Chapter 4

O my friends, never deaf to the charms of Denial, Were its comfortless comforting worth a life-trial -- Discontented content with a chilling despair? -- Better ask as we float down a song-flood unchecked, If our Sky with no Iris be glory-bedecked? 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 boiling and beautiful spray In the violet splendour of skies that illume Such a wealth of green ferns and rare crimson tree-bloom; Where a people primeval is vanishing fast, With its faiths and its fables and ways of the past: O with reason and fancy unfettered and fearless, Come plunge 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 ill; Poor hapless I -- poor little I -- so many mouths to fill -- And all for this strange feeling -- O, this sad, sweet pain!

"O! senseless heart -- O simple! to yearn so, and to pine For one so far above me, confest o'er all to shine, For one a hundred dote upon, who never can be mine! O, 'tis a foolish 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 I never had this feeling -- O, this sad, sweet pain!

"I think it must be owing to the idle life I lead In the dreamy house for ever that this new bosom-weed Has sprouted up and spread its shoots till it troubles me indeed With a restless, weary feeling -- such a sad, sweet pain!

"So in this pleasant islet, O, no longer will I stay -- And the shadowy summer dwelling I will leave this very day; On Arapa I'll launch my skiff, and soon be borne away From all that feeds this feeling -- O, this fond, sweet pain!

"I'll go and see dear Rima -- she'll welcome me, I know, And a flaxen cloak -- her gayest -- o'er my weary shoulders throw, With purfle red and points so free -- O, quite a lovely show -- To charm away this feeling -- O, this sad, sweet pain!

"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 pain!"

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! 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! -- ere the natal hour Named with the name and prophecy of power.

Already here to hearts intense, A spirit-force, transcending sense, In heights unscaled, 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, -- 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.

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 of 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.

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 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 wan 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!

Rest thee at least a brief hour in it! 'Tis a right royal pavilion. Lo, there are thrones for high dalliance all gloriously 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!

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; 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! Music scarce audible, echo-less harmony joyously dying, Dying in faint suspirations o'er meadow, and forest, and hill!

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.

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! 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! The secret springs of action Which lie beneath the surface and the show, Are disregarded; with self-satisfaction We judge our neighbours, and they often go Not understood.

Not understood! How trifles often change us! The thoughtless sentence 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! How many breasts are aching For lack of sympathy! Ah! day by day How many cheerless, lonely hearts are breaking! How many noble spirits pass away, Not understood.

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.

Spirit of Song

Where is thy dwelling-place? Echo of sweetness, Seraph of tenderness, where is thy home? Angel of happiness, herald of fleetness, Thou hast the key of the star-blazon'd dome. Where lays that never end Up to God's throne ascend, And our fond heart-wishes lovingly throng, Soaring with thee above, Bearer of truth and love, Teacher of heaven's tongue -- Spirit of Song!

Euphony, born in the realms of the tearless, Mingling thy notes with the voices of Earth; Wanting thee, all would be dreary and cheerless, Weaver of harmony, giver of mirth. Comfort of child and sage, With us in youth and age, Soothing the weak and inspiring the strong, Illuming the blackest night, Making the day more bright, Oh! thou art dear to us, Spirit of Song!

Oft in the springtime, sweet words of affection Are whispered by thee in thy tenderest tone, And in the winter dark clouds of dejection By thee are dispelled till all sorrow has flown. Thou'rt with the zephyrs low, And with the brooklet's flow, And with the feathered choir all the year long; Happy each child of thine, Blest with thy gifts divine, Charming our senses, sweet Spirit of Song!

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.

Good-bye

Good-bye! -- 'tis like a churchyard bell -- good-bye! Poor weeping eyes! Poor head, bowed down with woe! Kiss me again, dear love, before you go. Ah, me, how fast the precious moments fly! Good-bye! Good-bye!

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!

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! 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! Good-bye!

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 unbegotten, 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 -- 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! 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, 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? 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 me to feel, Forgive the anguish of the turning wheel!

Alexander Bathgate.

The Clematis

Fair crown of stars of purest ray, Hung aloft on Mapau tree, What floral beauties ye display, Stars of snowy purity; Around the dark-leaved mapau's head Unsullied garlands ye have spread.

Concealed were all thy beauties rare 'Neath the dark umbrageous shade, But still to gain the loftiest spray, Thy weak stem its efforts made; Now, every obstacle o'ercome, Thou smilest from thy leafy home.

That home secure, 'mid sombre leaves Yielded by thy stalwart spouse, Helps thee to show thy fairy crown, Decorates his dusky boughs: His strength, thy beauty, both unite And form a picture to delight.

Fair flower, methinks thou dost afford Emblem of a perfect wife, Whose work is hidden from the world, Till, perchance, her husband's life Is by her influence beautified, And this by others is descried.

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!

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! Was it you that glimmered the night we strayed A month ago by these scented streams? Half-checked by the litter the musk-buds made? Did you sleep or wake? Ah, for Love's sweet sake (Though the world should fail and the soft stars wane!) I shall dream delight Till our souls take flight To the mystic spheres where your kinsmen reign!

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!"

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!

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. 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.

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.

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."