare. Breathing delight in the gas-lit air, Careless of sorrow, of grief or pain, Two by two, again and again, Strephon and Chloc together move, Walking in Arcady, land of love. What are the meanings that burden all These murmuring voices that rise and fall? Tragedies whispered of, secrets told, Over the baskets of bought and sold ; 1 59 MARY COLBORNE-VEEL Joyous speech of the lately wed ; Broken lamentings that name the dead : Endless runes of the gossip's rede, And gathered home with the weekly need, Kindly greetings as neighbours meet There in the stir of the busy street. Then is the glare of the gaslight ray Gifted with potency strange to-day, Records of time-written history Flash into sight as each face goes by. There, as the hundreds slow moving go, Each with his burden of joy or woe, Souls, in the meeting of stranger's eyes, Startled this kinship to recognise, — Meet and part, as the stars look down. Week by week on the crowded town. And still, in the midst of the busy hum, Rapt in their dream, of delight they come. Heedless of sorrow, of grief or care. Wandering on tn enchanted air, Far from the haunting shadow of pain r Two by two, again and again, Strephon and Chloe together move. Walking in Arcady, land of love. i6o MARY COLBORNE-VEEL " RESURGAM " (Autumn Song) Chill breezes moaning are Where leaves hang yellow : O'er the grey hills afar Flies the last swallow ; To come again, my love, to come again Blithe with the summer. But Ah I the long months ere we welcome then That bright new comer. Cold lie the flowers and dead Where leaves are falling. Meekly they bowed and sped At Autumn's calling. To come again, my love, to come again Blithe with the swallow. Ah ! might I dreaming lie at rest till then. Or rise and follow I The summer blooms are gone. And bright birds darting ; Cold lies the earth forlorn ; And we are parting. To meet again, my love, to meet again In deathless greeting, But ah I what wintry bitterness of pain Ere that far meeting ! 11 i6i MARY COLBORNE-VEEL DISTANT AUTHORS "Aqiii estk enceirada el alma licenciado Pedro Garcias." Dear books ! and each the living soul, Our hearts aver, of men unseen, Whose power to strengthen, charm, control, Surmounts all earth's green miles between. For us at least the artists show Apart from fret of work-day jars : We know them but as friends may know, Or they are known beyond the stars. Their mirth, their grief, their soul's desire, When twilight murmuring of streams. Or skies far touched by sunset fire, Exalt them to pure worlds of dreams; Their love of good ; their rage at wrong ; Their hours when struggling thought makes way ; Their hours when fancy drifts to song Lightly and glad as bird-trills may ; All these are truths. And if as true More graceless scrutiny that reads, "These fruits amid strange husking grew;" "These lilies blossomed amongst weeds;" Here no despoiling doubts shall blow, No fret of feud, of work-day jars. We know them but as friends may know, Or they are known beyond the stars. 162 JOHN BERNARD O'HARA HAPPY CREEK The little creek goes winding Thro' gums of white and blue, A silver arm Around the farm It flings, a lover true ; And softly, where the rushes lean, It sings (O sweet and low) A lover's song, And winds along, How happy — lovers know 1 The little creek goes singing By maidenhair and moss, Along its banks In rosy ranks The wild flowers wave and toss ; And ever where the ferns dip down It sings (O sweet and low) A lover's song, And winds along. How happy — lovers know I 163 JOHN BERNARD O'HARA The little creek takes colour, From summer skies above; Now blue, now gold, Its waters fold The clouds in closest love ; But loudly when the thunders roll It sings (nor sweet, nor low) No lover's song, But sweeps along, How angry — lovers know ! The little creek for ever Goes winding, winding down. Away, away, By night, by day. Where dark the ranges frown ; But ever as it glides it sings, It sings (O sweet and low) A lover's song. And winds along, How happy — lovers know ! A COUNTRY VILLAGE Among the folding hills It lies, a quiet nook, Where dreaming nature fills Sweet pages of her book. While through the meadow flowers She sings In summer hours, 164 JOHN BERNARD O'HARA Or weds the woodland rills Low-laughing to the brook. The graveyard whitely gleams Across the soundless vale, So sad, so sweet, yet seems A watcher cold and pale That waits through many springs The tribute old Time brings, And knows, though life be loud, The reaper may not fail. Here come not feet of change From year to fading year; Ringed by the rolling range No world-wide notes men hear. The wheels of time may stand Here in a lonely land, Age after age may pass Untouched of change or cheer; As still the farmer keeps The same dull round of things ; He reaps and sows and reaps. And clings, as ivy clings. To old-time trust, nor cares What science does or dares. What lever moves the world, What progress spreads its wings. Yet here, of woman born, Are lives that know not rest, 165 JOHN BERNARD O'HARA With fierce desires that scorn The quiet life as best; That see in wider ways Life's richer splendours blaze, And feel ambition's fire Burn in their ardent breast. Yea, some that fain would know Life's purpose strange and vast. How wide is human woe, What wailing of the past Still strikes the present dumb. What phantoms go and come Of wrongs that cry aloud, " At last, O God 1 at last ! " Here, too, are dreams that wing Rich regions of Romance ; Love waking when the Spring Begins its first wild dance, Love redder than the rose. Love paler than the snows, Love frail as corn that tilts With morning winds a lance. For never land so lone That love could find not wings In every wind that's blown By lips of jewelled springs, For love is life's sweet pain. And when sweet life is slain i66 JOHN BERNARD O'HARA It finds a radiant rest Beyond the change of things. Beyond the shocks that jar, The chance of changing fate, Where fraud and violence are, And heedless lust and hate ; Yet still where faith is clear, And honour held most dear, And hope that seeks the dawn Looks up with heart elate. FLINDERS He left his island home For leagues of sleepless foam, For stress of alien seas, Where wild winds ever blow ; For England's sake he sought Fresh fields of fame, and fought A stormy world for these A hundred years ago. And where the Austral shore Heard southward far the roar Of rising tides that came From lands of ice and snow, Beneath a gracious sky To fadeless memory He left a deathless name A hundred years ago. 167 JOHN BERNARD O'HARA Yea, left a name sublime From that wild dawn of Time, Whose light he haply saw In supreme sunrise flow, And from the shadows vast, That filled the dim dead past, A brighter glory draw, A hundred years ago. Perchance, he saw in dreams Beside our sunlit streams In some majestic hour Old England's banners blow; Mayhap, the radiant morn Of this great nation born, August with perfect power, A hundred years ago. We know not.^yet for thee Far may the season be, Whose harp in shameful sleep Is soundless lying low I Far be the noteless hour That holds of fame no flower For those who dared our deep A hundred years ago. I68 M. A. SINCLAIR THE CHATELAINE I HAVE built one, so have you ; Paved with marble, domed with blue, Battlement and ladies' bower, Donjon keep and watchman's tower. I have climbed, as you have done, To the tower at set of sun — Crying from its parlous height, " Watchman, tell us of the night." I have stolen at midnight bell, Like you, to the secret cell, Shuddering at its charnel breath — Left lockfast the spectre, Death. I have used your lure to call Choice guests to my golden hall : Rarely welcome, rarely free To my hospitality. In a glow of rosy light Hours, like minutes, take their flight- As from you they f^ed away, When, like you, I bade them stay. 169 M. A. SINCLAIR Ah 1 the pretty flow of wit, And the good hearts under it ; While the wheels of life go round With a most melodious sound. Not a vestige anywhere Of our grim familiar, Care — Roses ! from the trees of yore Blooming by the rivers four. Not a jar, and not a fret ; Ecstasy and longing met. But why should I thus define — Is not your chateau like mine? Scarcely were it strange to meet In that magic realm so sweet, So! I'll take this dreamland train Bound for my chateau in Spain. 170 SYDNEY JEPHCOTT WHITE PAPER Smooth white paper 'neath the pen ; Richest field that iron ploughs, Germinating thoughts of men, Though no heaven its rain allows; Till they ripen, thousand fold, And our spirits reap the corn, In a day-long dream of gold; Food for all the souls unborn. Like the murmur of the earth, When we listen stooping low ; Like the sap that sings in mirth. Hastening up the trees that grow; Evermore a tiny song Sings the pen unto it, while Thought's elixir flows along. Diviner than the holy Nile. 171 SYDNEY JEPHCOTT Greater than the sphering sea, For it holds the sea and land; Seed of all ideas to be Down its current borne like sand. How our fathers in the dark Pored on it the plans obscure, By star-light or stake-fires stark Tracing there the path secure. The poor paper drawn askance With the spell of Truth half-known, Holds back Hell of ignorance, Roaring round us, thronged, alone. O white list of champions, Spirit born, and schooled for fight, Mailed in armour of the sun's Who shall win our utmost right ! Think of paper lightly sold, Which few pence had made too dear On its blank to have enscrolled Beatrice, Lucifer, or Lear ! Think of paper Milton took, Written, in his hands to feel, Musing of what things a look Down its pages would reveal. O the glorious Heaven wrought By Cadmean souls of yore. From pure element of thought ! And thy leaves they are its door I 172 SYDNEY JEPHCOTT Light they open, and we stand Past the sovereignty of Fate, Glad amongst them, calm and grand. The Creators and Create ! A BALLAD OF THE LAST KING OF THULE There was a King of Thule Whom a Witch-wife stole at birth; In a country known but newly, All under the dumb, huge Earth. That King's in a Forest toiling; And he never the green sward delves But he sees all his green waves boiling Over his sands and shelves ; In these sunsets vast and fiery, In these dawns divine he sees Hy-Brdsil, Manndn and Eir^, And the Isle of Appletrees; He watches, heart-still and breathless, The clouds through the deep day trailing, 173 SYDNEY JEPHCOTT As the white-winged vessels gathered, Into his harbours saiHng; Ranked Ibis and lazy Eagles In the great blue flame may rise, But ne'er Sea-mew or Solan beating Up through their grey low skies ; When the storm-led fires are breaking, Great waves of the molten night, Deep in his eyes comes aching The icy Boreal Light. O, lost King, and O, people perished, Your Thule has grown one grave I Unvisited as uncherished, Save by the wandering wave 1 The billows burst in his doorways, The spray swoops over his walls ! — O, his banners that throb dishonoured O'er arms that hide in his halls — Deserved is your desolation ! — Why could you not stir and save The last-born heir of your nation? — Sold into the South, a slave Till he dies, and is buried duly In the hot Australian earth — The lorn, lost King of Thule, Whom a Witch-wife stole at birth. 174 SYDNEY JEPHCOTT A FRAGMENT But, under all, my heart believes the day Was not diviner over Athens, nor The West wind sweeter thro' the Cyclades Than here and now ; and from the altar of To-day The eloquent, quick tongues of flame uprise As fervid, if not unfaltering as of old, And life atones with speed and plenitude For coarser texture. Our poor present will, Far in the brooding future, make a past Full of the morning's music still, and starred With great tears shining on the eyelids' eaves Of our immortal faces yearning t 'wards the sun. A SONG OF THE TENT Turn out once more the weary cattle. And shake the canvas fold from fold. Before the stars again embattle Around the darkness huge and old. It rises in a roof, enclosing Out of the wilderness the home; The home eternal, where reposing Our limbs grow glad again to roam. Like snowy peaks along the dawning The tents along Time's verges rise; 175 SYDNEY JEPHCOTT The Heroes rest beneath each awning; How near those yet unconquered skies I Before our elder brothers builded Thebes' prisons, or Persepolis, This ancient light of evening gilded Our fathers' tent with freedom's bliss. When palace, church and fort are rotten, All, all the haunts of slavery, We'll roof with bonny web of cotton The dear bride-bed of Liberty ! The fireshine fluctuant, the lightning That flicker through the tissue thin, Call to the kinned emotions bright'ning Our shadowy souls awake within. The waters of the darkness deepen, Deep in their sleep our souls float proud — Proud as our Earth, beside us sleeping Beneath her big bell-tent of cloud. The famished night-winds, blind and homeless, Are fended from our slumbering souls ; The canvas in soft ripples foamless A safe sea-surface o'er us rolls. Night-long it throbs and sobs, receiving Each suspiration of the skies ; Tremours of fear, or joy or grieving. Or unimagined mysteries. 176 SYDNEY JEPHCOTT And Oh ! far in the night to waken, Far from realities of day ; And watch the Wells of Darkness shaken By the star-strivings far away; Or great dismantled moon arising Turn all the mists to white witch-fire ; Or else my morning star-surprising The heart of darkness with desire. 12 177 ANDREW BARTON PATERSON THE DAYLIGHT IS DYING The daylight is dying Away in the west, The wild birds are flying In silence to rest ; In leafage and frondage Where shadows are deep, They pass to their bondage — The kingdom of sleep. And watched in their sleeping By stars in the height, They rest in your keeping, Oh, wonderful night. When night doth her glories Of starshine unfold, "Tis then that the stories Of bushland are told. Unnumbered I hold them In memories bright, But who could unfold them, Or read them aright? Beyond pll denials The stars in their glories 178 A. B. PATERSON The breeze in the myalls Are part of these stories. The waving of grasses, The song of the river That sings as it passes For ever and ever, The hobble-chains' rattle, The calling of birds. The lowing of cattle Must blend with the words. Without these, indeed, you Would find it ere long, As though I should read you The words of a song That lamely would linger When lacking the rune. The voice of the singer, The lilt of the tune. But, as one half-hearing An old-time refrain. With memory clearing. Recalls it again, These tales, roughly wrought of The bush and its ways. May call back a thought of The wandering days. And, blending with each In the mem'ries that throng, There haply shall reach You some echo of song. 179 A. B. PATERSON CLANCY OF THE OVERFLOW I HAD written him a letter which I had, for want of better Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago, He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him. Just "on spec," addressed as follows, " Clancy, of The Overflow." And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected, (And I think the same was written with a thumb- nail dipped in tar) 'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it : " Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are." In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy Gone a-droving " down the Cooper " where the Western drovers go ; As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing, For the drover's life has pleasures that the towns- folk never know. A. B. PATERSON And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars, And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended, And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars. I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy Ray of sunlight struggles feebly docvn between the houses tall. And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city, Through the open window floating, spreads its foul- ness over all. And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street. And the language uninviting of the gutt^-r children fighting, Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet. And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste, A. B. PATERSON With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy, For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste. And I somehow rather fancy that I'd Uke to change with Clancy, Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go. While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal — But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of " The Overflow." BLACK SWANS As I lie at rest on a patch of clover In the Western Park when the day is done, I watch as the wild black swans fly over With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun ; And I hear the clang of their leader crying To a lagging mate in the rearward flying, And they fade away in the darkness dying. Where the stars are mustering one by one. Oh ! ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder For a while to join in your westward flight. With the stars above and the dim earth under, Through the cooling air of the glorious night. 182 A. B. PATERSON As we swept along on our pinions winging, We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing, Or the distant note of a torrent singing, Or the far-off flash of a station light. From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes, Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze, Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes Make music sweet in the jungle maze, They will hold their course to the westward ever. Till they reach the banks of the old grey river, Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver In the burning heat of the summer days. Oh ! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting To the folk that live in that western land? Then for every sweep of your pinions beating. Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band. To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting, Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting, When once to the work they have put their hand. Facing it yet I Oh, my friend stout-hearted. What does it matter for rain or shine, For the hopes deferred and the gain departed? Nothing could conquer that heart of thine. And thy health and strength are beyond confessing As the only joys that are worth possessing. May the days to come be as rich in blessing As the days we spent in the auld lang syne. 183 A. B. PATERSON I would fain go back to the old grey river, To the old bush days when our hearts were light, But, alas ! those days they have fled for ever, They are like the swans that have swept from sight. And I know full well that the strangers' faces Would meet us now in our dearest places ; For our day is dead and has left no traces But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night. There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken — We would grieve for them with a bitter pain. If the past could live and the dead could quicken. We then might turn to that life again. But on lonely nights we would hear them calling, We should hear their steps on the pathways falling, We should loathe the life with a hate appalling In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain. In the silent park is a scent of clover. And the distant roar of the town is dead, And I hear once more as the swans fly over Their far-off clamour from overhead. They are flying west, by their instinct guided, And for man likewise is his fate decided, And griefs apportioned and joys divided By a mighty power with a purpose dread. 184 A. B. PATERSON THE TRAVELLING POST OFFICE The roving breezes come and go, the reed beds sweep and sway, The sleepy river murmurs low, and loiters on its way, It is the land of lots o' time along the Castlereagh. The old man's son had left the farm, he found it dull and slow. He drifted to the great North-west where all the rovers go. "He's gone so long," the old man said, "he's dropped right out of mind, " But if you'd write a line to him I'd take it very kind ; " He's shearing here and fencing there, a kind of waif and stray, " He's droving now with Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh. " The sheep are travelling for the grass, and travelling very slow ; " They may be at Mundooran now, or past the Over- flow, " Or tramping down the black soil flats across by Waddiwong, " But all those little country towns would send the letter wrong, 185 A. B. PATERSON " The mailman, if he's extra tired, would pass them in his sleep, " It's safest to address the note to ' Care of Conroy's sheep,' " For five and twenty thousand head can scarcely go astray, *' You write to ' Care of Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh. ' " By rock and ridge and riverside the western mail has gone. Across the great Blue Mountain Range to take that letter on. A moment on the topmost grade while open fire doors glare. She pauses like a living thing to breathe the mountain air. Then launches down the other side across the plains away To bear that note to "Conroy's sheep along the Castle- reagh." And now by coach and mailman's bag it goes from town to town, And Conroy's Gap and Conroy's Creek have marked it " further down." Beneath a sky of deepest blue where never cloud abides, A speck upon the waste of plain the lonely mailman rides. i86 A. B. PATERSON Where fierce hot winds have set the pine and myall boughs asweep He hails the shearers passing by for news of Conroy's sheep. By big lagoons where wildfowl play and crested pigeons flock, By camp fires where the drovers ride around their restless stock, And past the teamster toiling down to fetch the wool away My letter chases Conroy's sheep along the Castle- reagh. THE OLD AUSTRALIAN WAYS The London lights are far abeam Behind a bank of cloud. Along the shore the gaslights gleam, The gale is piping loud ; And down the Channel, groping blind, We drive her through the haze Towards the land we left behind — The good old land of "never mind," And old Australian ways. The narrow ways of English folk Are not for such as we ; They bear the long-accustomed yoke Of staid conservancy : But all our roads are new and strange, And through our blood there runs 187 A. B. PATERSON The vagabonding love of change That drove us westward of the range And westward of the suns. The city folk go to and fro Behind a prison's bars, They never feel the breezes blow And never see the stars ; They never hear in blossomed trees The music low and sweet Of wild birds making melodies, Nor catch the little laughing breeze That whispers in the wheat. Our fathers came of roving stock That could not fixed abide : And we have followed field and flock Since e'er we learnt to ride; By miner's camp and shearing shed, In land of heat and drought. We followed where our fortunes led, With fortune always on ahead And always further out. The wind is in the barley-grass, The wattles are in bloom ; The breezes greet us as they pass With honey-sweet perfume ; The parrakeets go screaming by With flash of golden wing, And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry Their long-drawn note of revelry, Rejoicing at the Spring. 1 88 A. B. PATERSON So throw the weary pen aside And let the papers rest, For we must saddle up and ride Towards the blue hill's breast; And we must travel far and fast Across their rugged maze, To find the Spring of Youth at last. And call back from the buried past The old Australian ways. When Clancy took the drover's track In years of long ago. He drifted to the outer back Beyond the Overflow ; By rolling plain and rocky shelf. With stockwhip in his hand, He reached at last, oh lucky elf 1 The Town of Come-and-help-yourself In Rough-and-ready Land. And if it be that you would know The tracks he used to ride, Then you must saddle up and go Beyond the Queensland side — Beyond the reach of rule or law. To ride the long day through. In Nature's homestead — filled with awe You then might see what Clancy saw And know what Clancy knew. 189 A. B. PATERSON BY THE GREY GULF- WATER Far to the Northward there Ues a land, A wonderful land that the winds blow over, And none may fathom nor understand The charm it holds for the restless rover; A great grey chaos — a land half made. Where endless space is and no life stirreth ; And the soul of a man will recoil afraid From the sphinx-like visage that Nature weareth But old Dame Nature, though scornful, craves Her dole of death and her share of slaughter; Many indeed are the nameless graves Where her victims sleep by the Grey Gulf-water. Slowly and slowly those grey streams glide, Drifting along with a languid motion, Lapping the reed-beds on either side, Wending their way to the Northern Ocean. Grey are the plains where the emus pass Silent and slow, with their staid demeanour; Over the dead men's graves the grass Maybe is waving a trifle greener. Down in the world where men toil and spin Dame Nature smiles as man's hand has taught her; Only the dead men her smiles can win In the great lone land by the Grey Gulf-water. For the strength of man is an insect's strength, In the face of that mighty plain and river, 190 A. B. PATERSON And the life of a man is a moment's length To the life of the stream that will run for ever And so it Cometh they take no part In small-world worries ; each hardy rover Rideth abroad and is light of heart, With the plains around and the blue sky over. And up in the heavens the brown lark sings The songs that the strange wild land has taught her; Full of thanksgiving her sweet song rings^ — And I wish I were back by the Grey Gulf-water. 191 JESSIE MACKAY THE GREY COMPANY O THE grey, grey company Of the pallid dawn ! O the ghostly faces, Ashen-like and drawn I The Lord's lone sentinels Dotted down the years, The little grey company Before the pioneers. Dreaming of Utopias Ere the time was ripe, They awoke to scorning, The jeering and the strife. Dreaming of millenniums In a world of wars. They awoke to shudder At a flaming Mars. Never was a Luther But a Huss was first — A fountain unregarded In the primal thirst. 192 JESSIE MACKAY Never was a Newton Crowned and honoured well, But first, alone, Galileo Wasted in a cell. In each other's faces Looked the pioneers ; Drank the wine of courage All their battle years. For their weary sowing Through the world wide, Green they saw the harvest Ere the day they died. But the grey, grey company Stood ev^ery man alone In the chilly dawnlight, Scarcely had they known Ere the day they perished. That their beacon-star Was not glint of marsh-light In the shadows far. The brave white witnesses To the truth within Took the dart of folly. Took the jeer of sin ; Crying " Follow, follow, Back to Eden gate ! " They trod the Polar desert, Met a desert fate. 13 193 JESSIE MACKAY Be laurel to the victor, And roses to the fair, And asphodel Elysian Let the hero wear; But lay the maiden lilies Upon their narrow biers — The lone grey company Before the pioneers. A FOLK SONG I CAME to your town, my love. And you were away, away ! I said "She is with the Queen's maidens: They tarry long at their play. They are stringing her words like pearls To throw to the dukes and earls." But O, the pity! I had but a morn of windy red To come to the town where j'ou were bred, And you were away, away ! I came to your town, my love, And you were away, away 1 I said, " She is with the mountain elves And misty and fair as they. They are spinning a diamond net To cover her curls of jet." But O, the pity! I had but a noon of searing heat To come to your town, my love, my sweet, And you were away, away I 194 JESSIE MACKAY I came to your town, my love, And you were away, away ! I said, " She is with the pale white saints, And they tarry long to pray. They give her a white lily-crown, And I fear she will never come down." But O, the pity! I had but an even grey and wan To come to your town and plead as man, And you were away, away I DUNEDIN IN THE GLOAMING Like a black, enamoured King whispered low the thunder To the lights of Roslyn, terraced far asunder : Hovered low the sister cloud in wild, warm wonder. '* O my love, Dunedin town, the only, the abiding! Who can look undazzled up where the Norn is riding, — Watch the sword of destiny from the scabbard gliding I " Dark and rich and ringing true — word and look for ever; Taking to her woman heart all forlorn endeavour; Heaven's sea about her feet, not the bounded river! " " Sister of the mountain mist, and never to be holden 195 JESSIE MACKAY With the weary sophistries that dimmer eyes em- bolden,— O the dark Dunedin town, shot with green and golden I ' ' Then a silver pioneer netted in the rift, Leaning over Maori Hill, dreaming in the lift. Dropped her starry memories through the passioned drift :— " Once — I do remember them, the glory and the garden, Ere the elder stars had learnt God's mystery of pardon. Ere the youngest, I myself, had seen the flaming warden — " Once even after even I stole ever shy and early To mirror me within a glade of Eden cool and pearly. Where shy and cold and holy ran a torrent sought but rarely. " And fondly could I swear that this my glade had risen newly, — Burst the burning desert tomb wherein she lieth truly, To keep an Easter with the birds and me who loved her duly." Wailing, laughing, loving, hoar, spake the lordly ocean : 196 JESSIE MACKAY " You are sheen and steadfastness : I am sheen and motion, Gulfing argosies for whim, navies for a notion. " Sleep you well, Dunedin Town, though loud the lulling lyre is ; Lady of the stars terrene, where quick the human fire is, Lady of the Maori pines, the turrets, and the eyries ! " THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MACKENZIE (1901) They played him home to the House of Stones All the way, all the way. To his grave in the sound of the winter sea : The sky was dour, the sky was gray. They played him home with the chieftain's dirge, Till the wail was wed to the rolling surge. They played him home with a sorrowful will To his grave at the foot of the Holy Hill And the pipes went mourning all the way. Strong hands that had struck for right All the day, all the day, Folded now in the dark of earth, Veiled dawn of the upper way I Strong hands that struck with his From days that were to the day that is 197 JESSIE MACKAY Carry him now from the house of woe To ride the way the Chief must go : And his peers went mourning all the way. Son and brother at his right hand All the way, all the way ! And O for them and O for her Who stayed within, the dowie day ! Son and brother and near of kin Go out with the chief who never comes in I And of all who loved him far and near 'Twas the nearest most who held him dear — And his kin went mourning all the way ! The clan went on with the pipes before All the way, all the way ; A wider clan than ever he knew Followed him home that dowie day. . And who were they of the wider clan ? The landless man and the no man's man, The man that lacked and the man unlearned, The man that lived but as he earned — And the clan went mourning all the way. The heart of New Zealand went beside All the way, all the way. To the resting-place of her Highland Chief; Much she thought she could not say ; He found her a land of many domains, Maiden forest and fallow plains- He left her a land of many homes, The pearl of the world where the sea wind roams, And New Zealand went mourning all the way. 198 HENRY LAWSON ANDY'S GONE WITH CATTLE Our Andy's gone to battle now 'Gainst Drought, the red marauder; Our Andv's gone with cattle now Across the Queensland border. He's left us in dejection now; Our hearts with him are roving. It's dull on this selection now, Since Andy went a-droving. Who now shall wear the cheerful face In times when things are slackest? And who shall whistle round the place When Fortune frowns her blackest? Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now When he comes round us snarling? His tongue is growing hotter now Since Andy cross 'd the Darling. The gates are out of order now. In storms the " riders " rattle; For far across the border now Our Andy's gone with cattle. 199 HENRY LAWSON Oh, may the showers in torrents fall, And all the tanks run over ; And may the grass grow green and tall In pathways of the drover; And may good angels send the rain On desert stretches sandy ; And when the summer comes again God grant 'twill bring us Andy. OUT BACK The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought. The cheque was spent that the shearer earned, and the sheds were all cut out ; The publican's words were short and few, and the publican's looks were black — And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back. For time means tucker, and tramp you must, where the scrubs and plains are wide, With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a m,oun- tain peak to guide; All day long in the dust and heat — when summer is on the track — With stinted stomachs and blistered feet, they carry tfheir swags Out Back. HENRV LAWSON He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot, With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not. The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack, But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back. He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the VVarrego tracks once more, And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore ; But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack — The traveller never got hands in wool, though he tramped for a year Out Back. In stifling noons when his back was wrung by its load, and the air seemed dead, And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead, Or in times of flood, when plains were seas, and the scrubs were cold and black, He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back. He blamed himself in the year " Too Late " — in the heaviest hours of life — Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife ; 20 1 HENRY LAWSON There are times when wrongs from your kindred come, and treacherous tongues attack — When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back. And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim ; He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him. As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track. With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back. It chanced one day, when the north wind blew in his face like a furnace-breath. He left the track for a tank he knew — 'twas a short- cut to his death ; For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack. And, oh ! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back. A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile ; He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while. The tanks are full and the grass is high in the mulga off the track. Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie by his mouldering swag Out Back. HENRY LAWSON For time means tucker, and tramp they must, where the plains and scrubs are wide, With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a moun- tain peak to guide; All day long in the flies and heat the men of the out- side track With stinted stomachs and blistered feet must carry their swags Out Back. THE STAR OF AUSTRALASIA We boast no more of our bloodless flag", that rose from a nation's slime; Better a shred of a deep-dyed rag from the storms of the olden time. From grander clouds in our " peaceful skies " than ever were there before I tell you the Star of the South shall rise — in the lurid clouds of war. It ever must be while blood is warm and the sons of men increase ; For ever the nations rose in storm, to rot in a deadly peace. There comes a point that we will not yield, no matter if right or wrong, And man will fight on the battle-field while passion and pride are strong — So long as he will not kiss the rod, and his stubborn spirit sours, And the scorn of Nature and curse of God are heavy on peace like ours. 203 HENRY LAWSON There are boys out there by the western creeks, who hurry away from school To climb the sides of the breezy peaks or dive in the shaded pool, Who'll stick to their guns when the mountains quake to the tread of a mighty war, And fight for Right or a Grand Mistake as men never fought before ; When the peaks are scarred and the sea-walls crack till the furthest hills vibrate. And the world for a while goes rolling back in a storm of love and hate. There are boys to-day in the city slum and the home of wealth and pride Who'll have one home when the storm is come, and fight for it side by side. Who'll hold the cliffs 'gainst the armoured hells that batter a coastal town, Or grimly die in a hail of shells when the walls come crashing down. And many a pink- white baby girl, the queen of her home to-day, Shall see the wings of the tempest whirl the mist of our dawn away — Shall live to shudder and stop her ears to the thud of the distant gun. And know the sorrow that has no tears when a battle is lost and won, — 204 HENRY LAWSON As a mother or wife in the years to come, will kneel, wild-eyed and white, And pray to God in her darkened home for the " men in the fort to-night." All creeds and trades will have soldiers there — give every class its due — And there'll be many a clerk to spare for the pride of the jackeroo. They'll fight for honour and fight for love, and a few will fight for gold. For the devil below and for God above, as our fathers fought of old ; And some half-blind with exultant tears, and some stiff-lipped, stern-eyed. For the pride of a thousand after-years and the old eternal pride ; The soul of the world they will feel and see in the chase and the grim retreat — They'll know the glory of victory — and the grandeur of defeat. The South will wake to a mighty change ere a hundred years are done With arsenals west of the mountain range and every spur its gun. And many a rickety " son of a gun," on the tides of the future tossed, Will tell how battles were really won that History says were lost, 205 HENRY LAWSON Will trace the field with his pipe, and shirk the facts that are hard to explain, As grey old mates of the diggings work the old ground over again — How " this was our centre, and this a redoubt, and that was a scrub in the rear, " And this was the point where the guards held out, and the enemy's lines were here." And fools, when the fiends of war are out and the city skies aflame, Will have something better to talk about than an absent woman's shame. Will have something nobler to do by far than jest at a friend's expense, Or blacken a name in a public bar or over a back- yard fence. And this you learn from the libelled past, though its methods were somewhat rude — A nation's born where the shells fall fast, or its lease of life renewed. We in part atone for the ghoulish strife, and the crimes of the peace we boast, And the better part of a people's life in the storm comes uppermost. The self-same spirit that drives the man to the depths of drink and crime Will do the deeds in the heroes' van that live till the end of time. 206 HENRY LAWSON The living death in the lonely bush, the greed of the selfish town, And even the creed of the outlawed push is chivalry — upside down. 'Twill be while ever our blood is hot, while ever the world goes wrong, The nations rise in a war, to rot in a peace that lasts too long. And southern nation and southern state, aroused from their dream of ease, Must sign in the Book of Eternal Fate their stormy histories. THE VAGABOND White handkerchiefs wave from the short black pier As we glide to the grand old sea — But the song of my heart is for none to hear If one of them waves for me. A roving, roaming life is mine. Ever by field or flood — For not far back in my father's line Was a dash of the Gipsy blood. Flax and tussock and fern, Gum and miilga and sand. Reef and palm — but my fancies turn Ever away from land ; 207 HENRY LAWSON Strange wild cities in ancient state, Range and river and tree, Snow and ice. But my star of fate Is ever across the sea. A god-like ride on a thundering sea, When all but the stars are blind — A desperate race from Eternity With a gale-and-a-half behind. A jovial spree in the cabin at night, A song on the rolling deck, A lark ashore with the ships in sight. Till — a wreck goes down with a wreck, A smoke and a yarn on the deck by day, When life is a waking dream, And care and trouble so far away That out of your life they seem. A roving spirit in sympathy. Who has travelled the whole world o'er— My heart forgets, in a week at sea, The trouble of years on shore. A rolling stone! — -'tis a saw for slaves — Philosophy false as old — -Wear out or break 'neath the feet of knaves, Or rot in your bed of mould ! But I'd rather trust to the darkest skies And the wildest seas that roar. Or die, where the stars of Nations rise, In the stormy clouds of war. 208 HENRY LAWSON Cleave to your country, home, and friends, Die in a sordid strife — You can count your friends on your finger ends In the critical hours of life. Sacrifice all for the family's sake, Bow to their selfish rule ! Slave till your hig soft heart they break — The heart of the family fool. Domestic quarrels, and family spite. And your Native Land may be Controlled by custom, but, come what might, The rest of the world for me. I'd sail with money, or sail without! — If your love be forced from home. And you dare enough, and your heart be stout, The world is your own to roam. I've never a love that can sting my pride, Nor a friend to prove untrue ; F"or I leave my love ere the turning tide. And my friends are all too new. The curse of the Powers on a peace like ours. With its greed and its treachery — A stranger's hand, and a stranger land. And the rest of the world for me I But why be bitter? The world is cold To one with a frozen heart ; New friends are often so like the old, They seem of the past a part — 14 209 HENRY LAWSON t' As a better part of the past appears, When enemies, parted long, Are come together in kinder years, With their better nature strong. I had a friend, ere my first ship sailed, A friend that I never deserved — For the selfish strain in my blood prevailed As soon as my turn was served. And the memory haunts my heart with shame- Or, rather, the pride that's there; In different guises, but soul the same, I meet him everywhere. I had a chum. When the times were tight We starved in Australian scrubs ; We froze together in parks at night. And laughed together in pubs. And I often hear a laugh like his From a sense of humour keen, And catch a glimpse in a passing phiz Of his broad, good-humoured grin. And I had a love — 'twas a love to prize — But I never went back again . . . I have seen the light of her kind brown eyes In many a face since then. The sailors say 'twill be rough to-night. As they fasten the hatches down, The south is black, and the bar is white, And the drifting smoke is brown. 210 HENRY LAWSON The gold has gone from the western haze, The sea-birds circle and swarm — But we shall have plenty of sunny days, And little enough of storm. The hill is hiding the short black pier, As the last white signal's seen; The points run in, and the houses veer, And the great bluff stands between. So darkness swallows each far white speck On many a wharf and quay. The night comes down on a restless deck, — Grim cliffs— and — The Open Sea ! THE SLIPRAILS AND THE SPUR The colours of the setting sun Withdrew across the Western land — He raised the sliprails, one by one, And shot them home with trembling hand ; Her brown hands clung — her face grew pale — Ah! quivering chin and eyes that brim! — One quick, fierce kiss across the rail. And, "Good-bye, Mary! " "Good-bye, Jim! " Oh, he rides hard to race the pain Who rides from love, who rides frotn home, But he rides slowly home again. Whose heart has learnt to love and roam. HENRY LAWSON A hand upon the horse's mane, And one foot in the stirrup set, And, stooping back to kiss again, With "Good-bye, Mary! don't you fret! " When I come back " — he laughed for her — " We do not know how soon 'twill be; " I'll whistle as I round the spur — " You let the sliprails down for me." She gasped for sudden loss of hope, As, with a backward wave to her. He cantered down the grassy slope And swiftly round the dark'ning spur. Black-pencilled panels standing high. And darkness fading into stars, And blurring fast against the sk}', A faint white form beside the bars. And often at the set of sun, In winter bleak and summer brown, She'd steal across the little run, And shyly let the sliprails down. And listen there when darkness shut The nearer spur in silence deep ; And when they called her from the hut Steal home and cry herself to sleep. ******** And he rides hard to did! the pain Who rides from one that loves him best. And he rides slowly back again, Whose restless heart iniist rove for rest. 212 HENRY LAWSON BARTA Wide solemn eyes that question me, Wee hand that pats my head — Where only two have stroked before, And both of them are dead. '* Ah, poo-ah Daddy mine," she says, With wondrous sympath\'^ Oh, baby girl, you don't know how You break the heart in me 1 Let friends and kinsfolk work their worst, And the world say what it will, Your baby arms go round my neck — I 'm your own Daddy still ! And you kiss me and I kiss you. Fresh kisses frank and free — Ah, baby girl, you don't know how You break the heart in me ! I dreamed when I was good that when The snow showed in my hair, A household angel in her teens Would flit about my chair, To comfort me as I grew old; But that shall never be — Ah, baby girl, you don't know how You break the heart in me I 213 HENRY LAWSON But one shall love me while I live And soothe my troubled head, And never hear an unkind word Of me when I am dead. Her eyes shall light to hear my name Howe'er disgraced it be — Ah, baby girl, you don't know how You help the heart in me 1 214 ARTHUR A. D. BAYLDON SUNSET The weary wind is slumbering on the wing" : Leaping from out meek twilight's purpling blue Burns the proud star of eve as though it knew It was the big king jewel quivering On the black turban of advancing night. In the dim west the soldiers of the sun Strike all their royal colours one by one, Reluctantly surrender every height. THE SEA Ere Greece soared, showering sovranties of light. Ere Rome shook earth with her tremendous tread, Ere yon blue-feasting sun-god burst blood-red, Beneath thee slept thy prodigy, O Night ! /Eons have ta'en like dreams their strange, slow flight, And vastest, tiniest, creatures paved her bed. E'en cities sapped by the usurping spread Of her imperious waves have sunk from sight Since she first chanted her colossal psalms That swell and sink beneath the listening stars; 2IS ARTHUR A. D. BAYLDON Oft, as with myriad drums beating to arms, She thunders out the grandeur of her wars; Then shifts through moaning moods her wizard charms Of slow flutes and caressing, gay guitars. MARLOWE With Eastern banners flaunting in the breeze Royal processions, sounding fife and gong And showering jewels on the jostling throng, March to the tramp of Marlowe's harmonies. He drained life's brimming goblet to the lees. He recked not that a peer superb and strong Would tune great notes to his impassioned song And top his cannonading lines with ease. To the wild clash of cymbals we behold The tragic ending of his youthful life : The revelry of kisses bought with gold ; The jest and jealous rival and the strife; A harlot weeping o'er a corpse scarce cold; A scullion fleeing with a bloody knife. 216 JENNINGS CARMICHAEL A WOMAN'S MOOD I THINK to-night I could bear it all, Even the arrow that cleft the core, — Could I wait again for your swift footfall, And your sunny face coming in at the door. With the old frank look and the gay young smile, And the ring of the words you used to say ; I could almost deem the pain worth while, To greet you again in the olden way ! But you stand without in the dark and cold, And I may not open the long closed door. Nor call thro' the night, with the love of old, — " Come into the warmth, as in nights of yore ! " I kneel alone in the red fire-glow. And hear the wings of the wind sweep by ; You are out afar in the night, I know. And the sough of the wind is like a cry. You are out afar — and I wait within, A grave-eyed woman whose pulse is slow; The flames round the red coals softly spin. And the lonely room's in a rosy glow. 217 JENNINGS CARMICHAEL The firelight falls on your vacant chair, And the soft brown rug where you used to stand ; Dear, never again shall I see you there. Nor lift my head for your seeking hand. Yet sometimes still, and in spite of all, I wistful look at the fastened door, And wait again for the swift footfall. And the gay young voice as in hours of yore. It still seems strange to be here alone. With the rising sob of the wind without ; The sound takes a deep, insisting tone. Where the trees are swinging their arms about. Its moaning reaches the sheltered room, And thrills my heart with a sense of pain ; I walk to the window, and pierce the gloom, With a yearning look that is all in vain. You are out in a night of depths that hold No promise of dawning for you and me, And only a ghost from the life of old Has come from the world of memory ! You are out evermore ! God wills it so ! But ah ! my spirit is yearning yet I As I kneel alone by the red fire-glow, My eyes grow dim with the old regret. O when shall the aching throb grow still, The warm love-life turn cold at the core 1 Must I be watching, against my will. For your banished face in the opening door? 2l8 JENNINGS CARMICHAEL It may be, dear, when the sequel's told Of the story, read to its bitter close ; When the inner meanings of life unfold, And the under-side of our being- shows — It may be then, in that truer light. When all our knowledge has larger grown, I may understand why you stray to-night, And I am left, with the past, alone. 219 AGNES L. STORRIE TWENTY GALLONS OF SLEEP Measure me out from the fathomless tun That somewhere or other you keep In your vasty cellars, O wealthy one, Twenty gallons of sleep. Twenty gallons of balmy sleep, Dreamless, and deep, and mild. Of the excellent brand you used to keep When I was a little child. I've tasted of all your vaunted stock, Your clarets and ports of Spain, The liquid gold of your famous hock, And your matchless dry champagne. Of your rich muscats and your sherries fine, I've drunk both well and deep. Then, measure me out, O merchant mine, Twenty gallons of sleep. Twenty gallons of slumber soft Of the innocent, baby kind. When the angels flutter their wings aloft And the pillow with down is lined ; 220 AGNES L. STORRIE I have drawn the corks, and drained the lees Of every vintage pressed, If I've felt the sting of my honey bees I've taken it with the rest. I have lived my life, and I'll not repine, As I sowed I was bound to reap ; Then, measure me out, O merchant mine, Twenty gallons of sleep. A CONFESSION You did not know, — how could you, dear,- How much you stood for? Life in you Retained its touch of Eden dew. And ever through the droughtiest year My soul could bring her flagon here And fill it to the brim with clear Deep draughts of purity : And time could never quench the flame Of youth that lit me through your eyes, And cozened winter from my skies Through all the years that went and came. You did not know I used your name To conjure by, and still the same I found its potency. You did not know that, as a phial May garner close through dust and gloom The essence of a rich perfume, Romance was garnered in your smile AGNES L. STORRIE And touched my thoughts with beauty, while The poor world, wise with bitter guile, Outlived its chivalry. You did not know — our lives were laid So far apart — that thus I drew The sunshine of my days from you, That by your joy my own was weighed That thus my debts your sweetness paid, And of my heart's deep silence made A lovely melody. MARTHA M. SIMPSON TO AN OLD GRAMMAR Oh, mighty conjuror, you raise The ghost of my lost youth — The happy, golden-tinted days When earth her treasure-trove displays, And everything is truth. Your compeers may be sage and dry, But in your page appears A very fair\'land, where I Played 'neath a changeful Irish sky — A sky of smiles and tears. Dear native land ! this little book Brings back the varied charm Of emerald hill and flashing brook, Deep mountain glen and woodland nook, And homely sheltered farm. I see the hayrick where I sat In golden autumn days, And conned thy page, and wondered what Could be the use, excepting that It gained the master's praise. 223 MARTHA M. SIMPSON I conjugate thy verbs again Beside the winter's fire, And, as the solemn clock strikes ten, I lay thee on the shelf, and then To dreams of thee retire. Thy Saxon roots reveal to me A silent, empty school. And one poor prisoner who could see. As if to increase her misery, Her mates released from rule. Rushing to catch the rounder ball, Or circling In the ring. Those merry groups ! I see them all, And even now I can recall The songs they used to sing. Thy syntax conjures forth a morn Of spring, when blossoms rare Conspired the solemn earth to adorn. And spread themselves on bank and thorn, And perfumed all the air. The dewdrops lent their aid and threw Their gems with lavish hand On every flower of brilliant hue. On every blade of grass that grew In that enchanted land. The lark her warbling music lent, To give an added charm, 224 MARTHA M. SIMPSON And sleek-haired kine, in deep content, Forth from their milking slowly went Towards the homestead farm. And here thy page on logic shows A troop of merry girls, A meadow smooth where clover grows, And lanes where scented hawthorn blows. And woodbine twines and curls. And, turning o'er thy leaves, I find Of many a friend the trace ; Forgotten scenes rush to my mind. And some whom memory left behind Now stare me in the face. Ah, happy days! when hope was high, .And faith was calm and deep ! When all was real and God was nigh, And heaven was " just beyond the sky," And angels watched my sleep. Your dreams are gone, and here instead Fair science reigns alone, And, when I come to her for bread, She smiles and bows her stately head And offers me — a stone. 15 225 WILLIAM GAY TO M. (With some Verses) If in the summer of thy bright regard For one brief season these poor Rhymes shall live I ask no more, nor think my fate too hard If other eyes but wintry looks should give; Nor will I grieve though what I here have writ O'erburdened Time should drop among the ways, And to the unremembering dust commit Beyond the praise and blame of other days ; The song doth pass, but I who sing, remain, I pluck from Death's own heart a life more deep, x\nd as the Spring, that dies not, in her train Doth scatter blossoms for the winds to reap, So I, immortal, as I fare along, Will strew my path with mortal flowers of song. VESTIGIA NULLA RETRORSUM O STEEP and rugged Life, whose harsh ascent Slopes blindly upward through the bitter night 1 They say that on thy summit, high in light, Sweet rest awaits the climber, travel-spent ; 226 WILLIAM GAY But I, alas, with dusty garments rent, With fainting heart and failing limbs and sight. Can see no glimmer of the shining height. And vainly list, with body forward bent. To catch athwart the gloom one wandering note Of those glad anthems which (they say) are sung When one emerges from the mists below : But though, O Life, thy summit be remote And all thy stony path with darkness hung. Yet ever upward through the night I go. PRIMROSES They shine upon my table there, A constellation mimic sweet, No stars in Heaven could shine more fair, Nor Earth has beaut>' more complete; And on my table there they shine. And speak to me of things Divine. In Heaven at first they grew, and when God could no fairer make them, He Did plant them by the ways of men For all the pure in heart to see, That each might shine upon its stem And be a light from Him to them. 227 WILLIAM GAY They speak of things above my verse, Of thoughts no earthly language knows, That loftiest Bard could ne'er rehearse, Nor holiest prophet e'er disclose, Which God Himself no other way Than by a Primrose could convey. EDWARD DYSON THE OLD WHIM HORSE He's an old grey horse, with his head bowed sadly. And with dim old eyes and a queer roll aft, With the off- fore sprung and the hind screwed badly, And he bears all over the brands of graft; And he lifts his head from the grass to wonder Why by night and day the whim is still. Why the silence is, and the stampers' thunder Sounds forth no more from the shattered mill. In that whim he worked when the night winds bellowed On the riven summit of Giant's Hand, And by day when prodigal Spring had yellowed All the wide, long sweep of enchanted land; And he knew his shift, and the whistle's warning, And he knew the calls of the boys below ; Through the years, unbidden, at night or morning, He had taken his stand by the old whim bow. But the whim stands still, and the wheeling swallow In the silent shaft hangs her home of clay, And the lizards flirt and the swift snakes follow O'er the grass-grown brace in the summer day; 229 EDWARD DYSON And the corn springs high in the cracks and corners Of the forge, and down where the timber Hes; And the crows are perched like a band of mourners On the broken hut on the Hermit's Rise. All the hands have gone, for the rich reef paid out, And the company waits till the calls come in ; But the old grey horse, like the claim, is played out, And no market's near for his bones and skin. So they let him live, and they left him grazing By the creek, and oft in the evening dim I have seen him stand on the rises, gazing At the ruined brace and the rotting whim. The floods rush high in the gully under, And the lightnings lash at the shrinking trees, Or the cattle down from the ranges blunder As the fires drive by on the summer breeze. Still the feeble horse at the right hour wanders To the lonely ring, though the whistle's dumb, And with hanging head by the bow he ponders Where the whim boy's gone — why the shifts don't come. But there comes a night when he sees lights glowing In the roofless huts and the ravaged mill. When he hears again all the stampers going — Though the huts are dark and the stampers still : When he sees the steam to the black roof clinging As its shadows roll on the silver sands. And he knows the voice of his driver singing, And the knocker's clang where the braceman stands. 230 EDWARD DYSON See the old horse take, like a creature dreaming, On the ring once more his accustomed place ; But the moonbeams full on the ruins streaming Show the scattered timbers and grass-grown brace. Yet he hears the sled in the smithy falling, And the empty truck as it rattles back, And the boy who stands by the anvil, calling; And he turns and backs, and he " takes up slack." While the old drum creaks, and the shadows shiver As the wind sweeps by, and the hut doors close, And the bats dip down in the shaft or quiver In the ghostly light, round the grey horse goes; And he feels the strain on his untouched shoulder, Hears again the voice that was dear to him. Sees the form he knew — and his heart grows bolder As he works his shift by the broken whim. He hears in the sluices the water rushing As the buckets drain and the doors fall back ; When the early dawn in the east is blushing. He is limping still round the old, old track. Now he pricks his ears, with a neigh replying To a call unspoken, with eyes aglow, And he sways and sinks in the circle, dying; From the ring no more will the grey horse go. In a gTjlly green, where a dam lies gleaming, And the bush creeps back on a worked-out claim, And the sleepy crows in the sun sit dreaming On the timbers grey and a charred hut frame, 231 EDWARD DYSON Where the legs slant down, and the hare is squatting In the high rank grass by the dried-up course, Nigh a shattered drum and a king-post rotting Are the bleaching bones of the old grey horse. 232 DOWELL O'REILLY THE SEA-MAIDEN Like summer waves on sands of snow, Soft ringlets clasp her neck and brow. And wandering breezes kiss away A threaded light of glimmering spray, That drifts and floats and softly flies In a golden mist about her eyes. Her laugh is fresh as foam that springs Through tumbling shells and shining things, And where the gleaming margin dries Is heard the music of her sighs. Her gentle bosom ebbs and swells With the tide of life that deeply wells From a throbbing heart that loves to break In the tempest of love for love's sweet sake. O, the fragrance of earth, and the song of the sea, And the light of the heavens, are only three Of the thousand glories that Love can trace, In her life, and her soul, and her beautiful face. This tangled weed of poesy, Torn from the heart of a stormy sea, I fling upon the love divine Of her, who fills this heart of mine. 833 DOWELL O'REILLY SEA-GRIEF Along the serried coast the south-wind raves, Grey birds scream landward through the distance hoar, And, swinging from the dim confounded shore, The everlasting boom of broken waves Like muffled thunder rolls about the graves Of all the wonder-lands and lives of yore. Whose bones asunder bleach for evermore In sobbing chasms and under choking caves. O breaking heart — whose only rest is rage, White tossing arms, and lips that kiss and part In lonely dreams of Love's wild liberty — Not the mean earth thy suffering can assuage, Nor highest heaven fulfil that hungry heart, O fair, full-bosomed, passionate, weeping Sea ! 334 DAVID MacDONALD ROSS LOVE'S TREASURE HOUSE I WENT to Love's old Treasure-house last night And saw the miser Memory grown gray With years of jealous counting of his gems, At his old task within the solitude. By a lone taper the deep-furrowed face, Heavy with pow'r, lay shadowed on the wall, Shadow and shadowy face communing there, While the lean flame, a living lance-point, leaped With menace at the night's dark countenance. The master, not the slave of Time he seemed With his keen eye, and quick unerring hand, Firm as when first his hoarding he began Of precious things of Love long years ago. And " this." he said, " is gold from out her hair," The shadow bowed in mute acknowledgement, " And this the moonlight that she wandered in. With here a rose enamelled by her breath. That bloomed, a joy, between her breasts, and here The brimming sun-cup that she quaffed at noon. And here the star that cheered her in the night ; In this great chest so curiously wrought Are purest of Love-gems." A ruby key Enclasped upon a golden ring, he took With care from out some secret hiding place And delicately touched the lock, whereat 235 DAVID M. ROSS I staggered, blinded by a myriad lights More luminous than stars, and questioned thus, " What are these treasures, miser Memory?" And with bent head he slowly answered me — " These are the multitude of kisses sweet Love gave so gladly and I treasure here." THE SILENT TIDE I HEARD Old Ocean raise her voice and cry, In that still hour between the night and day; I saw the answering tides, green robed and gray, Turn to her with a low contented sigh ; Marching with silent feet they passed me by. For the white moon had taught them to obey. And scarce a wavelet broke in fretful spray, As they went forth to kiss the stooping sky. So, to my heart, when the last sunray sleeps, And the wan night, impatient for the moon. Throws her gray mantle over land and sea. There comes a call from out Life's nether deeps, And tides, like some old ocean in a swoon, Flow out, in soundless majesty, to thee. THE WATCH ON DECK Becalmed upon the equatorial seas, A ship of gold lay on a sea of fire ; Each sail and rope and spar, as in desire, 236 DAVID M. ROSS Mutely besought the kisses of a breeze ; Low laughter told the mariners at ease; Sweet sea-songs hymned the red sun's fun'ral pyre: Yet One, with eyes that never seemed to tire, Watched for the storm, nursed on the thunder's knees. Thou watcher of the spirit's inner keep, Scanning Death's lone, illimitable deep. Spread outward to the far immortal shore ! While riie vault sleeps, from the upheaving deck. Thou see'st the adamantine reefs that wreck. And Life's low shoals, where lusting billows roar. AUTUMN When, with low meanings on the distant shore, Like vain regrets, the ocean-tide is rolled : When, thro' bare boughs, the tale of death is told By breezes sighing, " Summer days are o'er "; When all the days we loved — the days of yore — Lie in their vaults, dead Kings who ruled of old — Unrobed and sceptreless, uncrowned with gold. Conquered, and to be crowned, ah ! never more. If o'er the bare fields, cold and whitening With the first snow-flakes, I should see thy form. And meet and kiss thee, that were enough of Spring ; Enough of sunshine, could I feel the warm Glad beating of thy heart 'neath Winter's wing, Tho' Earth were full of whirlwind and of storm. 237 MARY GILMORE A LITTLE GHOST The moonlight flutters from the sky To meet her at the door, A little ghost, whose steps have passed Across the creaking floor. And rustling vines that lightly tap Against the window-pane, Throw shadows on the white-washed walls To blot them out again. The moonlight leads her as she goes Across a narrow plain > By all the old, familiar ways That know her steps again. And through the scrub it leads her on And brings her to the creek, But by the broken dam she stops And seems as she would speak. She moves her lips, but not a sound Ripples the silent air; She wrings her little hands, ah, me 1 The sadness of despair 1 238 MARY GILMORE While overhead the black-duck's wing Cuts like a flash upon The startled air, that scarcely shrinks Ere he afar is gone. And curlews wake, and wailing cry Cur-lew 1 cur-lew ! cur-lew ! Till all the Bush, with nameless dread Is pulsing through and through. The moonlight leads her back again And leaves her at the door, A little ghost whose steps have passed Across the creaking floor. GOOD-NIGHT Good-night ! . . . my darling sleeps so sound She cannot hear me where she lies ; White lilies watch the closed eyes, Red roses guard the folded hands. Good-night ! O woman who once lay Upon my breast, so still, so sweet That all my pulses, throbbing, beat And flamed — I cannot touch you now. Good-night, my own ! God knows we loved So well, that all things else seemed slight — We part forever in the night, We two poor souls who loved so well. 239 MARY GILMORE MARRI'D It's singin' in an' out An' roun' about the place, 'N' here an' there, 'n' up an' down 'N' feelin' full o' grace. It's rollin' up your sleeves, An' whitenin' up the hearth. An' scrubbin' out the floor, An' sweepin' down the path. An' bakin' cakes an' tarts An' shinin' up the knives, An' feelin' that some days Is worth a thousand lives. It's watchin' out the door, An' watchin' by the gate. An' watchin' down the road Because it's gettin' late. An' feelin' anxious like For fear there's somethin' wrong. An' wond'rin if he's kep', An' why he takes so long. It's comin' back, inside. An' sittin' down a spell. To sorter make-believe You're thinkin' things is well. 240 MARY GILMORE An' gettin' up again, An' wand'rin' in an' out An' feelin' wistful like. Not thinkin' what about. An' flushin' all at once An' smilin' just so sweet, An' bein' real proud, The house is lookin' neat. An' feelin' awful glad Like them that watched Silo'm- An' all o' this because My man is comin' home. 16 241 BARCROFT HENRY BOAKE WHERE THE DEAD MEN LIE Out on the wastes of the Never Never — That's where the dead men He ! There where the heat waves dance for ever — That's where the dead men He ! That's where the Earth's loved sons are keeping Endless tryst : not the west wind sweeping Feverish pinions can wake their sleeping — Out where the dead men lie ! Where brown Summer and Death have mated — That's where the dead men lie ! Loving with fiery lust unsated — That's where the dead men lie ! Out where the grinning skulls bleach whitely Under the saltbush sparkling brightly ; Out where the wild dogs chorus nightly — That's where the dead men lie ! Deep in the yellow, flowing river — That's where the dead men lie ! Under the banks where the shadows quiver — That's where the dead men lie ! Where the platypus twists and doubles, Leaving a train of tiny bubbles ; 242 BARCROFT H. BOAKE Rid at last of their earthly troubles — That's where the dead men lie ! Only the hand of Night can free them— That's when the dead men fly ! Only the frightened cattle see them — See the dead men go by ! Cloven hoofs beating out one measure, Bidding the stockman know no leisure — That's when the dead men lake their pleasure! That's when the dead men fly ! Ask, too, the never-sleeping drover : He sees the dead pass by ; Hearing them call to their friends — the plover, Hearing the dead men cry ; Seeing their faces stealing, stealing. Hearing their laughter pealing, pealing, Watching their grey forms wheeling, wheeling Round where the cattle lie ! East and backward pale faces turning— That's how the dead men lie! Gaunt arms stretched with a voiceless yearning- That's how the dead men lie! Oft in the fragrant hush of nooning Hearing again their mothers' crooning. Wrapt for aye in a dreadful swooning — That's how the dead men lie! 243 BERNARD O'DOWD AUSTRALIA Last sea-thing dredged by sailor Time from Space, Are you a drift Sargasso, where the West In halcyon calm rebuilds her fatal nest? Or Delos of a coming Sun-God's race? Are you for Light, and trimmed, with oil in place. Or but a Will o' Wisp on marshy quest? A new demesne for Mammon to infesi? Or lurks millennial Eden 'neath your face? The cenotaphs of species dead elsewhere That in your limits leap and swim and fly, Or trail uncanny harp-strings from your trees. Mix omens with the auguries that dare To plant the Cross upon your forehead sky, A virgin helpmate Ocean at your knees. PROSPERITY Enlaced with gardened jewelry My basking villas nest Where sifted sunshine soothes the eye And cosy hillocks rest. 244 BERNARD O'DOWD Conventions fronds here screen from view Immodest Nature's haunt, And wizard Distance veils in blue The haggard peaks of Want. The millions fast that I may feast, And drudge that I may play; But Average, complacent priest, Condones the wrong away : Finesse, my statesman, calculates Subjection's breaking strain, And Comfort crooning mitigates The drifting moan of pain. My sages God's commandments frame From maxims of the desk : My Art, from poverty and shame, Evolves the Picturesque : Who reaches me a stream must ford Whose poppied waters dim Old dreams of wielding Freedom's sword And chanting Freedom's hymn : Must hold the claims of Discontent Mere envies of the mass ; That Life's repose was only meant To dower the ruling class : 245 BERNARD O'DOWD Must learn that Nature weakness scorns, That God the serfs ignores, That Toil deserves its crown of thorns. And Poverty its sores ; That tho' 'tis wise with Charity Torrential Need a dam, The Hope of Progress is a lie And Brotherhood a sham. BACCHUS I AM the gift of tongues that flame Inspired resolve above : I wither the weeds of paltry aim That choke the growth of love. Though sometimes thro' forbidden gates. The drugged and drunken may Intrude among initiates And misconceive the play, No self-indulgence walks my stage; My frenzies make divine : My banqueter is saint and sage, A eucharist my wine : No desecrated home shall be, No vice-predestined birth, No stews of maudlin gluttony, When Bacchus rules the earth. 246 BERNARD O'DOWD My rage that lit the cold Greek brow And burned from Orphic lyre. Flames down the years to Tolstoi now And back to Celtic fire. I glowed in Hermit Peter's words, Savonarola's grim, St. Francis understood the birds Because I cherished him. I am the surging Energy No wintry Law can tame : Nay, the god that overpowers me Is Bacchus save in name. 'Tis not enough that you avow Allegiance at my gates ; Many who bear the wattle-bough Are not initiates : Nor all the revellers, though dear. Who beat my doors with prayers, But sing so sweet they cannot hear The poor who knock at theirs : For " Truth for Truth " and " Art for Art " And Song for the sake of Song, Must wait the turn of the breaking heart, Till Bacchus purges Wrong. 247 BERNARD O'DOWD O come, Australians, maid and youth, Enlist in our crusade ! From wan Gomorrahs of untruth Flock to the Bacchic glade ! Away, away from antique wraiths And clammy deities I On ! on ! to transcendental faiths And Young Democracies 1 We shall climb o'er Mount Impossible For Bacchus leads the way : Shall quench with Love the fires of hell, And flood its night with day : Shall raze the walls of Babylon, And build, yea, in a night, Man's New Jerusalems upon Love, Liberty and Light ! Away with Mammon and his woe, Nor his Holy Places spare : Bacchantes, Mcenads, at them! lo. His bale-eyed stranglers, there ! Come, leave his city for the wood, His marble halls for hut, And bring into our brotherhood The outcast and the " butt "1 Come, spirit from the human sky Those cloudy elves of pain, And sing into the leaden eye The human light again I 248 BERNARD O'DOWD Extirpate from your virgin soil Exotic hate and wrong : And thrill the torpid nerves of toil With vision and with song : And fling far all that stunt or blast, And with Bacchantic brawn Grapple and wrestle the arrogant Past, All night, until the Dawn ! AN ORDER FOR A SONG You know not, lady, what you will, Nor what an eerie throng I have to summon to fulfil Your order for a song. They heard you in the outer waste. And, throbbing with desire To press their claims on me, they haste In coracles of fire. You do not know their ardent pleas, These strange poetic norms. To leave their filmy destinies And incarnate in forms. We judge our human realm so small We cannot dream how they Compete like tigers for the call That mingles them with clay — 249 BERNARD O'DOWD Their ichor with our clay — but thus Secures their right to plod The human thoroughfare with us Across the range to God. They've waited through the ages, some, They've knocked at every door The bards have shown, but deaf or dumb Have all men seemed before. And some have been half-heard, but yearn In riper ears to say What seers were then too young to learn. Or too alarmed to weigh. For primal things were often born For primal men in vain, Through youthful Wisdom's easy scorn Of oracles too plain. And some, our lavish looms of mind Create and lose to-day. Are thronging round our stage to find Admission to the play. They clamour favour as I think. They walk the fields with me. They loiter where I eat and drink. They lurk in flower and tree. 250 BERNARD O'DOWD They bribe the wayside grassy blades Their wishes to suggest ; I note their tiny ambuscades In smile, in heaving breast. Yea, some employ such subtle wiles To prove to me their worth, They launch my boat on eerie Niles x\nd row me from the earth : Till larger continents we find, And stars that woo me burn Above their land of " Absent Mind," By the world of " No-Return " : Till we alone are real, and all The stormy facts of day Into Illusion's chasm fall, A rainbow o'er its spray : Till so my magic boatmen purge The cloudy eyes of Thought, ('Tis here, they say, with God we merge) That Earth becomes as nought ; But then, with instantaneous skill, Down earth-ward currents strong They row me, lady, to fulfil Your order for a song. 251 EDWIN JAMES BRADY McFEE OF ABERDEEN They've scraped her sides, and tarred her ropes, and patched her suit o' sails ; They've filled her full o' varied stock for firms in New South Wales ; She's left her berth in London Docks, she's left the Lizard light. And in the rough Atlantic now her bowsprit stabs the night. But, rough or smooth, or foul or fair, whate'er the waters be, He'll take her out and bring her home, or sink her, will McFee. They've seen the sun go down, go down, and turn her canvas red. And as she rides the darkened seas they'll watch the stars o'erhead ; They'll watch the stars that splash the skies with sparkling silver spray. Out in the Great Unfathomed Deep, away, and still away ! But when the Trades have stretched her sheets and sing among her shrouds. Like some glad, buoyant spirit-thing, she'll leap to- wards the clouds ; 252 EDWIN J. BRADY From morn to noon, from noon to night, she'll pitch and roll and toss, And as the Bear goes out of sight they'll see the Southern Cross ; Across the Line and off the land, hull-down this side the Cape, By chart and compass and the sun her outward course he'll shape ; And be the ocean deep and blue, or be the ocean green, 'Twill not affect his wonted calm — McFee of Aberdeen I The Glasgie skipper, towing down, will pass him on the way, And as she dips her colours aft his crew will hip- hooray, For in the ports where sailors meet and out across the sea Hath passed the name and gone the fame of sturdy Jock McFee. Though print has spread and wars have raged and rebels have been hung. Though o'er and o'er the world has changed since Jock McFee was young, The ways of steam he will not learn ; but Lord ! to hear him speak Of racing trips and rousing deeds when ships were built of teak. Ere paddle-wheels or double-screws had altered all the years. And " sailor-men were sailor-men, not sea-sick engineers ! " 253 EDWIN J. BRADY So build your steamboats big as towns, electric lights and all, By wood and canvas to the end, McFee will stand or fall; For wood and canvas, wind and tide, the books of sky and sea, With strange salt oaths and curses make the know- ledge of McFee. The wars may come, the wars may end, and crowns be lost or won, He rolls around the rolling world that rolls around the sun ; And men may write most wondrous books, and men may count the stars, His aim in life is still to get all sail upon his spars ; Nor does he care how kings may fare or empires may decline. When underneath his vessel's keel deep lies the cable- line; But skies of lead and seas of ink, when winds like devils roar. Will find her reefed or taut and snug, bare poles and well off shore. Aye, round the world, and round the world, where'er his owners will. His cargo aft to land and leave, his for'ard hold to fill ; 254 EDWIN J. BRADY Across the seas and o'er the seas, and o'er the seas again, Through night and morning, clear and cloud, through calm and wind and rain, She'll roll along, she'll pitch along, she'll tack, and turn, and drive. And while her spars still in her stand she'll come to port alive. But if her sticks and she should part, and jury-masts should fail, 'Tis said McFee would doff his shirt, and still contrive to sail. The port is not on charts laid down, nor put on maps, I ween. Where, in his youth, or in his prime, some time he hath not been. He'll talk and tell of Plymouth town, of far Alaskan bays, Of New Orleans and Puget Sound, Colombo and its ways. Of arrack drunks, and sam-shu sprees, of Old Kain- tucky rj'e ; But when he comes to talk of girls, be sure that none are by : For sailormen are sailormen — the same right all the way From Glasgow to the Golden Gate, from Rio to Bom- bay; And Nrptune rules the rolling deep, but Venus reigns ashore. So rest assured that Venus is — as Venus was of yore ! 255 EDWIN J. BRADY A lusty glass of smoky Scotch, and pass the cabin jar; Here, fill yer pipe with " duty free " and smell the smell o' tar. Oh, hear 'em tramp the planks above — " Ey-hey ! " they strain and creak — The music of the blocks, my lads, 'tis good to hear them speak ; But, oh, the sough of swirling seas that from her glide and go. The song of lone mid-ocean winds, and all the songs ye know I So roll along, so race along, so tack and turn and drive, You'll get a taste o' sand and weed, or else — come back alive ; You'll take a swim some stormy night, but not for pleasure's sake, Or else, in ninety days from now, a deep long-beer you'll take ! So pull away and haul away, and let the chanty rise — 'Tis watch and watch for ninety days and nights, and " damn yer eyes !" 'Tis watch and watch when on the poop your skipper takes his stand ; When far behind and low behind and out o' sight the land ! " Sou'-East by East " her course is set, and " Nor' by East " again. With every inch o' canvas on, she cuts the seas amain ; Across the world and round the world and bits o' port between, He lives the life that sailors live, McFee of Aberdeen ! 256 WILL. H. OGILVIE HABET ! Down! And the world's war-squadron splashes Past, loose-reined, in the blood and the mire; Brown arms sweep and the bared steel flashes On to the goal of the World's desire. Down 1 By the war-steed's hot hoofs cowering, Broken the sword arm, bent the sword, And awaj' to the front leap the sabres showering Blows for the Hell-hearth, blows for the Lord ! Did he clutch at the moon for jewel To build on his bosom and wear? Did he fight with a Fate too cruel Or follow a face too fair? What does it matter the reason why ! He is down ; and it's little the world will care As it sweeps in a foam-fret by. Down ! Weeps the moon, and he never wore it. Down ! And the stars mourn into the mist. Fate's red weal is across his forehead; Somebody's face has never been kissed ! Flushes the dawn, and one vulture-speck Spires and spins in a reeling sky; — Down! And it's little the World will reck As it rides red-rowelled by. 17 257 WILL. H. OGILVIE ABANDONED SELECTIONS On the crimson breast of the sunset The Gray Selections lie, And their lonely, grief-stained faces Are turned to a pitiless sky ; They are wrinkled and seamed with drought-fire And wound at the throat with weeds, They sob in the aching loneness But never a passer heeds. I pity you, Gray Selections, As I pass you by in the light, And I turn again with the shadows To take your hand in the night ; In homesteads and yards deserted 'Tis little the world can see. But the wail of your endless sorrow Throbs under the moon to me. I come to you, Gray Selections, When the crickets gather and croon, An hour at the back of the sunset. An hour in advance of the moon ; How eager they are to whisper Their tale as they hear me pass ! Twenty at once in the oak trees, Ten at a time in the grass. The night-winds are chanting above you A dirge in the cedar trees Whose green boughs groan at your shoulder, Whose dead leaves drift to your knees ; 258 WILL. H. OGILVIE You cry, and the curlews answer; You call, and the wild dogs hear; Through gaps in the old log-fences They creep when the night is near. I stand by your fenceless gardens And weep for the splintered staves ; I watch by your empty ingles And mourn by your white-railed graves ; I see from j-our crumbling doorways The whispering white forms pass, And shiver to hear dead horses Crop-cropping the long gray grass. Where paddocks are dumb and fallow And wild weeds waste to the stars I can hear the voice of the driver. The thresh of the swingle-bars; I can hear the hum of the stripper That follows the golden lanes, The snort of the tiring horses, The clink of the bucking chains. It is night ; but I see the smoke-wreaths Float over the dancing haze ; I can hear the jackass laughing When South winds rustle the maize; I can catch the axes' ringing. And out on the range's crown I can hear the red fires roaring And the great trees thundering down. 259 WILL. H. OGILVIE I pity you, Gray Selections, Your hearths as cold as a stone, The days you must pass unaided. The nights you must brave alone ; But most when the wailing curlews Call over the drear lagoon, And out of the ring-barked timber Comes blazing the red, red moon. They fought for you, Gray Selections, The battle of long dry years, Through seedtimes of sweat and sorrow To harvests of hunger and tears ; You turned from the lips that wooed you, And Justice, awake on her throne. For sake of those brave hearts broken, Is watching you break your own 1 BOWMONT WATER O, WE think we're happy roving I But the stars that crown the night. They are only ours for loving When the moon is lost to sight ! And my hopes are fleeting forward With the ships that sail the sea. And my eyes are to the Nor'ward As an exile's well may be. And my heart a shrine has sought her Where the lights and shadows play, 260 WILL. H. OGILVIE At the foot of Bowmont Water, Bowmont Water — far away ! O, it's fair in summer weather When the red sun dropping low Sets a lustre on the heather And the Cheviot peaks aglow ; When the hares come down the meadows In the gloaming clear and still, And the flirting lights and shadows Play at hidies on the hill ; When the wild duck's mate has sought her And the speckled hill-trout play At the foot of Bowmont Water, Bowmont Water — far away ! O, it's grand when Winter's creeping And the rime is on the trees, And the giant hills are sleeping With the gray clouds on their knees ; When the autumn days are ended And the glens are deep with snow. And the grips are dark and splendid Where the mountain eagles go : Then the strath is a king's daughter, In her purple robes and gray. At the foot of Bowmont Water, Bowmont Water — far away ! We have wandered down the valley In the days of buried time, Seen the foxgloves dip and dally. Heard the fairy blue-bells chime ; 261 WILL. H. OGILVIE Seen the brier roses quiver When the West-wind crossed the dell, Heard the music of the river And the tale it had to tell, Where the melody Love taught her Is the laverock's only lay, At the foot of Bowmont Water, Bowmont Water — far away ! I have tried the spots, in order, Where the brightest sunbeams fall, But the land upon the Border Is my own land after all. And I would not take the glory Of the whole world's golden sheen For the white mists down the corrie And the naked scaurs between ; And my heart a shrine has sought her That will last her little day— At the foot of Bowmont Water, Bowmont Water — far away 1 THE BUSH, MY LOVER The camp-fire gleams resistance To every twinkling star ; The horse-bells in the distance Are jangling faint and far; 262 WILL. H. OGILVIE Through gum-boughs lorn and lonely The passing breezes sigh ; In all the world are only My star-crowned Love and L The still night wraps Macquarie ; The white moon, drifting slow, Takes back her silver glory From watching waves below ; To dalliance I give over Though half the world may chide, And clasp my one true Lover Here on Macquarie side. The loves of earth grow olden Or kneel at some new shrine ; Her locks are always golden — This brave Bush-Love of mine ; And for her star-lit beauty, And for her dawns dew-pearled, Her name in love and duty I guard against the world. They curse her desert places ! How can they understand Who know not what her face is And never held her hand? — Who may have heard the meeting Of boughs the wind has stirred, Yet missed the whispered greeting Our listening hearts have heard. 263 WILL. H. OGILVIE For some have travelled over The long miles at her side, Yet claimed her not as Lover Nor thought of her as Bride : And some have followed after Through sun and mist for years, Nor held the sunshine laughter, Nor guessed the raindrops tears. If we some white arms' folding, Some warm, red mouth should miss- Her hand is ours for holding. Her lips are ours to kiss; And closer than a lover She shares our lightest breath, And droops her great wings over To shield us to the death. And if her droughts are bitter. Her dancing mirage vain — Are all things gold that glitter 1 What pleasure but hath pain? And since among Love's blisses Love's penalties must live. Shall we not take her kisses And, taking them, forgive? The winds of Dawn are roving The river-oaks astir . . . What heart were lorn of loving That had no Love but her? 264 WILL. H. OGILVIE Till last red stars are lighted And last winds wander West, Her troth and mine are plighted — The lover I love best I " SOME TAKE NO HEED ..." Some take no heed of any future day But kiss Time's hand while wearing yet his bonds, Dreaming their young full-blooded life away Among Life's lotus-ponds. And some there are who gird them shield and sword, War dawn and noon, fight the red sunset down To fall when night falls, with the same reward- Death's dark-hued cypress crown. Ah ! when Death's hand our own warm hand hath ta'en Down the dark aisles his sceptre rules supreme, God grant the fighters leave to fight again And let the dreamers dream ! 265 RODERIC QUINN THE CAMP WITHIN THE WEST O DID you see a troop go by Way-weary and oppressed, Dead kisses on the drooping lip And a dead heart in the breast? Yea, I have seen them one by one Way-weary and oppressed. And when I asked them, ^'Whither speed?" They answered, ^'To the Westl" And were they pale as pale could be — Death pale with haunted eyes, And did you see the hot white dust Range round their feet and rise? O, they were pale as pale could he, And pale as an ember ed leaf ; The hot white dust had risen, but They laid it with their grief. Did no one say the way is long, And crave a little rest? O no, they said, " The night is nigh, Our camp is in the Westl" 266 RODERIC QUINN And did pain pierce their feet, as tliough The way with thorns were set, And were they visited by strange Dark angels of regret ? O yea, and some were mute as death, Though shot by many a dart. With them the salt of inward tears Went stinging through the heart. And how are these wayfarers called. And whither do they wend ? The Weary-Hearted — and their road At sunset hath an end. Shed tears for them . . . Nay, nay, no tears! They yearn for endless rest; Perhaps large stars will burn above Their camp within the West. A GREY DAY The long still day is ending In hollow and on height, The lighthouse seaward sending White rays of steady light : A little cloud is leading A great cloud west by north ; Woe waits on ships unheeding That blindly venture forth . . . 267 RODERIC QUINN All day the sea, dull-heaving, Moaned low like one who ails, While spectre hands were weaving A veil o'er distant sails. All day with drooping feather And wings devoid of gleam, The sea-birds grouped together Forbore to wheel and scream. Salt-arms and river-reaches Were glazed and leaden-hued, And haunting sodden beaches Went grey-haired Solitude. The dead leaves in the forest Sank earthward all aswoon, The green marsh-frogs that chorused Had ta'en a sadder tune. Lost loves and sins long hidden, Through some unguarded gate, Entered the soul unbidden And made men desolate. And fears beset the fearless, And laughs were stayed to sigh, And eyes long dry and tearless Grew moist, and none knew why. Gleamed red the covered ember Beneath its ashen grey, And some said, " I remember," And some, " 'Twas such a day!" 268 RODERIC QUINN And all were lonely-hearted, Sight inward-set and blurred, At touch or tone they started And groped for fitting word. Down-cast in weeds went Nature, Stilling man's mirth and song; And mourning through every creature A grave and ancient wrong . . . Light fades on hill and hollow ; Night falls, and close behind Storm-rage and Sea-wrath follow With wild cries on the wind. THE LOTUS-FLOWER All the heights of the high shores gleam Red and gold at the sunset hour : There comes the spell of a magic dream, And the Harbour seejns a lotus-flower ; A blue flower tinted at dawn with gold, A broad flower blazing with light at noon, A flower forever with charms to hold His heart, who sees it by sun or moon. 269 RODERIC QUINN Its beauty burns like a ceaseless fire, And tower looks over the top of tower; For all mute things it would seem, aspire To catch a glimpse of the lotus-flower. Men meet its beauty with furrowed face, And straight the furrows are smoothed away ; They buy and sell in the market-place, And languor leadens their blood all day. At night they look on the flower, and lo 1 The City passes with all its cares : They dream no more in its azure glow. Of gold and silver and stocks and shares. The Lotus dreams 'neath the dreaming skies, Its beauty touching with spell divine The grey old town, till the old town lies Like one half-drunk with a magic wine. Star-loved, it breathes at the midnight hour A sense of peace from its velvet mouth. Though flowers be fair — is there any flower Like this blue flower of the radiant South? Sun-loved and lit by the moon it yields A challenge-glory or glow serene, And men bethink them of jewelled shields, A turquoise lighting a ground of green. 270 RODERIC QUINN Fond lovers pacing beside it see Not death and darkness, but life and light, And dream no dream of the witchery The Lotus sheds on the silent night. Pale watchers weary of watching stars That fall, and fall, and forever fall, Tear-worn and troubled with many scars, They seek the Lotus and end life's thrall. The spirit spelled by the Lotus swoons, Its beauty summons the artist mood; And thus, perchance, in a thousand moons Its spell shall work in our waiting blood. Then souls shall shine with an old-time grace. And sense be wrapped in a golden trance. And art be crow ned in the market-place With Love and Beauty and fair Romance. THE SEEKER Good People, by your fires to-night Sit close and praise the red, red wood ! The wind is cold, the moon is white; With me who wander 'tis not well, it is not well, but God is good. 271 RODERIC QUINN 'Fore birth I was foredoomed to roam, To keep my soul and self apart, An alien without hearth and home — With me who wander 'tis not well : there is no warmth of fire or heart. I mate with all the wandering winds That roam across the wintry earth ; What time behind your close-drawn blinds Your firelit faces smile and smile, I would that I might share their mirth. But if I entered I should sit A wordless dreamer at your fire, With heart unwarmcd and eyes unlit, I should be like a spectre there, shut off from you and your desire. And yet, I would that I might warm My heart and hands at your fire-glow. But headlong seas and shouting storm They thrill my blood, they fill my eyes, they call me forth, and I must go. Good People, maids and dames and sires, Ye have your little woe and mirth. Ye dream no dream ; but there are spires That point to stars, and still point on in spite of this dark, drawing earth. 272 RODERIC QUINN It is not well with me to-night, And I by that strange shore would be, Where, 'twixt day's last grey gleam and night, A Wonder wanes that I alone of all the world must seek and see. What cliffs they be, what sea rolls there, I do not know, but, spirit-chained, Fled visions fill me with despair, And all the washed grey foreland speaks of some strange Wonder that hath waned. Good People, bread and wine are good, .And all your visions goodly be, But some may crave for other food, And some are seekers from their birth, and dream of lights they shall not see. And there is he who fain would find A Wonder by an alien shore : Athwart the seas he speeds his mind. But on the instant fades a light, and lo, the Wonder is no more. 18 273 DAVID McKEE WRIGHT AN OLD COLONIST'S REVERIE Dustily over the highway pipes the loud nor'-wester at morn, Wind and the rising sun, and waving tussock and corn ; It brings to me days gone by when first in my ears it rang, The wind is the voice of my home, and I think of the songs it sang When, fresh from the desk and ledger, I crossed the long leagues of sea — " The old worn world is gone and the new bright world is free." The wide, wild pastures of old are fading and passing away, All over the plain are the homes of the men who have come to stay — I sigh for the good old days in the station wharfe again ; But the good new days are better — I would not be heard to complain ; 274 •>/» DAVID M. WRIGHT It is only the wind that cries with tears in its voice to me Of the dead men low in the mould who came with me over the sea. Some of them down in the city under the marble are laid, Some on the bare hillside in the mound by the lone tree shade, And some in the forest deeps of the west in their silence lie, With the dark pine curtain above shutting out the blue of the sky. And many have passed from my sight, whither I never shall know, Swept away in the rushing river or caught in the mountain snow ; All the old hands are gone who came with me over the sea, But the land that we made our own is the same bright land to me. There are dreams ii; the gold of the kowhai, and when ratas are breaking in bloom I can hear the rich murmur of voices in the deeps of the fern-shadowed gloom. Old memory may bring me her treasures from the land of the blossoms of May, But to me the hill daisies are dearer and the gorse on the river bed grey ; 275 DAVID M. WRIGHT While the mists on the high hilltops curling, the dawn- haunted haze of the sea, To my fancy are bridal veils lifting from the face of the land of the free. The speargrass and cabbage trees yonder, the honey- belled flax in its bloom. The dark of the bush on the sidlings, the snow-crested mountains that loom Golden and grey in the sunlight, far up in the cloud- fringed blue. Are the threads with old memory weaving and the line of my life running through ; And the wind of the morning calling has ever a song for me Of hope for the land of the dawning in the golden years to be. 276 CHRISTOPHER J. BRENNAN ROMANCE Of old, on her terrace at evening ...not here... in some long-gone kingdom O, folded close to her breast!... — our gaze dwelt wide on the blackness (was it trees? or a shadowy passion the pam of an old-world longing that it sobb'd, that it swell'd, that it shrank?) — the gloom of the forest blurr'd soft on the skirt of the night-skies that shut in our lonely world. ...not here... in some long-gone world... close-lock 'd in that passionate arm-clasp no word did we utter, we stirr'd not : the silence of Death, or of Love... only, round and over us that tearless infinite yearning and the Night with her spread wings rustling folding us with the stars. ...not here... in some long-gone kingdom of old, on her terrace at evening O, folded close to her heart 1... 277 CHRIS. ERENNAN CITIES The j'ellow gas is fired from street to street past rows of heartless homes and hearths unlit dead churches, and the unending pavement beat by crowds — sa)' rather haggard shades that flit round nightl)' haunts of their delusive dream where'er our paradisal instinct starves — till on the utmost post, its sinuous gleam crawls in the oily water of the wharves, where Homer's sea loses his keen breath, hemm'd what place rebellious piles were driven down — the priestlike waters to this task condemn 'd to wash the roots of the inhuman town ! — where fat and strange-eyed fish that never saw the outer deep, broad halls of sapphire light, glut in the city's draught each nameless maw — and there, wide-eyed unto the soulless night methinks a drown 'd maid's face might fitly show what we have slain, a life that had been free, clean, large, nor thus tormented — even so as are the skies, the great winds and the sea. Ay, we had saved our days and kept them whole to whom no part in our old joy remains, had felt those bright winds sweeping thro' our soul and all the keen sea tumbling in our veins, 278 CHRIS. BRENNAN had thrill'd to harps of sunrise, when the height whitens and dawn dissolves in virgin tears, or caught across the hush'd ambrosial night the choral music of the swinging spheres or drunk the silence if nought else- — But no ! and from each rotting soul distil in dreams a poison o'er the old earth creeping slow that kills the flowers and curdles the live streams, that taints the fresh breath of re-risen day and reeks across the pale bewilder 'd moon — shall we be cleans'd and how? I only pray red flame or deluge, may that end be soon ! " I AM SHUT OUT OF MINE OWN HEART " I AM shut out of mine own heart because my Love is far from me nor in the wonder have I part that fills its hidden empery; the wildwood of adventurous thought and lands of dawn my dream had won, the riches out of Faerie brought are buried with our bridal sun ; and I am in a narrow place and all its little streets are cold because the absence of her face hath reft the sullen air of gold. 279 CHRIS. BRENNAN My home is in a broader day — sometimes I catch it glistening thro' the dull gate, a flower 'd play and odour of undying Spring ; the long days that I lived alone, sweet madness of the Springs I miss'd are shed beyond and thro' them blown clear laughter and my lips are kiss'd — and here from mine own joy apart I wait the turning of the key : I am shut out of mine own heart because my Love is far from me. 280 JOHN LE GAY BRERETON THE SEA MAID In what pearl-paven mossy cave By what green sea Art thou reclining, virgin of the wave. In realms more full of splendid mystery Than that strong northern flood whence came The rise and fall of music in thy name— Thy waiting name, Oithona 1 The magic of the sea's own change In depth and height. From where the eternal ordcr'd billows range To unknown regions of sleep-weary night. Fills, like a wonder-waking spell Whispered by lips of some lone-murmuring shell, Thy dreaming soul, Oithona. In gladness of thy reverie What gracious form Will fly the errand of our love to thee, By ways with winged messengers aswarm Through dawn of opalescent skies. To say the time is come and bid thee rise And be our child, Oithona? 28 1 J. LE GAY BRERETON WILFRED What of these tender feet That have never toddled yet? What dances shall they beat, With what red vintage wet? In what wild way will they march or stray, by what sly paynims met? The toil of it none may share; By yourself must the way be won Through fervid or frozen air Till the overland journey's done; And I would not take, for your own dear sake, one thorn from your track, my son. Go forth to your hill and dale, Yet take in your hand from me A staff when your footsteps fail, A weapon if need there be ; 'Twill hum in your ear when the foeman's near, athirst for the victory. In the desert of dusty death It will point to the hidden spring; Should you weary and fail for breath, It will burgeon and branch and swing Till you sink to sleep in its shadow deep to the sound of its murmuring. 282 J. LE GAY BRERETON You must face the general foe — A phantom pale and grim. If you flinch at his glare, he'll grow And gather your strength to him ; But your power will rise if you laugh in his eyes and away in a mist he'll swim, To your freeborn soul be true — Fling parchment in the fire; Men's laws are null for you, For a word of Love is higher, And can you do aught, when He rules your thought, but follow your own desire? You will dread no pinching dearth In the home where you love to lie, For your floor will be good brown earth And your roof the open sky. There'll be room for all at your festival when the heart-red wine runs high. Joy to you, joy and strife, And a golden East before. And the sound of the sea of life In your ears when you reach the snore, And a hope that still with as good a will you may fight as you fought of yore. 283 J. LE GAY BRERETON OPEN SPEECH Good friend of mine, you feel with me— Your blood grows hot by sympathy With something that I say or do; Then speak — I want a word from you. Let not the silence wrap you round While you are living over-ground. They say that earthly years are few ; Then speak — I want a word from you. Perhaps I pass you in the street, And when our eyes a moment meet, I wonder are you wishing too ; Then speak — I want a word from you. Are you, too, longing for a sign. Yet fear to stretch a hand for mine? W^hat other am I writing to? Then speak — I want a word from you. Some way our thoughts together run, Since both lift brow toward the sun Beneath the self-same vault of blue ; Then speak — I want a word from you. 284 SHAW NEILSON SHEEDY WAS DYING Grey as a rising- yhost, Helpless and dumb ; This he had feared the most — Now it had come ; Through the tent door, Mockingj defying-, The Thirsty Land lay, And Sheedy was dying! Why should he ever Keep turning-, keep turning All his thoughts over To quicken their burning? Why should the North wind speak, Creeping and crying? — Who else could mourn for him ? Sheedy was dying ! Ay ! he had travelled far — Homeless, a rover ; Drunk his good share, and more Half the world over; 285 SHAW NEILSON So now had ended All toiling and trying ; Out in his tent alone Sheedy was dying 1 Never a priest to say Where he is going; Ah ! he shall take the road, As he is knowing. So ! — to his rest — And the North wind is crying : Who else should mourn for him? — Sheedy was dying ! Kind, in a surly way, Somewhat rough-spoken ; Truth to his fellow men Keeping unbroken ; With a strong man's contempt For the world and its lying — Now on his bunk alone, Sheedy was dying 1 Birds of the Thirsty Land In the dull grey Mist of the even-time Floating away . . . Still did the North wind speak, Creeping and crying : White, with his mouth agape, Sheedy was dying ! 286 ARTHUR H. ADAMS THE DWELLINGS OF OUR DEAD They lie unwatched, in waste and vacant places, In sombre bush or wind-swept tussock spaces, Where seldom human tread And never human trace is — The dwellings of our dead ! No insolence of stone is o'er them builded ; By mocker)' of monuments unshielded, Far on the unfenced plain Forgotten graves have yielded Earth to free earth again. Above their crypts no air with incense reeling, No chant of choir or sob of organ pealing ; But ever over them The evening breezes kneeling Whisper a requiem. For some the margeless plain where no one passes, Save when at morning far in misty masses The drifting flock appears. Lo, here the greener grasses Glint like a stain of tears ! 287 ARTHUR H. ADAMS For some the quiet bush, shade-strewn and saddened, Whereso'er the herald tui, morning-gladdened, Lone on his chosen tree, With his new rapture maddened, Shouts incoherently. For some the gully where, in whispers tender, The flax-blades mourn and murmur, and the slender White ranks of toi go. With drooping plumes of splendour. In pageantry of woe. For some the common trench where, not all fameless, They fighting fell who thought to tame the tameless. And won their barren crown ; Where one grave holds them nameless — Brave white and braver brown. But in their sleep, like troubled children turning, A dream of mother-country in them burning, They whisper their despair. And one vague, voiceless yearning Burdens the pausing air . . . " Unchanging here the drab year onwards presses: No Spring comes irysting here with new-loosed tresses, And never may the years Win Autumn's sweet caresses — Her leaves that fall like tears. 2S8 ARTHUR H. ADAMS And we would lie 'math old-remembered beeches. Where we could hear the voice of him who preaches And the deep organ's call. While close about us reaches The cool, grey, lichened wall." But they are ours, and jealously we hold them ; Within our children's ranks we have enrolled them, And till all Time shall cease Our brooding" bush shall fold them In her broad-bosomed peace. They came as lovers come, all else forsaking. The bonds of home and kindred proudly breaking j They lie in splendour lone — The nation of their making Their everlasting throne 1 THE AUSTRALIAN Once more this Autumn-earth is ripe, Parturient of another type. While with the Past old nations merge His foot is on the Future's verge ; They watch him, as they huddle pent. Striding a spacious continent, 19 289 ARTHUR H. ADAMS Above the level desert's marge Looming in his aloofness large. No flower with fragile sweetness graced- A lank weed wrestling with the waste. Pallid of face and gaunt of limb, The sweetness withered out of him. Sombre, indomitable, wan. The juices dried, the glad j'outh gone. A little weary from his birth ; His laugh the spectre of a mirth. Bitter beneath a bitter sky, To Nature he has no reply. Wanton, perhaps, and cruel. Yes, Is not his sun more merciless? Joy has such niggard dole to give. He laughs, a child, just glad to live. So drab and neutral is his day He gleans a splendour in the grey. And from his life's monotony He lifts a subtle melody. When earth so poor a banquet makes His pleasures at a gulp he takes. 290 ARTHUR H. ADAMS The feast is his to the last crumb ; Drink while he can . . . the drought will come. His heart a sudden tropic flower, He loves and loathes within an hour. Yet j'ou who by the f>ools abide, Judge not the man who swerves aside. He sees beyond jour hazy fears; He roads the desert of the years. Rearing his cities in the sand, He builds where even God has banned. With green a continent he crowns, And stars a wilderness with towns. His g^es of steel the great plain wears : With paths the distances he snares. A child who takes a world for toy, To build a nation, or destroy. His childish features frozen stern, A nation's task he has to learn, From feeble tribes to federate One splendid peace-encompassed State. But if there be no goal to reach? The way lies open, dawns beseech! 291 ARTHUR H. ADAMS Enough that he lay down his load A little further on tho road So, toward undrcamt-of destinies He slouches down the centuries. BAYS WATER, W. About me leagues of houses lie. Above me, grim and straight and high, They climb; the terraces lean up Like long grey reefs against the sky. Packed tier on tier the people dwell r Each narrow, hollow wall is full ; And in that hive of honeycomb. Remote and high, I have one cell. And when I turn into my street I hear in murmurous retreat A tide of noises flowing out— TJie city ebbing from my feet 1 And lo 1 two long straight walls between. There dwells a little park serene, Where blackened trees and railings hem A little handkerchief of green ! Yet I can see across the roof The sun, the stars and . . . God ! For proof- Between the twisting chimney-pots A pointing finger, old, aloof 1 292 ARTHUR H. ADAMS The traffic that the city rends Within my quiet haven ends In a deep murmur, or across My pool a gentle ripple sends. A chime upon the silence drab Paints music ; hooting motors stab The pleasant peace ; and, far and faint, The jangling lyric of the cab ! And when i wander, proud and free, Through my domain, unceasingly The endless pageant of the shops Marches along the street with me. About me ever blossoming Like rich parterres the hoardings fling An opulence of hue, and make Within my garden endless Spring. The droning tram-cars spitting light : And like great bees in drunken flight Burly and laden deep with bloom, The 'busses lumbering home at night I Sometimes an afternoon will fling New meaning on each sombre thing , And low upon the level roofs The sultry sun lies smouldering. Sometimes the fog — that faei-y girl — Her veil of wonder will unfurl. And crescent gaunt and looming flat Are sudden mysteries of pearl I 293 ARTHUR H. ADAMS New miracles the wet streets show ; On stems of flame the gas-lamps glow. I walk upon the wave and see Another London drowned below ! And when night comes strange jewels strew The winding streets I wander through : Like pearls upon a woman's throat The street-lamps' swerving avenue! !n every face that passes mine Unfathomed epics I divine : Each figure on the pavement is A vial of untasted wine ! Through lands enchanted wandering, To all a splendour seems to cling. Lo I from a window-beacon high Hope still the Night is questioning ! And so, ere sleep I lie and mark Romance's stealthy footsteps. Hark ! The rhythm of the horse's hoof Bears some new drama through the dark I So in this tall and narrow street I lie as in Death's lone retreat And hear, loud in the pulse of Life, Eternity upon me beat ! 294 BLANCHE EDITH BAUGHAN THE HILL Fine fresh mornin'; a real Spring day; Alps a smother of snow, Sea like a jolly good laugh spread out mile upon mile below, 'Kowhai all yellow wi' blossom . . . Nor'-east? Nor '-west it'll be, from here . . . Ay I — Sharp and sudden, and bitter as ever, yonder the Hill stands clear. . . . Nothin' to seel Nor there couldn't be anythin' now — only tongueless dust. Snug, an' deep down under the tussock, — Keep guard all the same I must ! Never had nerve to revisit the place; nor I'll never get nerve to quit Here, where I can have it before me, an' see, an' make sure of it. Snow's the safest; in storms I'm easy; days o' the runnin' fire, I bother a bit — but it licks the crag, an' never creeps up no higher. 295 BLANCHE EDITH BAUGHAN Musterin' days — that's the terrible time ! — Sickish I turn, an' cold, ... Men — an' dogs! — nosin' over an' over . . . an' what if you up an' told? Well, you ain't gone back on me yet, old Hill ! No- body's ever knew. Only me, an' the Stars an' Sea, in the twenty year — an' You. Twenty year! an', only in rains (which I reckon 'd 'ud help him rot), Bet you there ain't been more than ten minutes together when I've forgot. - . . Winter's evenin', an' wet : an' we'd swagg'd it twenty-five mile an' more, An' there was the lights at last, but far; an' he grizzled an' growl 'd an' swore. An' / was cold, an' / was starvin', an' there, on top o' the Hill, He anger'd me so as I struck— By God I but I never meant to kill 1 — Here I came, for, wherever one turns, here's the view of It, up an' down, An' one's near enough for the papers to tell if anythin's told in Town. Here I've lived, 'way back in the Bush — dunno what the others think. They come, an' they go; my wharf's away by itself, an' I don't dare drink. 296 BLANCHE EDITH BAUGHAN Men as I've known 'ud ha' carried it off — married, an' started sheep. Couldn't, — just think o' the woman. . . . Besides, what if I talk asleep? Back in the whar6 there's none to hear, an' the wind it bellows an' blows — Lord! it's lonesome and eerie enough — but it's safe, though. Nobody knows! In the dead o' night, at the very hour, often I wake, an'— Hark! . . . Nothin'! only the dreadful Sea, tellin' the dreadful Dark ; An' they terrible Stars a-pointin' at me, witnessin' layin' bare — An' yet, that's a kind o' a little relief, that they know, like the Hill : they share. But I couldn't ha' done wi' lambs, nor I couldn't ha' stood the face of a child — There's little kiddies live hereabouts that pretty well drives me wild. When I have to pass by the schoolhouse door, my eyes get sneakin ' away ; Turn, o' themselves, to their own place, there! — waitin' across the Bay. It's a rummy thing, how the Spring can start, an' the Sun keep shinin' still, Year after year, — an' all the time, Tliat laid up in the Hill? 297 BLANCHE EDITH BAUGHAN An' the Stars go on, an' the Sea goes on, an' the Iambs can be born an' be. You ha' thought 'twould ha' changed the world? — It has : but only for him, an' me. Ay! him in the Hill, an' me outside, — we ain't very far apart; For the shade o' you shadows my eyes, old Hill, and the weight o' you wears my heart. I struck but the once; for twenty year you've held my neck to the knife. Whether you tell in the end or not, — ain't he had his " life for a life"? . . . Was that a shake? . . . Thank God, it wasn't! Shakes turn me silly wi' fright. For then's your chance, if you've got a grudge, to spit him up into the light. Well, what if you did, eh? Whiles I fancy hangin' could be no worse . . . Dunno if you been my best o' friends all the while, or my bitterest curse. Here's the way-out, now — over the Point, where the sea-birds swing an' dive; The Hill 'ud be hidden ... an' what do I get, any- way, by bein' alive? Jump over, and finish it ! . . Can't! I can't! I've never had pluck to tell; I haven't the pluck to hurry that smallest o' steps — from here to Hell. 298 BLANCHE EDITH BAUGHAN Well, some day it'll finish itself. I've written it all, so then Everybody on earth '11 know; but I shall ha' done wi' men. Poor old Jack, an' his Maker to face . . . but — one bit o' the torment past : No Hill! — all, everythin', known, an' open, an' public, thank God, at last ! 299 ETHEL TURNER A TREMBLING STAR "There is my little trembling star," she said. I looked ; once more The tender sea had put the sun to bed; And heaven's floor Was grey. And nowhere yet in all tbat young night sky Was any star, But one that hung above the sea. Not high, Nor very far Away. ** I watch it every night," she said, and crepf Within my arm. " Soft little star, I wish the angels kept It safe from harm Alway. " I know it is afraid," she said; her eyes Held a sweet tear. " They send it all alone into the skies, No big stars near, To stay. 300 ETHEL TURNER ' They push it out before the sweet, kind moon Lights up the sea. They laugh because it fears the dark. ' Soon, soon, You'll braver bo,' They say. '* One night I climbed far up that high white tree Beside the beach, And tried to stretch my hand across the sea And tried to reach The grey. " For something made me feel my heart would break Unless that night I in my hand my trembling star could take And kiss its fright Away. " There only blew a strange wind chillily, And clouds were swept. The angels would not let my own star see That someone wept. I pray " To Christ, who hears my little prayers each night, That He will seek Through all His skies for that sweet, frightened light, And stoop His cheek And say 301 ETHEL TURNER " ' My angels must not send so frail a thing To light the West. Lift up the little trembling star to cling About my breast Alway.'" ORPHANED BY THE SEA " It seems to me," she said, " It seems to me, The sea should all be red As red can be. How can it laugh and play, Be blue, with blown, sweet spray, Sing songs to wake the day. Lull it to sleep. While on this sea-swept strand. With face turned from the land. All red and rainbow spanned, I stand and "veep ? Somewhere in that wide space Of blue and filmy lace, With dead sweet eyes and face, My mother lies. Somewhere there is a wave Sweeps o'er my father's grave, Then comes this beach to lave And laughing, dies. 302 ETHEL TURNER And when I see the blue Dimpling' and leaping- too, Like baby used to do, My eyes grow blind. Such little hands and sweet, Such slender, rosy feet, For waves to toss and beat With every wind. That's why always to me Blue seems too soft to be The colour for the sea, The cruel sea. It seems to me," she said, " It seems to me. The sea should all be red As red can be." 303 MARIE LOUISE MACK I TAKE MY LIFE INTO MY HANDS . . I TAKE my life into my hands : You shall not touch, you shall not see, I hold it there away from you, The fitful shining- soul in me. Ah, but you do not know 'tis hid, Because you did not know 'twas there : You look along the curving lip, Search the deep eyes and touch the hair. And cry, " Oh, love me. Woman, love! Your eyes are stars, your mouth a flower." And all the while a low voice says, " This is a fool without the power To look beneath, and find a free Unfettered spirit, serving none ; A heart that loves and does not love, A space untrod by anyone." You do not look for these. Yet I, So loved and loving, wonder too If underneath that clamour dwells Just such a hidden world in you. .304 LOUISE MACK For you, perhaps, have turned your soul, And held it there away from me, Saying, " She would not recognise; She would not know, she could not see." So let us keep our silences ! I'll honour years, or mine will break. And you, guard well the sacredness Of mine, for your own soul's shrine's sake. " I DREAMED OF ITALY ..." I DREAMED of Italy, And you were there . . . Oh, Italy, dream Italy! Are you so fair? A golden gondola For ever fled Up silver waterways : An old moon led. Beneath a midnight bridge We slower swept, And kissed and whispered where The black shades crept. And Dante passed and smiled, And Beatrice : Their little gondola Was gold as this. 20 305 LOUISE MACK Old angel Italy Was everywhere — " Poets and painters dead, They were all there. When I see Italy . . . Oh, broken dream ! For you are sleeping by An Austral stream; And golden gondola, And nightingale, And ah, the shadowy bridge, Are all a tale ! TO SYDNEY City, I never told you yet — Oh, little City, let me tell— A secret woven of your wiles, Dear City with the angel face, And you will hear with frowning grace, Or will you break in summer smiles? This is the secret, little town, Lying so lightly towards the sea. City, my secret has no art, Dear City with the golden door ; But oh, the whispers I would pour Into your ears — into your heart ! 306 LOUISE MACK You are my lover, little place, Lying so sweetly all alone. And yet I cannot, cannot tell My secret, for the voice will break That tries to tell of all the ache Of this poor heart beneath your spell. Dreaming, I tell you all my tale ; Tell how that the tides that wash your feet Sink through my heart and cut its cords. Dreaming, I hold my arms, and drag All, all into my heart — the flag On the low hill turned harbourwards, And all the curving little bays, The hot, dust-ridden, narrow streets, The languid turquoise of the sky. The gardens flowing to the wave, I drag them in. O City, save The grave for me where I must lie ! Yet humbly I would try to build Stone upon stone for this town's sake; Humbly would try for you to aid Those whose wise love for you will rear White monuments far ofif and near. White, but unsoiled, undesecrate. 307 JOHANNES CARL ANDERSEN SOFT, LOW AND SWEET Soft, low and sweet, the blackbird wakes the day. And clearer pipes, as rosier g-rows the gray Of the wide sky, far, far into whose deep The rath lark soars, and scatters down the steep His runnel song, that skyey roundelay. Earth with a sigh awakes; and tremors play, Coy Ip her leafy trees, and falt'ring creep Across the daisy lawn and whisper, " Well-a-day," Soft, low and sweet. From violet-banks the scent-clouds float away And spread around their fragance, as of sleep : From ev'ry mossy nook the blossoms peep; From ev'ry blossom comes one little ray That makes the world-wealth one with Spring, alway Soft, low and sweet. MAUI VICTOR Unhewn in quarry lay the Parian stone, Ere hands, god-guided, of Praxiteles 308 JOHANNES C. ANDERSEN Might shape the Cnidian Venus. Long ungrown The ivory was which, chiselled, robbed of ease Pygmalion, sculptor-lover. Now are these, The stone and ivory, immortal made. The golden apples of Hesperides Shall never, scattered, in blown dust be laid, Till Time, the dragon-guard, has lived his last decade. The Cnidian Venus, Galatea's shape, A wondering world beheld, as we behold, — Here, in blest isles beyond the stormy Cape, Where man the new land dowers with the old. Are neither marble shapes nor fruits of gold, Nor white-limbed maidens, queened enchantress-wise; Here, Nature's beauties no vast ruins enfold. No glamour fills her such as 'wildering lies Where Mediterranean waters laugh to Gre; ian skies. Acropolis with figure group and frieze, Parthenon, Temple, concepts born divine, Where in these Isles are wonders great as these? Unquarried lies the stone in teeming mine. Bare is the land of sanctuary and shrine; But though frail hands no god-like record set Great Nature's powers are lavish, and combine In mountain dome, ice-glancing minaret. Deep fiord, fiery fountain and lake with tree-wove carcanet. And though the dusky race that to and fro, Like their own shades, pass by and leave no trace, 309 JOHANNES C. ANDERSEN No age-contemning works fruni quick brain throw, They still have left what Time shall not efface, — The legends of an isolated race. Not vainly Maui strove ; no, not in vain He dared the old Mother of Death and her embrace : That mankind might go free, he suffered pain — And death he boldly dared, eternal life to gain. Not death but dormancy the old womb has known^ New love shall quicken it, new life attain : These legends old In ivory and stone Shall live their recreated life again, — Shall wake, like Galatea, to joy and pain. Legends and myths and wonders ; what are these But glittering mines that long unworked have lain '? A Homer shall unlock with magic keys Treasure for some antipodean Praxiteles 1 310 DORA WILCOX IN LONDON When I look out on London's teeming streets, On grim grey houses, and on leaden skies, My courage fails me, and my heart grows sick, And I remember that fair heritage Barter'd by me for what your London gives. This is not Nature's city : I am kin To whatsoever is of free and wild, And here I pine between these narrow walls. And London's smoke hides all the stars from me, Light from mine eyes, and Heaven from mj' heart. For in an island of those Southern seas That lie behind me, guarded by the Cross That looks all night from out our splendid skies, I know a valley opening to the East. There, hour by hour, the lazy tide creeps in Upon the sands I shall not pace again^ — Save in a dream, — and, hour by hour, the tide Creeps lazily out, and I behold it not, Nor the young moon slow sinking to her rest Behind the hills ; nor yet the dead white trees Glimmering in the starlight : they are ghosts Of what has been, and shall be never more. No, never more I 3" DORA WILCOX Nor shall I hear again The wind that rises at the dead of night Suddenly, and sweeps inward from the sea, Rustling the tussock, nor the wekas' wail Echoing at evening from the tawny hills. In that deserted garden that I lov'd Day after day, my flowers drop unseen ; And as your Summer slips away in tears, Spring wakes our lovely Lady of the Bush, The Kowhai, and she hastes to wrap herself All in a mantle wrought of living gold ; Then come the birds, who are her worshippers, To hover round her ; tuis swift of wing. And bell-birds flashing sudden in the sun, Carolling : Ah 1 what English nightingale, Heard in the stillness of a summer eve. From out the shadow of historic elms. Sings sweeter than our Bell-bird of the Bush? And Spring is here : now the Veronica, Our Koromiko, whitens on the cliff. The honey-sweet Manuka buds, and bursts In bloom, and the divine Convolvulus, Most fair and frail of all our forest flowers, Stars every covert, running riotous. O quiet valley, opening to the East, How far from this thy peacefulness am I ! Ah me, how far 1 and far this stream of Life From thy clear creek fast falling to the sea 1 Yet let me not lament that these things are In that lov'd country I shall see no more; 312 DORA WILCOX All that has been is mine inviolate, Lock'd in the secret book of memory. And though I change, my valley knows no change. And when I look on London's teeming streets, On grim grey houses, and on leaden skies. When speech seems but the babble of a crowd, And music fails me, and my lamp of life Burns low, and Art, my mistress, turns from me, — Then do I pass beyond the Gate of Dreams Into my kingdom, walking unconstrained By ways familiar under Southern skies ; Nor unaccompanied ; the dear dumb things I lov'd once, have their immortality. There too is all fulfilment of desire : In this the valley of my Paradise I find again lost ideals, dreams too fair For lasting ; there I meet once more mine own Whom Death has stolen, or Life estranged from me, — .^nd thither, with the coming of the dark, Thou comest, and the night is full of stars. 313 HUGH McCRAE METAMORPHOSIS Adown, into the pool, she stepp'd As deep as her white thigh ; No lotus-lily ever slept, No swan-drawn cloud on high (Sailing between the coasts of Heaven Upon a painted sea) But held her chiefest of the seven Bright stars of faery. And, where she walked, a rippling wreath Of bubbles swept the stream, Like garlands, flung by Triton 'neath A sculptor's marble dream; And on her shadow water-wings Of golden fish were sewn That flamed and flutter'd thro' the rings Of sun-kissed pumice-stone. The powdery blossoms of a vine Dropped honey in her hair, And chequered leaves spread out, to twine Green awnings, pricked with rare 3M HUGH McCRAE Pale patterns ; while, between her breasts, Grown sleepy at his play, A panting Jack-o'-lanthorn rests In sensual delay. There was no sound (such reverie Possessed that thoughtful nook) . . . The music of a moving tree Which rose beside the brook And drank its water . . . That alone — Like some great sonnet read, Hush'd to a whisper — made a tone Of gold on silver thread- But lo, beyond a row of hives Twelve heart-beats from the place, A rain-black statue cursed the gyves That chain 'd him to his base. Till Jove, thro' pity for such plight, Sent Mercury to give Fire to his soul . . . Empyrean light . . . To make the statue live. Down from his pedestal he sprang Between the young sweet rods . . . His twisted anklets clashed and rang Up to the startled gods ! Thro' musk-rose and thro' marjoram He sped upon the breeze To where the banner 'd lilies swam About her lovely knees. 31S HUGH McCRAE His breath, caught quickly, drew her eyes' Slow petals open till It seemed the air drank sacrifice Of some rich-flowered hill ; And, through the leafage, like a dove, Her frighten 'd heart took wing To Venus, on a cloud above, The Queen of Evening. No prayer was ever answered yet More swift or freely free ; No demi-devil, black as jet, More baulked of villainy . . . For, tho' he hold, he may not win — O see What potent charms! A lifeless statue clasped within A living statue's arms. NEVER AGAIN She looked on me with sadder eyes than Death, And moving thro' the large autumnal trees, Failed like a phantom on the bitter breath Of midnight; and the unillumined seas Roared in the darkness out of centuries. Never on earth, or in the holy sky Beyond the limits of the secret ring God walls about His Kingdom jealously, Has ever been a fairer, sweeter thing Than she : more fair than all imagining , . . 316 HUGH McCRAE Never again ! though I should waste the hours To search the galleries of angels thro', Or, in the exhalation of the flowers, Gaze for her spirit, tremulous as dew, To re-ascend th' unfathomable blue . . . I seelc her in the labyrinthine maze Of stars unravelling their golden chain, And, from my cavern, mark the lightning blaze A pathway for her down the singing rain . . . In vain, in vain : She cannot come again. 317 ARCHIBALD T. STRONG BALLADE OF LONDON TOWN I LOVE the gloves : I love the foils : I love Dunbar : I love Verlaine. I love the scent of Eastern soils, I love the glow of Western grain : I love the wine that pricks the brain, I love the weed that lays the frown : I love the sea, the ever-sane — I love the lights of London Town ! Where thin and slow, Campasp^ coils Athwart the burnt Australian plain, The white flame leaps, the billy boils, And tongues are free and hearts are fain- But o'er the mopoke's dread refrain As sheer the Southern night slips down The City's call swells clear again — I love the lights of London Town ! Our London hath us in her toils. What recks the eye of fairy Spain ? What recks the heart of Asia's spoils? The joys are drear, and dross the gain. 318 ARCHIBALD T. STRONG Give me my dank and dear domain : I love the Courts, the Templar's gown- I love the rush, the roar, the rain, I love the lights of London Town ! L 'envoi With alien loves I strive in vain My utter love of thee to drown. Dear City mine ! for peace or pain, I love the lights of London Town ! BAUDELAIRE In Baudelaire the stern white ray Beats sheer upon the graven way, Metallic glints affront the eye. The shades are ink ; the tense hot sky Holds earth in cruel rapier-play. Nor dappled dusk of frond and spray. Nor veiling grace of cloudlet gray, Can stem the naked noonday high, In Baudelaire. Yet here doth Beauty often stray, And, though mid mists of waning day There flits no shadowy Naiad shy. Vet fierce Delight is ever nigh, And Passion's self hath endless sway In Baudelaire. 319 WILL. LAWSON THE MAILS The tail-rods leap in their bearings — They rise with a rush and ring ; They sink to the sound of laughter, And hurried and short thty sing — We carry the Mails — His Majesty's Mads — Make way for the Mails of the King! We've swung her head for the open bay. And, spun by the prisoned steam, The screws are drumming the miles away Where the bright star-shadows dream. She lifts and sways to the ocean swell — The light-house glares on high, And the fisher-lads in their boats will tell How they saw the Mail go by ; A-thrill from keel to her quiv'ring spars — With the screw-foam boiling white, And black smoke dimming the watching stars As she soared through the soundless night. " Full speed a-head ! " shout the racing rods — " Full speed!" and spray on the rail! 320 WILL. LAWSON We'll heed no order to stop save God's, For we are the Ocean Mail. The bog fish shudder to hear the thud And stamp of our engine-room, As we thunder on, with our decks a-flood, Through the blind, bewildering gloom. A faint, hoarse hail, and a waving light— The whirr of our steering gear — And we are staggering in our flight With a fishing-boat just clear — We carry the wealth of the world I trow, And the power and fame of men — The angry word, and the lover's vow, All held in the turn of a pen. And stars swing out in the skies a-thrill, And the weary stars grow pale ; But night and day we are driving still. For we are the Ocean Mail. The sailing-craft and the clumsy tramps Loom up and are lost astern. And the stars of their bridge and mast-head lamps Are the only stars that burn. To the clash and ring of the whirling steel, And the crash and swing of the seas. We carry the grief that the mothers feel As they sob and pray on their knees. The cares and joys of the throbbing world Are measured in piston-strokes, 21 321 WILL. LAWSON When the bright prow-smother is split and hurled, And the hot wake steams and smokes, To the swinging blows of the heavy throws, And the slide-valves' moaning wail, We'll swing and soar with our flues a-roar. For we are the Ocean Mail. They watch for us at the harbour-mouth, And wait for us on the quay. Looking ever to east and south For our head-light on the sea. And onward, surging, we're racing fast Where the shy niermaiden dwells, And the crested kings of the deep ride past ; (Oh ! the pomp of the rolling swells) Lone lighthouse-men when they see our star Lift clear of the starry maze, Will watch us swagger across the bar And swing to the channelled ways. Yet never a sign or a sound we give — No blast of horn or a hail — For we must race that the world may live, And we are the Ocean Mail. The good screws, labouring under, Laugh loud as they lift and fling The eddying foam behind them, And muttering low they sing — Make way for the Mail — Hts Majesty's Mails — We carry the Mails for the Ktng! 322 WILL. LAWSON THE SHUNTER The engine-bars are splashed and starr'd — They've killed a shunter in the yard. "He never seen how he was struck, And he died sudden," someone said. The driver coughed — " That flamin' truck Come on the slant and struck him dead." The fireman choked and growled " Hard luck !" As he was carried to the shed. The engine whistles short and low, (His blood is on her ' catcher-bars ') We had to let his young wife know His soul had passed beyond the stars, Where he will hear no engines blow, Nor listen for the coming cars. She stared and stared — until he came. On four men's shoulders, up the hill. She sobbed and laughed and called his name. And shivered when he lay so still — She had no cruel words of blame — She bore no one of us ill-will. They've washed the rails and sprinkled sand. (Oh ! hear the mail go roaring on !) And he was just a railway hand — A hidden star that never shone — 323 WILL. LAWSON And no one seems to understand — Her heart is broken ! He is gone ! The engine-bars are cold and hard — They've killed a shunter in the yard. 324 LESLIE H. ALLEN THE DARK ROOM I A NEAR sky hung with sullen cloud, Dull orange o'er the mountain-crest. A slope of shadows in the West, And on the mead a misty shroud. The sombre pine-shade darkeneth ! There broods o'er every solemn tree The silence of expectancy, The very wind hath held its breath. And I have bared my aching head, And lean upon the window-sill. The lamp is low, the room is still, — We wait to hear she is not dead. The nurse is kind, to have her due, Soft-eyed, firm-handed — yes I know- She has not moved this hour or two, Why will she never, never, go? 325 LESLIE H. ALLEN The gray-haired doctor, too, is good, And yet I hate him by the bed, His watch ticks slow as dropping blood. He will not even shake his head. The white cap moves, the gray head shakes, I catch a whispered word of her, I long for silence now it breaks — The coverlet, it will not stir. ni They said it was an opiate A gentle sleep to woo, I should be glad, but how I hate That bottle livid-blue ! It makes the yellow lamplight burn So green and ghasteily, It makes her white, white features turn A hue I dare not see. I said "If but the fever cease I will not weep again." 'Twere better than this marble peace To see her in her pain. So still she lies, so silently She scarcely seems my own ! I never thought that there could be A beauty in a moan. 326 LESLIE H. ALLEN They closed the door so soft, it made The silence like a knife; They stepped as they were fugitives; Oh, how I like a tread that gives Some echo of its life ! Before he left the doctor smiled, But there was more to mark ; His handshake left my fingers burnt, His straight lips twitched — for I have learnt To see well in the dark. The kind nurse turned her back to me. But somewhere I heard sighs, And in the mirror's dim relief I saw a death-white handkerchief Was pressed before her eyes. Oh, wife, do not pretend so long Now we are quite alone ! You only need to whisper, dear ! I breathe the darkness like a fear — Am I the only one? No more the roses on your cheek ! No more the passion of your breath? I dare not think you will not speak, 327 LESLIE H. ALLEN You will not speak ! You are too fair for death ! I lay my head upon your breast. And hear no more the life-blood beat. I dare not think your heart is still, Your heart is still I Oh wake and kiss me sweet ! Ah think ! a little child is born, And it will be like you, they say, I dare not think you will not know, You will not know ! Or ever watch it play. My darling, did your e3'elids stir? Your white lips quiver ? Let me hark ! I dare not think your soul is dead, Your soul is dead ! Why is the room so dark ? 328 ERNEST CURRIE LAUDABUNT ALII There are some that long for a limpid lake by a blue Italian shore, Or a palm-grove out where the rollers break and the coral beaches roar; There are some for the land of the Japanee, and the tea-girls' twinkling feet; And some for the isles of the summer sea, afloat in the dancing heat ; And others are exiles all their days, midst black or white or brown, Who yearn for the clashing of crowded ways, and the lights of London town. But always I would wish to be where the seasons gently fall On the Further Isle of the Outer Sea, the last little isle of all, A fair green land of hill and plain, of rivers and water-springs, Where the sun still follows after the rain, and ever the hours have wings, 329 ERNEST CURRIE With its bosomed valleys where men may find retreat from the rough world's way . . . Where the sea-wind kisses the mountain-wind between the dark and the day. The combers swing from the China Sea to the Cali- fornia Coast, The North Atlantic takes toll and fee of the best of the Old World's boast, And the waves run high with the tearing crash that the Cape-bound steamers fear — But they're not so free as the waves that lash the rocks by Sumner pier, And wheresoever my body be, my heart remembers still The purple shadows upon the sea, low down from Sumner hill. The warm winds blow through Kuringai ; the cool winds from the South Drive little clouds across the sky by Sydney harbour- mouth ; But Sydney Heads feel no such breeze as comes from nor '-west rain And takes the pines and the blue-gum trees by hill and gorge and plain, And whistles down from Porter's Pass, over the fields of wheat, And brings a breath of tussock grass into a Christ- church street. 330 ERNEST CURRIE Or the East wind dropping its sea-born rain, or the South wind wild and loud Comes up and over the waiting plain, with a banner of driving cloud ; And if dark clouds bend to the teeming earth, and the hills are dimmed with rain. There is only to wait for a new day's birth and the hills stand out again. For no less sure than the rising sun, and no less glad to see Is the lifting sky when the rain is done and the wet grass rustles free. Some day we may drop the Farewell Light, and lose the winds of home — But where shall we win to a land so bright, however far we roam? We shall long for the fields of Maoriland, to pass as we used to pass Knee-deep in the seeding tussock, and the long lush English-grass. And we may travel a weary way ere we come to a sight as grand As the lingering flush of the sun's last ray on tlie peaks of Maoriland. 331 GEORGE CHARLES WHITNEY THE RIME OF THE VAGABOND This ancient earth is mine With all its treasure-hoard, The Jewel and the Swine, The Abject and the Lord. I feel the pulse of Spring ; I mark the destinies That whirl the earth, and sing Unheeded prophecies. And while men meet in strife In cities grey and grim, And pay their forfeit life, Or raise their Mammon-hymn, Forward I fare with song. Weaving my pleasant dreams ; The lane of Spring i^ long. And lingers by the streams. Birds in the morning grey. Birds when the white moon shows — Matins at break of day, And vespers at its close, 332 GEORGE C. WHITNEY Through rents the blue sky slips, Rents in the sombre trees ; Clouds, in my thought, are ships Sailing on sleeping seas. You know, who never slept With but the boughs above, Days that have died unwept. Nights that were void of love. You see no dimming skies. No last pale stars and lorn, Nor yet with raptured eyes Behold the birth of morn. But I in greenwood stray. Where trees defeat the light. And see in dreaming day A dryad dazzling-white ; And, as in old world tale And lays of fair Romance, Pass singing down the vale, A wandering free-lance. When Autumn's vintage stains The earth^a generous flood- I feel within my veins The vagrant gipsy blood. 333 GEORGE C. WHITNEY I sing of twilight when, Shrouded In dusk, I dream Of shadows in the glen, Of moonlight on the stream. I stir from out my sleep And wonder without speech To hear the slow tides creep Along the silent beach ; O Wine of Life and Joy Unmixed with bitterness ! O gold without alloy, The gold of La Jeunesse ! A vagabond I roam The earth from shore to shore And ever find for home The old Red Road before. 334 NOTES ON THE POEMS I'. 8. Saul Ferry. " Founded on a note by Tzetzes upon Lycophron, quoted in Keightley's ' Mythology of Greece and Rome.'" — Atithor's Note. P. II. Sir James Martin, bom 1820, Premier and subsequently Chief Justice of New South Wales, died 4th November, 1886. P. 12. The first six stanzas of The Dedication of Busk Ballads and Galloping Rhymes to the author of " Holmby House " (Whyte Melville). P. 14. First printed in The Australasian under the title of "Frustra." P. 15. First appeared in The Colonial Monthly as here printed. A final stanza written by Gordon, but struck out on the advice of a friend, was preserved by the late Mr. J. J. Shillinglaw : — I don't suppose I shall though, for I feel like sleeping sound, That sleep, they say, is doubtful. True ; but yet At least it makes no difference to the dead man underground What the living men remember or forget. Enigmas that perplex us in the world's unequal strife, The future may ignore or may reveal ; Yet some, as weak as water, Ned, to make the best of life, Have been to face the worst as true as steel. P. 20. The first portion of the original poem has been omitted. P. 28. Portion of a long poem printed in four numbers of The Melbourne Revieui, 1883. P. 32. The phrase — "tormented and awry with passion" — also appears in Walter Pater's essay on "Aesthetic Poetry," which, according to Mr. Ferris Greenslet's monograph on Pater, was written in 1868, but first published in Appreciations, 1889. Leaves frotn Australian Forests, in which these sonnets were first printed, was published in Melbourne in 1869. P. 35. Wallaroo — native name of a large species of Kangaroo (macropus robustus). 335 NOTES ON THE POEMS P. 35. Nullah— ?i club used in warfare by Australian aborigines. P. 36. Corroboree — an aboriginal dance of men only, held before a battle and at religious festivals. Lubra — an aboriginal woman. P. 39. Dedicatory verses of Songs from the Mountains. P. 44. Hy-Brasil, or Tir-Nan-Oge, is the fabled Island of the Blessed, the paradise of ancient Ireland. P. 47. From a poem left unfinished at the author's death. First printed in Poems ( 1 886). P. 49. " Tigilau, the son of Tui Viti"; an attempt to para- phrase a legend of Samoa, is remarkable as evidence of direct intercourse between Samoa and Fiji, and as showing by the use of the term " Tui Viti" that a king once reigned over all Fiji. The singularly poetic and rhythmical original will be found in a paper contributed by Mr. Pritchard, F.A.S.I., etc., to the Anthropological Society of London." — Author's Note. P. 52. First printed in The Australasian over the signature " Australis." P. 53. First printed in "Flotsam and Jetsam": reprinted, with alterations, as Proem to " Ranolf and Amohia," Second Edition, 1883. P. 54. "A very free paraphrase of a song in Sir George Grey's collection. ' Ropa ' is a declaration of love by pinching the fingers." — Atithor's Note. Pp. 61,62. Stanzas from "Convict Once" [pp. 336-7, 297-9 respectively of Poetical Works (1902)]. P. 75. " The unexplored parts of Australia are sometimes spoken of by the bushmen of Western Queensland as the home of the Pelican, a bird whose nesting-place, so far as the writer knows, is seldom, if ever, found." — Author's Note. P. 76. Gidya—A Queensland and N.S.W. aboriginal word for a tree of the acacia species (A. homalophylla). Clay-Pan — a shallow depression of the ground on Australian plains, whose thin clayey surface retains water for a considerable time. 336 NOTES ON THE POEMS P. 80. Parson Bird — The Tui, or New Zealand mocking bird. The male has tufts of curled white feathers under the neck, like a clergyman's bands. P. 98. First printed, under the title of "Ave Imperatrix," in The Daily Telegraph (Sydney), on June 22, 1897, the day of Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee. P. no. Tui. See note on /'arjiTW ^jVo^ (p. 80). Kou'hai — the Locust tree (yellow Kowhai), and the Parrot- bill (scarlet Kowhai) — N.Z. flowering trees. Raia — a remarkable New Zealand tree with crimson flowers (Metrosideros robusta), which often starts from a seed dropped in the fork of a tree, grows downward to the earth, and, taking root there, winds itself closely round the supporting tree and eventually destroys it. P. 123. Apple-tree — an indigenous Australian tree, so called from a supposed resemblance to the English apple-tree, but bear- ing no edible fruit. P. 137. Adam Lindsay Gordon is buried in Brighton (Victoria) Cemetery. Above the grave is erected a shattered column crowned with a laurel wreath. P. 154. Apple-tree. See note to p. 123, P. 167. Flinders — Matthew Flinders first came to Australia with Bass and Hunter in 1795, and made several heroic voyages around Australian coasts. P, 173. Manndn — the ancient bardic name of the Isle of Man. Eiri — the ancient name of Ireland. The Isle of Apple-trees — " Emhain Ablach," the Isle of Arran. This was the land of faery to the Northern and Western Gaels. P. 197. Sir John Mackenzie — Bom 1838; for many years Minister for Lands in New Zealand. Died 1891. Holy Hill — Puketapu, a hill sacred to the Maoris on the Otago coast. P. 199. Riders — timber used to hold down the bark roofs of primitive bush houses. 22 337 NOTES ON THE POEMS P. 202. Mulga — an aboriginal name given to various trees of the acacia family (A. aneura). P. 205. Jackeroo — a "new chum," or person recently arrived in Australia, who goes to work on a station to gain experience. P. 207. Push — a gang of larrikins, or city roughs. P. 208. Flax — a native New Zealand plant yielding a strong fibre (Phormium tenax, N. O. Liliaceae). Tussock — a native grass, common in New Zealand (Lomandra longifolia). P. 259. Jackass — the Great Brown Kingfisher (Dacelo gigas), also known by its aboriginal names Kookaburra and Goburra. "Jackass" is an anglicised form of the Y\tr\f^jacasse, a chatterer. The bird has a curious note resembling uncouth laughter. P. 269. Harbour— ^lydney Harbour. P. 274. (VAari — Maori name for a hut or house. P. 275. Kowhai. See note to p. no. Rata. See note to p. 1 10. P. 288. Toi — the toi-toi, a tall N.Z, grass, genus arundo. P. 295. Tussocks. See note to p. 208. P. 297. Whare. See note to p. 274. P. 298. Shake — an earth tremor. P. 308. Maui — In Polynesian mythology, the great hero who attempted to overcome Death, which could only be done by passing through Hine nui-te-po (Great Woman of Night). This Maui attempted to do while she slept. Awakened, however, by the cry of a black fantail, she nipped Maui in two. P. 312. IVeka — Maori name for the wood-hen, so called from its note "Weeka." Bell-bird — the korimako (Anthornis Melanura). Koromiko — Veronica salicifolia. Manuka — the tea-tree (Leptospermum scoparium and L. ericoides). P. 318. Mopoke — an Australian species of owl (ninox boo- book), so called from its note — "mo-p6ke." 338 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. The bibliographies include books of verse only. Adams, Arthur H. Bom at Lawrence, Central Otago, New Zealand, 6th June, 1872. Both paxents colonial born ; father of English, nvther of Irish family. Educated, High School, Christchurch, Wellington College and High School, Dun- edin ; thence with scholarship to Otago University ; graduated B.A. Studied law ; journalist for three years : literar>' secretary [to Mr. J. C. Williamson for two years. Went as war-correspondent to China through Boxer campaign. Visited London, 1902. Returned to Australia, 1905 ; engaged in journalism in New Zealand until September, 1906. Editor Red Page, Sydney Bulletin, till March, 1909, when he was appointed editor Tlu Lone Hand magazine. Maoriland, and other Verses (Sydney, 1899). The Nazarene (London, 1902). London Streets (London, igo6). Adams, Francis William Lauderdale. Bom at Malta, 27th September, 1862 ; son of Professor Leith Adams. Educated at Shrewsbury School, England. In Australia, 1884-89. Died at Margate, England, by his own hand, 4th i. ptember, 1893. Henry^ and other 7"a?« (London, 1884). Poetical Works (BrLsbane and London, 1887). Songs 0/ tlie Army of the Night (Sydney, i888 ; London, 1890, 1893, 1894). The Mass of Christ (London, 1893) Tiberius^ a Drama (London, 1894). Allen, Leslie Holdsworth. Born 2ist June, 1879, Maryborough, Victoria; son of Rev. Wm. .'Mien, Congregational Minister of Petersham. Educated, Newington College ; graduated B.A. Sydney University ; won James King of Irrawang Scholar- ship, 1^4. Graduate of Leipsic University, Ph.D., 1907. Now Lecturer in Latin and German at Sydney University. Andersen, Johannes Carl. Born at Jutland, Denmark, 14th March, 1873; came to New Zealand with his parents, October, 1874. Educated, New Zealand public schools. Now in Government service, 'Jhristchurch. Songs i/HJ««. Paddy Murphy's .4 ««!<«/ (Dunedin, 18S6). A Sheaf from the Sanctum (Dunedin, 1887). Musings in /l/ao>-/7a«rf (Dunedin and Sydney, 1890). Lays and Lyrics (Wellington, 1893). Tom Brackens -47/«?hip, and spent some years in Europe. Now Assistant Librarian, Sydney Public Library. XXI. Poems: Towards the Source (^yAney, 1897). Brereton, John Le-Gay. Born at Sydney, 2nd September, 1871 ; son of the late Dr. J. Le-Gay Brereton. Educated, Sydney Grammar School ; graduated B.A., Sydney University. Now Assistant Librarian at the same University. T/te Sotig 0/ Brotherhood, and other K^rj^j (London, 1896). Perdita (Sydr\ey, 1896). Sweetheart Mine (Sydney, 1897). Oithona (Sydney, 1902). Sea and Sky (Sydney, igo8). Cambridge, Ada (Mrs. Cross). Born at St. Germains, Norfolk, England, 21st November, 1844 ; eldest daughter of Henry Cambridge and Thomasine, daughter of Dr. C. Emer- son. Married Rev. George F. Cross, of Ely, 25th April, 1870. Arrived in Melbourne, 19th August, 1070. Commenced writing serial stories for Australasian, 1875; has since published a number of novels in London and given an account of her life here in Thirty Years in Australia (1901). Returned to England, 1908. ffytnns on tlu Holy Conttnunion (London, 1866). The Manor House and other Poems (London, 1875). Unspoken Thoughts (London, 1S87). Carmichaei., Grace Jennings (Mrs. Mullis). Born in Gippsland, Victoria, about 1897. Spent most of her early life in the bush. Went to Melbourne, entered Children's Hospital Training School and obtained certificate, 1890. Married Mr. Francis Mullis. Died, 9th February, 1904, at Leyton, near London. Poems (London and Melbourne, 1895). Church, Hubert. Bom at Hobart, Tasmania, 13th June, 1857. Father — Hubert D. Church, M.A., an English Barrister, descendant of John Hampden's family. Educated at Guildford, Felstead, and O.tford University. Arrived in New Zealand in 1873, studied law, and, in 1879, entered Government Treasury Department, Wellington, in which city he now resides. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES The West Wind (Sydney, 1902). Reprinted in A Southern Garland (Sydney, 1904). Poems [Wellington, n.d. (1904)). E^ifiont (Melbourne, 1908). Clarke, Marcus Andrew Hislop. Born at Kensington, London, 24th April, 1846 ; son of William Hislop Clarke, Barrister. Educated, Dr. Dyne's School, Highgate. Came (o Victoria, 1864. Employed as a Bank clerk for a few months, then on a station for a year. Journalist in Melbourne, 1867-71. Appointed Secre- tary to Trustees, Melbourne Public Library, 1871 ; Assistant Librarian, 1875. Married, i86g, Marian Dunn, daughter of John Dunn, Comedian. Wrote For the Tertn of His Natural Lz/e for The Australian Journal, 1870, which, partly re-written, was published in London, 1874. Died, 2nH August, 1 83 1. Verse collected and published in Th-' Marcus Clarke Memorial Volume, 1884, and The Austral Edition. 0/ Selected Works of Marcus Clarke, 1890 (Melboiurne). Colborne-Veel, Mary Caroline (Miss). Born at Christchurch, N.Z. ; daughter of Joseph Veel Colborne-Veel, M.A., Oxon., who came to New Zealand in 1857. Educated at home. Contributed frequently to Australian, English and other periodicals. Tlu Fairest of the Angels, and other Verse (London, 1894). Currie, Archibald Ernrst. Born at Christchurch, New Zealand, 1884, of British stock. Educated, Christchurch High School and Canterbury College. Graduated M.A., University of New Zealand. CUTHBERTSON, JAMES LISTER. Born in Scotland, 1851. Educated, Glenalmond, and Merton College, Oxfo;d. Graduated B.A. Arrived in Melbourne, 1874. Senior Classical Master, Geelong Grammar School, 1875-96. Bar-won Ballads (Melbourne, 1893). Daley, Victor James. Born at Navan, Armagh, Ireland, 5th September, 1858 ; father Irbh, mother of Scottish descent. Went to PljTnouth, England, at fourteen, and left there in 1876 for Australia ; landed in Sydney and shortly after went to Adelaide, where he worked as a clerk. Went to Melbourne and joined the staff of The Carlton Advertiser. Tramped to Queanbeyan, N.S.W., and edited a paper there for five months. Came to Sydney. 1881, and wrote for Australian papers, principally The Bulletin, until 1884. Lived in Melbourne for the next fourteen years ; then again in Sydney until 1902, when, for the sake of his health, he made a trip to the South Seas. After a long illness, died, near Sydney, of phthisis, 29th December, 1905. At Dawn and Dusk (Sydney, 1898). Poems [Edinburgh (1908)]. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES Deniehy, Daniel Henry, Born at Sydney, i8th August, 1828, of Irish parentage. Educated, M. Jonson's and W. T. Cape's schools. At fifteen wrote a novelette, Love at First Sight, printed in Colonial Literary Journal, 1844. Went to England with his parents, studied in London and visited the Continent. Returned to Sydney, was articled to Nicol D. Stenhouse and eventually admitted — the first native-born solicitor on the rolls. Married Adelaide Eliz;ibeth Hoalls, 1855. Elected to N.S.W. Parliament, 1856-9. Edited Southern Crow (Sydney) 1859-60, Victorian (Melbourne) 1862-4. Died at Bathurst, N.S.W.. 22nd October, 1865. Some of his writings were collected and published in The Li/e and Speeches of Daniel Henry Deniehy, by Miss E. A. Martin, Mel- bourne (1884). Domett, Alfred. Born at Camberwell, England, 20th May, i8ii. Matriculated at Cam- bridge, 1829, called to the Bar, i84r, left England, 1842, for New Zealand. Was a friend of Robert Browning and inspired the latter's poem. Waring, which first appeared in Bells and Pome^ratiates, No. III., 1842. Became Colonial Secretary for Province of Munster, N.Z., 1848, and Premier of the Colony in 1862. Wrote Ranolf and Amohia in New Zealand- Returned to England, 1871. Died at Kensington, November, 1887. Poems (London, 1833). Venice, a Poem (London, 1839). Ranolf and Amohia, A South Sea Day Dream. (London, 1872, second edition, 2 vols., 1883). Flotsam and Jetsatn (London, 1B77). Dyson, Edward George. Born near Ballarat, Victoria, 5th March, 1865, of English parentage. Educated, public schools. Worked for some time as a miner m Victoria and Tasmania. Has published several volumes of prose fiction. Now a Journalist in Melbourne. Rhymes from the Mines, and other Lines (Sydney, 1896). Evans, George Essex. Born in London, i8th June, tS63; son of John Evans, Q.C., M.P., of Welsh descent. Educated at Haverford West (Wales) and St. Heliers (Channel Isl.Tnds). Came to Queensland, 1881. Farming for some time. Entered Queensland Government service, 1888, and is now District Regis- trar at Toowoomba. Joint Editor of The Antipodean, 1893, 1894, and 1897. Won prize for best Ode on the Inauguration of the Commonwealth. The Repentance of Magdalene Despar, and otiur Poems (London, 1891). Won by a Skirt (Brisbane, n.d.). Loraine, and other K«r5« (Melbourne, 1898). The Sword of Pain (Toowoomba, 1905). The Secret Key, and otIur Verses (Sydney, 1906). Farrell, John. Bom at Buenos Aires (S. America), iSth December, i8sr, of Irish parents. Came to Atistralia, 1852 ; spent his childhood and youth in the Victorian 343 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES bush. Worked as a farmer, afterwards as a brewer, in Victoria and New South Wales. Journalist from 1887, principally on the staflF of The Daily Tele^aph, Sydney (of which paper he was for a time Editor), till bis death in Sydney, 9th January, 1904. EpJietnera: An I Had 0/ A Ibury {A\h\iry , 1878). Two Stories (Melbourne, 1882). How He Died, and otiier Poems (Sydney, 1887). Australia to England i^yA^i^y, 1897). My Sundowner, and other Poems (Sydney, 1904). How He Died, and other Poems (Sydney, 1905). FooTT, Mary Hannay (Mrs.). Born at Glasgow, 26th September, 1846 ; daughter of James Black, mother descended from literary family of Hannay. Arrived in Australia, 1853. Educated in Melbourne. Married Thomas Wade Foott, 1874, and went to live at Dundoo, Queensland. After death of her husband, 1884, was Literary Editor of The Queensland^ for ten years. Now a teacher at Rocklea, Queensland. Where the Pelican Builds, and other Poems (Brisbane, 1885). Morna Lee, a/id other Poems (London, 1890). Gay, William. Born at Bridge of Weir, Renfrewshire, Scotland, 1865. Arrived in New Zealand, April, 1885. Went to Melbourne, t8B8. Appointed Assistant Master, Scotch College, which position he held until his health broke down. Travelled about the colony until 1892, when he became much worse and was removed to Bendigo. Bedridden for the last two years of his life. Died at Bendigo, 22nd December, 1897. Sonnets, and other Verses (Melbourne, 1894). Sonnets (Bendigo, 1896). Christ on Olympus, and other Poems (Bendigo, 1896). GiLMORE, Mary J. (Mrs.). Born near Goulburn, New South Wales, i6th August, 1865 ; father— Donal Cameron —a Highlander, mother a native of the Hawkesbury dis- trict, N.S.W. Educated at public schools ; became a school teacher, 1881. Joined the New Australia movement and went to Paraguay, 1895. Married William Gilmore, 1897. Returned to Australia, 1902. Now resident in Casterton (Victoria). Gordon, Adam Lindsay Born at Fayal, Azores Islands, 1833 ; son of Captain Adam Durnford Gordon, of Worcester (England), descendant of an old Scottish family. Went to England, 1840 ; entered Cheltenham College (about 1844), where his father was for some time Professor of Hindustani. Was at Woolwich Military Academy (1850) and afterwards Merton College, O.xford (1852). Left Endand in the ship "Julia," 7th August, 1853. Arrived at Adel.iide, South Australia, November, 1853, and became a mounted trooper, after- wards a horse-breaker. Married Maggie Park, October, 1862. and lived at Mt. Gambler, South Australia, for two years. Elected to Sou'h Aus- tralian Parliament, 1865; resigned, November, 1866. Moved to Ballarat (Victoria), November, 1867, where he purchased a livery stable. Became 344 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES celebrated as a steeplechase rider. Removed to Melbourne in 1869 and lived in Brighton. His only child, Annie Lindsay, died in 1868; his business failed ; he had several falls while racing ; his claim to the B.irony of Esslemont (Scotland) was defeated. Id despair, shot himself, 24th June, 1870, near Brighton Beach. The Feud (Mt. Gambier, 1864). Sea Spray and Smoke Drift (Melbourne, 1867 and 1876). Ashtaroth : a Dramatic Lyric (Melbourne, 1867 and 1877). Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes (Melbourne, 23rd June, 1870, and 1876). /"(j^wj (Melbourne, 1877, 1880, 1882, 18S4, 1888). Racine; Rhymes, and oth^r I'erses (New York, 1901). Some uncollected verses printed in Reminiscences and Unpublished Poems of A. L. Gordon (Sydney, n.d.). Harpur, Charle-s. Born at Windsor, New South Wales, 1817 ; son ot a schoolmaster. Followed various occupations, principally farming. Gold Commissioner at Araluen for eight years. Rlarried Mary Doyle, 1850. Died loth June, i868, at Eurobodalla, N.S.W. Thoughts : A Series of Sonnets (Sydney, 1845). The Bushrangers, and other Poems (Sydney, 1853). A Poet's Home (Sydney, 1862). The Tower of the Dream (Sydney, 1865). Poems (Melbourne, 1883). Hebblethwaite, James. Born at Preston, Lancashire, England, 22nd September, 1857, of English parents. Entered, with scholarship, St. John's College, Battersea, London, 1877. Remained there two years. Was occupied in teaching during the next twelve years, also lectured on English literature at the Harris Insti- tute, Preston. Came to Tasmania in 1890 and engaged in teaching. Took orders in the Anglican Church, 1903. Is now Rector of George-Town, Tasmania. Verses (Hobart, 1896). A Rose of Regret (Sydney, 1900). Reprinted in A Southern Garland (1904)- Heney, Thomas William. Born at Sydney, November, 1862 ; eldest son o Thomas W. Heney, Editor and part proprietor of Monaro Mercury. Educated at Cooma. Entered Sydney Morning Herald office, 1878 ; Daily Telegraph, Sydney, 1884; Western (;r«2/V>-, Wilcannia, 1886; EcJio, 1889; S. M. Herald, 1891, and is now Editor of the last-named Journal. Has published two novels. Fortunate Days (Sydney, 1886). In Middle Harbour, and other Ftfrj« (London, 1890). HOLDSWORTH, PHILIP JOSEPH. Born at Balmain, near Sydney, 12th January, 1849 ; father English, mother Irish. Editor Sydney A thenaeum. Illustrated Sydney News. For many years Cashier in the Treasury, Sydney ; afterwards Secretary, Forest Department, till 1892. Died 19th January, 1902. Station Hunting on the Warrego, and other Poems (Sydney, 1885). 345 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES Hyland, Inez K. (Miss). Born at Portland (Victoria). 1863 ; daughter of T. F. Hyland and grand- daughter of Dr. Penfold, Magill (S.A.). Educated at Miss Kentish's School, Castlemaine, and by Madame Marvel. Died at Magill (S.A.), 1892. In Sunshine and in Sliadow (Melbourne, 1893). Jephcott, Sydney Wheeler. Born at Colac-Colac (Victoria), 30th November, 1864, parents having lately immigrated from Warwickshire (England). Grew up in the bush and educated himself. Engaged in farming on the Upper Murray (Victoria). The Secrets o/the South (London, 1892). Kelly, John Liddell. Born near Airdrie, Scotland, 19th February, 1850. Left school at eleven, self-educated afterwards. Married, 1870. Emigrated to New Zealand, 1800. Has since worked as a Journalist. Sub-editor Aucklatid Star-; Editor Auckland Observer; Assistant Editor Lyttelton Titnes ; Editor AViy Zealand Times, Wellington. Visited Great Britain 1907, returned to N.Z. and then went to Hawai. Tahiti, the Land of Love and Beauty (Auckland, 1885). Tarawera, or the Curse of Tuhoto {A.\xc\i\z.nd, 1887). Zealandia's Jubilee (Auckland, 1890). Heather and Fern (Wellington, 1902). Kendall, Henry Clarence. Born at Kermington, near Ulladulla, N.S.W., i8th April, 1841 ; son of Basil Kendall (born in New Zealand) and Melinda M'Nally (of Irish descent). Brought up and educated in the bush of N.S.W. coast districts. At the age of thirteen went with his uncle as a cabin boy, and spent two years cruising in the Pacific. Returned to Sydney and became a shop assistant for a time ; then clerk of J. Lionel Michael, Solicitor in Sydney and Grafton. Obtained, through Henry Halloraii, an appointment in the Government Lands Office, Sydney, 1863. Married Charlotte, daughter of Dr. Rutter, of Sydney, i863 ; went to Melbourne, 1869, and engaged in journalistic work. After the death of his daughter Araluen, he returned to Sydney, 1871 ; went to Camden Haven in charge of Messrs. Fagan Bros.' timber-yards, and spent seven years there. Appointed by Sir Henry Parkes .Superintendent of State Forests, 1881, and went to Hve at Cundletown (N.S.W. ). Died in Sydney, 1st August, 1882. At Long Bay: Eicroclydon (.Sydney, n.d.). The Glen o/the White Man s Grave (Sydney, n.d.). Poems and Songs (.Sydney, 1862). The Bronze Trumfiet : A Satirical Poem (Sydney, 1S66). Leaves fro>n Aitstralian Forests {^A.^Vbowcn^, 1869, 1870). Cantata /or the Opening 0/ the Sydney International Exhibition (Sydney, 1879). Songs/ro»! the Mountains (Sydney, 1880). Orara : A Tale (illustrated) (Melbourne, 1881). Poems (Melbourne, 1886, 1890, 1903). BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES Lawson, Henry Hertzberg. Born near Grenfell, N.S.W., 17th June, 1867; son ol Peter Hertzberg Larsen, a Norwegian, and Louisa Albury, native of N.S.W. Worked with his father, who was a farmer and contractor ; came to Sydney at seventeen and learned the trade of a coach-painter ; commenced writing verse, 1887 ; was on the staff of the Queensland Boomerang, 1890 ; travelled in N.S.W., West Australia and New Zealand, engaged in various occupa- tions ; went to London, 1900. Returned to Sydney, 1903. Has published several volumes of prose sketches and stories. Short Stories in Prose and Verse (Sydney, 1894). In the Days zuhen the iVorld was iVide, and other Verses (Sydney, 1896). Verses Popular and Humorous (Sydney, 1900). Children o/the Bush (London, 1902, prose and verse). When I was King, and other Verses (Sydney, 1905). Lawson, William. Born 2nd September, 1876, at Newcastle-on-Tyne, England, ot English parents. Arrived in New Zealand, 1880. Removed to Queensland, 1884. Educated Queensland State Schools and Brisbane Grammar School. Returned to New Zealand in 1S92 and has been engaged there for some time as an insurance Clerk. Now living in Wellington, N.Z. The Red IVest Road, and other Verses ; by "Quilp N." (Wellington, 1903)- Between the Lights, and other Verses (Wellington, 1906). Stoking, and other Verses (Wellington, 1908). LouGHRAN, Edward Booth. Born at Glasgow, 13th December, 1850, of Irish parents. Educated in North of Ireland. Arrived in Australia, January, 1866. Public school teacher in Queensland for several years. Became a Journalist, and was employed on Rockhampton Bulletin, Brisbane Courier, and Melbourne Argus. Joined Victorian Government Hansard, in 1879, and in 1893 was appointed Chief of Staff. 'Neath Austral Skies (Melbourne, 1894). The Ivory Gate (Melbourne, 1907). McCrae George (jOrdon. Bom Anchorfield, Leith, near Edinburgh, 29th May, 1832 ; son of the late Andrew Morison McCrae (Writer to the Signet, Edinburgh, and afterwards Magistrate and Warden of Goldfields, Victori.-)). Arrived in Melbourne, March, 1S41. Educated privately. Joined Audit Office, 1854, and served thirty-nine years in Victorian Public Service, retiring as Deputy Registrar- General. Visited Europe in 1864, Mauritius, Bourbon and Seychelles in 1887 ; Seychelles again m 1894. Has contributed a great deal of verse to Australian papers. Now living at Hawthorne, Victoria. Two Old Men's Tales 0/ Lo7)e and fJ-'nr (1865). A/rt>«(5