He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego 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; 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.

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 mountain peak to guide; All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside 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.

. . . . .

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, — 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, 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 backyard 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. 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.



Middleton's Rouseabout

Tall and freckled and sandy, Face of a country lout; This was the picture of Andy, Middleton's Rouseabout.

Type of a coming nation, In the land of cattle and sheep, Worked on Middleton's station, "Pound a week and his keep."

On Middleton's wide dominions Plied the stockwhip and shears; Hadn't any opinions, Hadn't any "idears".

Swiftly the years went over, Liquor and drought prevailed; Middleton went as a drover, After his station had failed.

Type of a careless nation, Men who are soon played out, Middleton was: — and his station Was bought by the Rouseabout.

Flourishing beard and sandy, Tall and robust and stout; This is the picture of Andy, Middleton's Rouseabout.

Now on his own dominions Works with his overseers; Hasn't any opinions, Hasn't any "idears".



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 mulga and sand, Reef and palm — but my fancies turn Ever away from land; 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.

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 big 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; For 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!

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 — 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. 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 from home; But he rides slowly home again, Whose heart has learnt to love and roam.

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 sky, 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 dull the pain Who rides from one that loves him best; And he rides slowly back again, Whose restless heart must rove for rest.



Arthur Albert Dawson 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! Aeons 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; 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.



To Poesy

These vessels of verse, O Great Goddess, are filled with invisible tears, With the sobs and sweat of my spirit and her desolate brooding for years; See, I lay them — not on thine altar, for they are unpolished and plain, Not rounded enough by the potter, too much burnt in the furnace of pain; But here in the dust, in the shadow, with a sudden wild leap of the heart I kneel to tenderly kiss them, then in silence arise to depart.

I linger awhile at the portal with the light of the crimsoning sun On my wreathless brow bearing the badges of battles I've fought in not won. At the sound of the trumpet I've ever been found in thy thin fighting line, And the weapons I've secretly sharpened have flashed in defence of thy shrine. I've recked not of failure and losses, nor shrunk from the soilure of strife For thy magical glamour was on me and art is the moonlight of life.

I move from the threshold, Great Goddess, with steps meditative and slow; Night steals like a dream to the landscape and slips like a pall o'er its glow. I carry no lamp in my bosom and dwindling in gloom is the track, No token of man's recognition to prompt me to ever turn back. I strike eastward to meet the great day-dawn with the soul of my soul by my side, My goal though unknown is assured me, and the planet of Love is my guide.



Jennings Carmichael.



An Old Bush Road

Dear old road, wheel-worn and broken, Winding thro' the forest green, Barred with shadow and with sunshine, Misty vistas drawn between. Grim, scarred bluegums ranged austerely, Lifting blackened columns each To the large, fair fields of azure, Stretching ever out of reach.

See the hardy bracken growing Round the fallen limbs of trees; And the sharp reeds from the marshes, Washed across the flooded leas; And the olive rushes, leaning All their pointed spears to cast Slender shadows on the roadway, While the faint, slow wind creeps past.

Ancient ruts grown round with grasses, Soft old hollows filled with rain; Rough, gnarled roots all twisting queerly, Dark with many a weather-stain. Lichens moist upon the fences, Twiners close against the logs; Yellow fungus in the thickets, Vivid mosses in the bogs.

Dear old road, wheel-worn and broken, What delights in thee I find! Subtle charm and tender fancy, Like a fragrance in the mind. Thy old ways have set me dreaming, And out-lived illusions rise, And the soft leaves of the landscape Open on my thoughtful eyes.

See the clump of wattles, standing Dead and sapless on the rise; When their boughs were full of beauty, Even to uncaring eyes, I was ever first to rifle The soft branches of their store. O the golden wealth of blossom I shall gather there no more!

Now we reach the dun morasses, Where the red moss used to grow, Ruby-bright upon the water, Floating on the weeds below. Once the swan and wild-fowl glided By those sedges, green and tall; Here the booming bitterns nested; Here we heard the curlews call.

Climb this hill and we have rambled To the last turn of the way; Here is where the bell-birds tinkled Fairy chimes for me all day. These were bells that never wearied, Swung by ringers on the wing; List! the elfin strains are waking, Memory sets the bells a-ring!

Dear old road, no wonder, surely, That I love thee like a friend! And I grieve to think how surely All thy loveliness will end. For thy simple charm is passing, And the turmoil of the street Soon will mar thy sylvan silence With the tramp of careless feet.

And for this I look more fondly On the sunny landscape, seen From the road, wheel-worn and broken, Winding thro' the forest green, Something still remains of Nature, Thoughts of other days to bring: — For the staunch old trees are standing, And I hear the wild birds sing!



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. 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! 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! Must I be watching, against my will, For your banished face in the opening door?

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.



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;

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 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 fairyland, 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.

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, 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.



William Gay.



Primroses

They shine upon my table there, A constellation mimic sweet, No stars in Heaven could shine more fair, Nor Earth has beauty 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.

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.



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, And 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! They say that on thy summit, high in light, Sweet rest awaits the climber, travel-spent; 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.



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; And the corn springs high in the cracks and corners Of the forge, and down where the timber lies; 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.

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 gully 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, 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.



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.



David MacDonald Ross.



Love's Treasure House

I went to Love's old treasure house last night, Alone, when all the world was still — asleep, And saw the miser Memory, grown gray With years of jealous counting of his gems, There seated. Keen was his eye, his 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, And this the moonlight that she wandered in, With here a rose, enamelled by her breath, That bloomed in glory 'tween 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, see curiously wrought, Are purest of Love's 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 I staggered, blinded by the light of things More luminous than stars, and questioned thus — "What are these treasures, miser Memory?" And slowly bending his gray head, he spoke: "These are the multitudes of kisses sweet Love gave so gladly, and I treasure here."



The Sea to the Shell

The sea, my mother, is singing to me, She is singing the old refrain, Of passion, of love, and of mystery, And her world-old song of pain; Of the mirk midnight and the dazzling day, That trail their robes o'er the wet sea-way.

The sea, my mother, is singing to me With the white foam caught in her hair, With the seaweed swinging its long arms free, To grapple the blown sea air: The sea, my mother, with billowy swell, Is telling her tale to the wave-washed shell.

The sea, my mother, is singing to me, With the starry gleam in her wave, A dirge of the dead, of the sad, sad sea, A requiem song of the brave; Tenderly, sadly, the surges tell Their tale of death to the wave-washed shell.

The sea, my mother, confides to me, As she turns to the soft, round moon, The secrets that lie where the spirits be, That hide from the garish noon: The sea, my mother, who loves me well, Is telling their woe to the wave-washed shell.

O mother o' mine, with the foam-flecked hair, O mother, I love and know The heart that is sad and the soul that is bare To your daughter of ebb and flow; And I hold your whispers of Heaven and Hell In the loving heart of a wave-washed shell.



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, 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 the 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 moanings 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.



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! The sadness of despair!

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! 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.



Bernard O'Dowd.



Love's Substitute

This love, that dares not warm before its flame Our yearning hands, or from its tempting tree Yield fruit we may consume, or let us claim In Hymen's scroll of happy heraldry The twining glyphs of perfect you and me — May kindle social fires whence curls no blame, Find gardens where no fruits forbidden be, And mottoes weave, unsullied by a shame.

For, love, unmothered Childhood wanly waits For such as you to cherish it to Youth: Raw social soils untilled need Love's own verve That Peace a-flower may oust their weedy hates: And where Distress would faint from wolfish sleuth The perfect lovers' symbol is "We serve!"



Our Duty

Yet what were Love if man remains unfree, And woman's sunshine sordid merchandise: If children's Hope is blasted ere they see Its shoots of youth from out the branchlets rise: If thought is chained, and gagged is Speech, and Lies Enthroned as Law befoul posterity, And haggard Sin's ubiquitous disguise Insults the face of God where'er men be?

Ay, what were Love, my love, did we not love Our stricken brothers so, as to resign For Its own sake, the foison of Its dower: That, so, we two may help them mount above These layers of charnel air in which they pine, To seek with us the Presence and the Power?



Edwin James Brady.



The Wardens of the Seas

Like star points in the ether to guide a homing soul Towards God's Eternal Haven; above the wash and roll, Across and o'er the oceans, on all the coasts they stand Tall seneschals of commerce, High Wardens of the Strand — The white lights slowly turning Their kind eyes far and wide, The red and green lights burning Along the waterside.

When Night with breath of aloes, magnolia, spice, and balm Creeps down the darkened jungles and mantles reef and palm, By velvet waters making soft music as they surge The shore lights of dark Asia will one by one emerge — Oh, Ras Marshig by Aden Shows dull on hazy nights; And Bombay Channel's laid in Its "In" and "Outer" lights.

When Night, in rain-wet garments comes sobbing cold and grey Across the German Ocean and South from Stornoway, Thro' snarling darkness slowly, some fixed and some a-turn, The bright shore-lights of Europe like welcome tapers burn, — From fierce Fruholmen streaming O'er Northern ice and snow, To Cape St. Vincent gleaming, — These lamps of danger glow.

The dark Etruscan tending his watchfires by the shore, On sacred altars burning, the world shall know no more; His temple's column standing against the ancient stars Is gone; Now bright catoptrics flash out electric bars, — Slow swung his stately Argos Unto the Tiber's mouth; But now the Tuscan cargoes Screw-driven, stagger South.

The lantern of Genoa guides home no Eastern fleets As when the boy Columbus played in its narrow streets: No more the Keltic 'dolmens' their fitful warnings throw Across the lone Atlantic, so long, so long ago — No more the beaked prows dashing Shall dare a shoreward foam; No more will great oars threshing Sweep Dorian galleys home.

No more the Vikings roaring their sagas wild and weird Proclaim that Rome has fallen; no more a consul feared Shall quench the Roman pharos lest Northern pirates free Be pointed to their plunder on coasts of Italy — Nor shall unwilling lovers, From Lethean pleasures torn, Fare nor'ward with those rovers, To frozen lands forlorn.

The bale-fires and the watch-fires, the wrecker's foul false lure No more shall vex the shipmen; and on their course secure Past Pharos in the starlight the tow'ring hulls of Trade Race in and out from Suez in iron cavalcade, — So rode one sunset olden Across the dark'ning sea, With banners silk and golden, The Barge of Antony!

They loom along the foreshores; they gleam across the Straits; They guide the feet of Commerce unto the harbor gates. In nights of storm and thunder, thro' fog and sleet and rain, Like stars on angels' foreheads, they give man heart again, — Oh, hear the high waves smashing On Patagonia's shore! Oh, hear the black waves threshing Their weight on Skerryvore!

He searches night's grim chances upon his bridge alone And seeks the distant glimmer of hopeful Eddystone: And thro' a thick fog creeping, with chart and book and lead, The homeward skipper follows their green and white and red — By day his lighthouse wardens In sunlit quiet stand, But in the night the burdens Are theirs of Sea and Land.

They fill that night with Knowledge. A thousand ships go by, A thousand captains bless them, so bright and proud and high: The world's dark capes they glamour; or low on sand banks dread, They, crouching, mark a pathway between the Quick and Dead — Like star points in the ether They bring the seamen ease, These Lords of Wind and Weather These Wardens of the Seas!



Will. H. Ogilvie.



Queensland Opal

Opal, little opal, with the red fire glancing, Set my blood a-spinning, set my pulse a-stir, Strike the harp of memory, set my dull heart dancing Southward to the Sunny Land and the love of Her!

Opal, shining opal, let them call you luckless jewel, Let them curse or let them covet, you are still my heart's desire, You that robbed the sun and moon and green earth for fuel To gather to your milky breast and fill your veins with fire!

Green of fluttering gum-leaves above dim water-courses, Red of rolling dust-clouds, blue of summer skies, Flash of flints afire beneath the hoofs of racing horses, Sunlight and moonlight and light of lovers' eyes

Pink clasping hands amid a Southern summer gloaming, Green of August grasses, white of dew-sprung pearls, Grey of winging wild geese into the Sunset homing, Twined with all the kisses of a Queen of Queensland girls!



Wind o' the Autumn

I love you, wind o' the Autumn, that came from I know not where, To lead me out of the toiling world to a ballroom fresh and fair, Where the poplars tall and golden and the beeches rosy and red Are setting to woodland partners and dancing the stars to bed!

Oh! say, wild wind o' the Autumn, may I dance this dance with you Decked out in your gown of moonmist and jewelled with drops of dew? For I know no waiting lover with arms that so softly twine, And I know no dancing partner whose step is so made for mine!



Daffodils

Ho! You there, selling daffodils along the windy street, Poor drooping, dusty daffodils — but oh! so Summer sweet! Green stems that stab with loveliness, rich petal-cups to hold The wine of Spring to lips that cling like bees about their gold!

What price to you for daffodils? I'll give what price you please, For light and love and memory lie leaf by leaf with these! And if I bought all Sydney Town I could not hope to buy The wealth you bring of everything that goes with open sky!

My money for your daffodils: why do you thank me so? If I have paid a reckless price, take up my gift and go, And from the golden garden beds where gold the sunbeams shine Bring in more flowers to light the hours for lover-hearts like mine!



A Queen of Yore

Slowly she hobbles past the town, grown old at heart and gray; With misty eyes she stumbles down along the well-known way; She sees her maiden march unrolled by billabong and bend, And every gum's a comrade old and every oak's a friend; But gone the smiling faces that welcomed her of yore — They crowd her tented places and hold her hand no more. And she, the friend they once could trust to serve their eager wish, Shall show no more the golden dust that hides in many a dish; And through the dismal mullock-heaps she threads her mournful way Where here and there some gray-beard keeps his windlass-watch to-day; Half-flood no more she looses her reins as once of old To wash the busy sluices and whisper through the gold. She sees no wild-eyed steers above stand spear-horned on the brink; The brumby mobs she used to love come down no more to drink; Where green the grasses used to twine above them, shoulder-deep, Through the red dust — a long, slow line — crawl in the starving sheep; She sees no crossing cattle that Western drovers bring, No swimming steeds that battle to block them when they ring.

She sees no barricaded roofs, no loop-holed station wall, No foaming steed with flying hoofs to bring the word "Ben Hall!" She sees no reckless robbers stoop behind their ambush stone, No coach-and-four, no escort troop; — but, very lorn and lone, Watches the sunsets redden along the mountain side Where round the spurs of Weddin the wraiths of Weddin ride.

Tho' fettered with her earthen bars and chained with bridge and weir She goes her own way with the stars; she knows the course to steer! And when her thousand rocky rills foam, angry, to her feet, Rain-heavy from the Cowra hills she takes her vengeance sweet, And leaps with roar of thunder, and buries bridge and ford, That all the world may wonder when the Lachlan bares her sword!

Gray River! let me take your hand for all your memories old — Your cattle-kings, your outlaw-band, your wealth of virgin gold; For once you held, and hold it now, the sceptre of a queen, And still upon your furrowed brow the royal wreaths are green; Hold wide your arms, the waters! Lay bare your silver breast To nurse the sons and daughters that spread your empire west!



Drought

My road is fenced with the bleached, white bones And strewn with the blind, white sand, Beside me a suffering, dumb world moans On the breast of a lonely land.

On the rim of the world the lightnings play, The heat-waves quiver and dance, And the breath of the wind is a sword to slay And the sunbeams each a lance.

I have withered the grass where my hot hoofs tread, I have whitened the sapless trees, I have driven the faint-heart rains ahead To hide in their soft green seas.

I have bound the plains with an iron band, I have stricken the slow streams dumb! To the charge of my vanguards who shall stand? Who stay when my cohorts come?

The dust-storms follow and wrap me round; The hot winds ride as a guard; Before me the fret of the swamps is bound And the way of the wild-fowl barred.

I drop the whips on the loose-flanked steers; I burn their necks with the bow; And the green-hide rips and the iron sears Where the staggering, lean beasts go.

I lure the swagman out of the road To the gleam of a phantom lake; I have laid him down, I have taken his load, And he sleeps till the dead men wake.

My hurrying hoofs in the night go by, And the great flocks bleat their fear And follow the curve of the creeks burnt dry And the plains scorched brown and sere.

The worn men start from their sleepless rest With faces haggard and drawn; They cursed the red Sun into the west And they curse him out of the dawn.

They have carried their outposts far, far out, But — blade of my sword for a sign! — I am the Master, the dread King Drought, And the great West Land is mine!



The Shadow on the Blind

Last night I walked among the lamps that gleamed, And saw a shadow on a window blind, A moving shadow; and the picture seemed To call some scene to mind.

I looked again; a dark form to and fro Swayed softly as to music full of rest, Bent low, bent lower: — Still I did not know. And then, at last, I guessed.

And through the night came all old memories flocking, White memories like the snowflakes round me whirled. "All's well!" I said; "The mothers still sit rocking The cradles of the world!"



Roderic Quinn.



The House of the Commonwealth

We sent a word across the seas that said, "The house is finished and the doors are wide, Come, enter in. A stately house it is, with tables spread, Where men in liberty and love abide With hearts akin.

"Behold, how high our hands have lifted it! The soil it stands upon is pure and sweet As are our skies. Our title deeds in holy sweat are writ, Not red accusing blood — and 'neath our feet No foeman lies."

And England, Mother England, leans her face Upon her hand and feels her blood burn young At what she sees: The image here of that fair strength and grace That made her feared and loved and sought and sung Through centuries.

What chorus shall we lift, what song of joy, What boom of seaward cannon, roll of drums? The majesty of nationhood demands A burst of royal sounds, as when a victor comes From peril of a thousand foes; An empire's honour saved from death Brought home again; an added rose Of victory upon its wreath. In this wise men have greeted kings, In name or fame, But such acclaim Were vain and emptiest of things If love were silent, drawn apart, And mute the People's mighty heart.

The love that ivy-like an ancient land doth cherish, It grows not in a day, nor in a year doth perish. But, little leaf by leaf, It creeps along the walls and wreathes the ramparts hoary. The sun that gives it strength — it is a nation's glory; The dew, a people's grief.

The love that ivy-like around a home-land lingers, With soft embrace of breast and green, caressive fingers, We are too young to know. Not ours the glory-dome, the monuments and arches At thought of which takes arms the blood, and proudly marches Exultant o'er the foe.

Green lands undesolated For no avengement cry; No feud of race unsated Leaps out again to triumph, Leaps out again to triumph, or to die!

Attendant here to-day in heart and mind Must be all lovers of mankind, Attendant, too, the souls sublime — The Prophet-souls of every clime, Who, living, in a tyrant's time, Yet thought and wrought and sought to break The chains about mankind and make A man where men had made a slave: Who all intent to lift and save Beheld the flag of Freedom wave And scorned the prison or the grave; For whom the darkness failed to mar The vision of a world afar, The shining of the Morning Star. Attendant here, then, they must be, And gathering close with eyes elate Behold the vision of a State Where men are equal, just, and free: A State that hath no stain upon her, No taint to hurt her maiden honour; A Home where love and kindness centre; A People's House where all may enter. And, being entered, meet no dearth Of welcome round a common hearth; A People's House not built of stone, Nor wrought by hand and brain alone, But formed and founded on the heart; A People's House, A People's Home, En-isled in foam and far apart; A People's House, where all may roam The many rooms and be at ease; A People's House, with tower and dome; And over all a People's Flag — A Flag upon the breeze.



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 seems 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.

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! 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.

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 crowned in the market-place With Love and Beauty and fair Romance.



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 whare again; But the good new days are better — I would not be heard to complain; 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 in 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; 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 sidings, 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.



Christopher John 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 pain 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!...



Poppies

Where the poppy-banners flow in and out amongst the corn, spotless morn ever saw us come and go

hand in hand, as girl and boy warming fast to youth and maid, half afraid at the hint of passionate joy

still in Summer's rose unshown: yet we heard nor knew a fear; strong and clear summer's eager clarion blown

from the sunrise to the set: now our feet are far away, night and day, do the old-known spots forget?

Sweet, I wonder if those hours breathe of us now parted thence, if a sense of our love-birth thrill their flowers.

Poppies flush all tremulous — has our love grown into them, root and stem; are the red blooms red with us?

Summer's standards are outroll'd, other lovers wander slow; I would know if the morn is that of old.

Here our days bloom fuller yet, happiness is all our task; still I ask — do the vanish'd days forget?



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!

The magic of the sea's own change In depth and height, From where the eternal order'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?



Home

"Where shall we dwell?" say you. Wandering winds reply: "In a temple with roof of blue — Under the splendid sky."

Never a nobler home We'll find though an age we try Than is arched by the azure dome Of the all-enfolding sky.

Here we are wed, and here We live under God's own eye. "Where shall we dwell," my dear? Under the splendid sky.



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.

. . . . .

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 shore, And a hope that still with as good a will you may fight as you fought of yore.



Arthur H. Adams.



Bayswater, 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; 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 — The city ebbing from my feet!

And lo! 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!

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!

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 faery girl — Her veil of wonder will unfurl, And crescent gaunt and looming flat Are sudden mysteries of pearl!

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!

In 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! 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!

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!



Bond Street

Its glittering emptiness it brings — This little lane of useless things. Here peering envy arm in arm With ennui takes her saunterings.

Here fretful boredom, to appease The nagging of her long disease, Comes day by day to dabble in This foamy sea of fripperies.

The languid women driven through Their wearied lives, and in their view, Patient about the bakers' shops, The languid children, two and two!

The champing horses standing still, Whose veins with life's impatience thrill; And — dead beside the carriage door — The footman, masked and immobile!

And bloated pugs — those epicures Of darkened boudoirs . . . and of sewers — Lolling high on their cushioned thrones Blink feebly on their dainty wooers!

And in the blossoming window-shows Each month another summer glows; They pay the price of human souls To rear one rich and sickly rose.

And a suave carven god of jade, By some enthralled old Asian made, With that thin scorn still on his lips, Waits, in a window-front displayed:

The hurrying, streaming crowds he sees. With the same smile he watches these As from his temple-dusk he saw The passing of the centuries!



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 that 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 crept 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.

"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 be,' 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

"'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.'"



'Oh, if that Rainbow up there!'

Oh, if that rainbow up there, Spanning the sky past the hill, Slenderly, tenderly fair Shining with colours that thrill, Oh, if that rainbow up there, Just for a moment could reach Through the wet slope of the air Here where I stand on the beach!

Here where the waves wash the strand, Swing itself lovingly low, Let me catch fast with one hand, Climb its frail rigging and go. Climb its frail rigging and go? Where is its haven of rest? Out in the gleam and the glow Of the blood-red waves of the West?

Or where the isles of the dawn Lie on an amethyst sea, Does it drift, pale and forlorn, Ghost of the glory I see? Is there, ah, is there a land Such as the Icelanders say, Or past the West's ruddy strand Or on the edge of the day,

Some undiscovered clime Seen through a cloud's sudden rift, Where all the rainbows of Time Slowly and silently drift? Some happy port of a sea Never a world's sail has made, Where till the earth shadows flee Never a rainbow may fade.

Oh, if that rainbow up there, Just for a moment would reach, Through the wet slope of the air Here where I stand on the beach. Here where the waves wash the strand Swing itself lovingly low, Let me catch fast with one hand, Climb its frail rigging and go!



Johannes Carl Andersen.



Soft, Low and Sweet

Soft, low and sweet, the blackbird wakes the day, And clearer pipes, as rosier grows 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 in 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 fragrance, 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 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 Grecian 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, No age-contemning works from 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!



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 my 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!

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! 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! and far this stream of Life From thy clear creek fast falling to the sea!

Yet let me not lament that these things are In that lov'd country I shall see no more; 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, — And thither, with the coming of the dark, Thou comest, and the night is full of stars.



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, 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 California 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 Christchurch street.

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 the peaks of Maoriland.



George Charles Whitney.



Sunset

Behind the golden western hills The sun goes down, a founder'd bark, Only a mighty sadness fills The silence of the dark.

O twilight sad with wistful eyes, Restore in ruth again to me The shadow of the peace that lies Beyond the purple sea.

The sun of my great joy goes down, Against the paling heights afar, Gleams out like some glad angel's crown, A yellow evening star;

The glory from the western hills Falls fading, spark on spark, Only a mighty sadness fills The spaces of the dark.



James Lister Cuthbertson. [reprise]



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 Aetnean 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.

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 Aeschylean 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, Crownless and 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.



————



Notes on the Poems



Wentworth, "Australasia": 'Warragamba' — a tributary of the Nepean, the upper part of the Hawkesbury River, New South Wales.

Rowe, "Soul Ferry": "Founded on a note by Tzetzes upon Lycophron, quoted in Keightley's 'Mythology of Greece and Rome'." — Author's Note.

Parkes, "The Buried Chief": Sir James Martin, born 1820, Premier and subsequently Chief Justice of New South Wales, died 4th November, 1886.

Gordon, "A Dedication": The first six stanzas of The Dedication of "Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes" to the author of "Holmby House" (Whyte Melville).

Gordon, "Thora's Song": First printed in 'The Australasian' under the title of "Frustra".

Gordon, "The Sick Stock-rider": First appeared in 'The Colonial Monthly' without the final stanza here printed, which was preserved by Mr. J. J. Shillinglaw.

Kendall, "Prefatory Sonnets": 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 from Australian Forests", in which these sonnets were first printed, was published in Melbourne in 1869.

Kendall, "To a Mountain": Dedicatory verses of "Songs from the Mountains".

Kendall, "Araluen": The author's daughter, named after a town in the Shoalhaven District, New South Wales.

Kendall, "Hy-Brasil": Hy-Brasil, or Tir-Nan-Oge, is the fabled Island of the Blessed, the paradise of ancient Ireland.

Kendall, "Outre Mer": From a poem left unfinished at the author's death. First printed in "Poems" (1886).

Clarke, "The Song of Tigilau": "Tigilau, the son of Tui Viti"; an attempt to paraphrase 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.

Moloney, "Melbourne": First printed in 'The Australasian' over the signature "Australis".

Domett, "An Invitation": First printed in "Flotsam and Jetsam": reprinted, with alterations, as Proem to "Ranolf and Amohia", Second Edition, 1883.

Domett, "A Maori Girl's Song": "A very free paraphrase of a song in Sir George Grey's collection. 'Ropa' is a declaration of love by pinching the fingers." — Author's Note.

Stephens, "Day" & "Night": Stanzas from "Convict Once" [pp. 336-7, 297-9 respectively of "Poetical Works" (1902)].

Foott, "Where the Pelican Builds": "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.

Foott, "New Country": '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.

Wilson, "Fairyland": '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.

Farrell, "Australia to England": 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.

F. Adams, "Gordon's Grave": Adam Lindsay Gordon is buried in Brighton (Victoria) Cemetery. Above the grave is erected a shattered column crowned with a laurel wreath.

Evans, "A Pastoral": 'Apple-tree' — an indigenous Australian tree, so called from a supposed resemblance to the English apple-tree, but bearing no edible fruit.

O'Hara, "Flinders": 'Flinders' — Matthew Flinders first came to Australia with Bass and Hunter in 1795, and made several heroic voyages around Australian coasts.

Jephcott, "A Ballad of the last King of Thule": 'Mannan' — the ancient bardic name of the Isle of Man.

'Eire' — 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.

Mackay, "The Burial of Sir John Mackenzie": 'Sir John Mackenzie' — Born 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.

Lawson, "Andy's gone with Cattle": 'Riders' — timber used to hold down the bark roofs of primitive bush houses.

Lawson, "Out Back": 'Mulga' — an aboriginal name given to various trees of the acacia family (A. aneura).

Lawson, "The Star of Australasia": 'Jackeroo' — a "new chum", or person recently arrived in Australia, who goes to work on a station to gain experience.

'Push' — a gang of larrikins, or city roughs.

Lawson, "Middleton's Rouseabout": 'Rouseabout' — a man who does general work on a station.

Lawson, "The Vagabond": '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).

R. Quinn, "The Lotus-Flower": 'Harbour' — Sydney Harbour.

Wright, "An Old Colonist's Reverie": 'Whare' — Maori name for a hut or house.

'Kowhai' — the Locust tree (yellow Kowhai), and the Parrot-bill (scarlet Kowhai) — N.Z. flowering trees.

'Rata' — 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.

Andersen, "Maui Victor": '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.

Wilcox, "In London": 'Weka' — Maori name for the wood-hen, so called from its note "Weeka" (Ocydromus Australis).