Chapter 5

And shall no ripple break the sand Upon our farther way? Or reedy ranks all knee-deep stand? Or leafy tree-tops sway? The gold of dawn is surely met In sunset's lavish blaze; And -- in horizons hidden yet -- There shall be happy days.

Henry Lea Twisleton.

To a Cabbage Rose

Thy clustering leaves are steeped in splendour; No evening red, no morning dun, Can show a hue as rich and tender As thine -- bright lover of the sun!

What wondrous hints of hidden glory, Of strains no human lips can sing; What symbols rare of life's strange story, Dost thou from earth's dark bosom bring!

What elements have made thy sweetness, Thy glowing hue, thy emerald stem? What hand has fashioned to completeness From tiny germ, thy diadem?

Thou art the fair earth's fond expression Of tenderness for heaven above -- The virgin blush that yields confession -- Thou bright "ambassador of love"!

Fair are thy leaves when summer glowing Lies in the lap of swooning spring; But where art thou when autumn, blowing, Bids youth and tenderness take wing?

Sweet messenger! thou waftest beauty Wherever human lives are sown, Around the peasant's humble duty Or weary grandeurs of a throne.

Transfused through hearts in future ages, Thy glowing power anew may shine Effulgent in the poets' pages Or music's harmony divine.

But not to thee from future glory Can shine one added charm or day; Sweet is thy life's unwritten story Of radiant bloom and swift decay.

Give, then, to vagrant winds thy sweetness, Shine, tearful, in the summer shower; And, heedless of thy season's fleetness, Enrich with joy the passing hour.

Mrs. James Glenny Wilson.

Fairyland

Do you remember that careless band, Riding o'er meadow and wet sea-sand, One autumn day, in a mist of sunshine, Joyously seeking for fairyland?

The wind in the tree-tops was scarcely heard, The streamlet repeated its one silver word, And far away, o'er the depths of wood-land, Floated the bell of the parson-bird.

Pale hoar-frost glittered in shady slips, Where ferns were dipping their finger-tips, From mossy branches a faint perfume Breathed o'er honeyed Clematis lips.

At last we climbed to the ridge on high Ah, crystal vision! Dreamland nigh! Far, far below us, the wide Pacific Slumbered in azure from sky to sky.

And cloud and shadow, across the deep Wavered, or paused in enchanted sleep, And eastward, the purple-misted islets Fretted the wave with terrace and steep.

We looked on the tranquil, glassy bay, On headlands sheeted in dazzling spray, And the whitening ribs of a wreck forlorn That for twenty years had wasted away.

All was so calm, and pure and fair, It seemed the hour of worship there, Silent, as where the great North-Minster Rises for ever, a visible prayer.

Then we turned from the murmurous forest-land, And rode over shingle and silver sand, For so fair was the earth in the golden autumn, That we sought no farther for Fairyland.

A Winter Daybreak

From the dark gorge, where burns the morning star, I hear the glacier river rattling on And sweeping o'er his ice-ploughed shingle-bar, While wood owls shout in sombre unison, And fluttering southern dancers glide and go; And black swan's airy trumpets wildly, sweetly blow.

The cock crows in the windy winter morn, Then must I rise and fling the curtain by. All dark! But for a strip of fiery sky Behind the ragged mountains, peaked and torn. One planet glitters in the icy cold, Poised like a hawk above the frozen peaks, And now again the wild nor'-wester speaks, And bends the cypress, shuddering, to his fold, While every timber, every casement creaks. But still the skylarks sing aloud and bold; The wooded hills arise; the white cascade Shakes with wild laughter all the silent shadowy glade.

Now from the shuttered east a silvery bar Shines through the mist, and shows the mild daystar. The storm-wrapped peaks start out and fade again, And rosy vapours skirt the pastoral plain; The garden paths with hoary rime are wet; And sweetly breathes the winter violet; The jonquil half unfolds her ivory cup, With clouds of gold-eyed daisies waking up.

Pleasant it is to turn and see the fire Dance on the hearth, as he would never tire; The home-baked loaf, the Indian bean's perfume, Fill with their homely cheer the panelled room. Come, crazy storm! And thou, wild glittering hail, Rave o'er the roof and wave your icy veil; Shout in our ears and take your madcap way! I laugh at storms! for Roderick comes to-day.

The Lark's Song

The morning is wild and dark, The night mist runs on the vale, Bright Lucifer dies to a spark, And the wind whistles up for a gale. And stormy the day may be That breaks through its prison bars, But it brings no regret to me, For I sing at the door of the stars!

Along the dim ocean-verge I see the ships labouring on; They rise on the lifting surge One moment, and they are gone. I see on the twilight plain The flash of the flying cars; Men travail in joy or pain -- But I sing at the door of the stars!

I see the green, sleeping world, The pastures all glazed with rime; The smoke from the chimney curled; I hear the faint church bells chime. I see the grey mountain crest, The slopes, and the forest spars, With the dying moon on their breast -- While I sing at the door of the stars!

Edward Booth Loughran.

Dead Leaves

When these dead leaves were green, love, November's skies were blue, And summer came with lips aflame, The gentle spring to woo; And to us, wandering hand in hand, Life was a fairy scene, That golden morning in the woods When these dead leaves were green!

How dream-like now that dewy morn, Sweet with the wattle's flowers, When love, love, love was all our theme, And youth and hope were ours! Two happier hearts in all the land There were not then, I ween, Than those young lovers' -- yours and mine -- When these dead leaves were green.

How gaily did you pluck these leaves From the acacia's bough, To mark the lyric we had read -- I can repeat it now! While came the words, like music sweet, Your smiling lips between -- "So fold my love within your heart," When these dead leaves were green!

How many springs have passed since then? Ah, wherefore should we count, The years that sped, like waters fled From Time's unstaying fount? We've had our share of happiness, Our share of care have seen; But love alone has never flown Since these dead leaves were green.

Your heart is kind and loving still, Your face to me as fair, As when, that morn, the sunshine played Amid your golden hair. So, dearest, sweethearts still we'll be, As we have ever been, And keep our love as fresh and true As when these leaves were green.

Isolation

Man lives alone; star-like, each soul In its own orbit circles ever; Myriads may by or round it roll -- The ways may meet, but mingle never.

Self-pois'd, each soul its course pursues In light or dark, companionless: Drop into drop may blend the dews -- The spirit's law is loneliness.

If seemingly two souls unite, 'Tis but as joins yon silent mere The stream that through it, flashing bright, Carries its waters swift and clear.

The fringes of the rushing tide May on the lake's calm bosom sleep -- Its hidden spirit doth abide Apart, still bearing toward the deep.

O Love, to me more dear than life! O Friend, more faithful than a brother! How many a bitter inward strife Our souls have never told each other!

We journey side by side for years, We dream our lives, our hopes are one -- And with some chance-said word appears The spanless gulf, so long unknown!

For candour's want yet neither blame; Even to ourselves but half-confessed, Glows in each heart some silent flame, Blooms some hope-violet of the breast.

And temptings dark, and struggles deep There are, each soul alone must bear, Through midnight hours unblest with sleep, Through burning noontides of despair.

And kindly is the ordinance sent By which each spirit dwells apart -- Could Love or Friendship live, if rent The "Bluebeard chambers of the heart"?

Ishmonie

The traveller tells how, in that ancient clime Whose mystic monuments and ruins hoar Still struggle with the antiquary's lore, To guard the secrets of a by-gone time, He saw, uprising from the desert bare, Like a white ghost, a city of the dead, With palaces and temples wondrous fair, Where moon-horn'd Isis once was worshipped. But silence, like a pall, did all enfold, And the inhabitants were turn'd to stone -- Yea, stone the very heart of every one! Once to a rich man I this tale re-told. "Stone hearts! A traveller's myth!" -- he turn'd aside, As Hunger begg'd, pale-featured and wild-eyed.

John Liddell Kelly.

Immortality

At twenty-five I cast my horoscope, And saw a future with all good things rife -- A firm assurance of eternal life In worlds beyond, and in this world the hope Of deathless fame. But now my sun doth slope To setting, and the toil of sordid strife, The care of food and raiment, child and wife, Have dimmed and narrowed all my spirit's scope.

Eternal life -- a river gulphed in sands! Undying fame -- a rainbow lost in clouds! What hope of immortality remains But this: "Some soul that loves and understands Shall save thee from the darkness that enshrouds"; And this: "Thy blood shall course in others' veins"?

Heredity

More than a fleshly immortality Is mine. Though I myself return again To dust, my qualities of heart and brain, Of soul and spirit, shall not cease to be. I view them growing, day by day, in thee, My first-begotten son; I trace them plain In you, my daughters; and I count it gain Myself renewed and multiplied to see.

But sadness mingles with my selfish joy, At thought of what you may be called to bear. Oh, passionate maid! Oh, glad, impulsive boy! Your father's sad experience you must share -- Self-torture, the unfeeling world's annoy, Gross pleasure, fierce exultance, grim despair!

Robert Richardson.

A Ballade of Wattle Blossom

There's a land that is happy and fair, Set gem-like in halcyon seas; The white winters visit not there, To sadden its blossoming leas, More bland than the Hesperides, Or any warm isle of the West, Where the wattle-bloom perfumes the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest.

When the oak and the elm are bare, And wild winds vex the shuddering trees; There the clematis whitens the air, And the husbandman laughs as he sees The grass rippling green to his knees, And his vineyards in emerald drest -- Where the wattle-bloom bends in the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest.

What land is with this to compare? Not the green hills of Hybla, with bees Honey-sweet, are more radiant and rare In colour and fragrance than these Boon shores, where the storm-clouds cease, And the wind and the wave are at rest -- Where the wattle-bloom waves in the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest.

Envoy.

Sweetheart, let them praise as they please Other lands, but we know which is best -- Where the wattle-bloom perfumes the breeze, And the bell-bird builds her nest.

A Song

Above us only The Southern stars, And the moon o'er brimming Her golden bars. And a song sweet and clear As the bell-bird's plaint, Hums low in my ear Like a dream-echo faint. The kind old song -- How did it go? With its ripple and flow, That you used to sing, dear, Long ago.

Hand fast in hand, I, love, and thou; Hand locked in hand, And on my brow Your perfumed lips Breathing love and life -- The love of the maiden, The trust of the wife. And I'm listening still To the ripple and flow -- How did it go? -- Of the little French song Of that long ago.

Can you recall it Across the years? You used to sing it With laughter and tears. If you sang it now, dear, That kind old refrain, It would bring back the fragrance Of the dead years again. Le printemps pour l'amour -- How did it go? Only we know; Sing it, sweetheart, to-night, As you did long ago.

James Lister Cuthbertson.

Australia Federata

Australia! land of lonely lake And serpent-haunted fen; Land of the torrent and the fire And forest-sundered men: Thou art not now as thou shalt be When the stern invaders come, In the hush before the hurricane, The dread before the drum.

A louder thunder shall be heard Than echoes on thy shore, When o'er the blackened basalt cliffs The foreign cannon roar -- When the stand is made in the sheoaks' shade When heroes fall for thee, And the creeks in gloomy gullies run Dark crimson to the sea:

When under honeysuckles gray, And wattles' swaying gold, The stalwart arm may strike no more, The valiant heart is cold -- When thou shalt know the agony, The fever, and the strife Of those who wrestle against odds For liberty and life:

Then is the great Dominion born, The seven sisters bound, From Sydney's greenly wooded port To lone King George's Sound -- Then shall the islands of the south, The lands of bloom and snow, Forth from their isolation come To meet the common foe.

Then, only then -- when after war Is peace with honour born, When from the bosom of the night Comes golden-sandalled morn, When laurelled victory is thine, And the day of battle done, Shall the heart of a mighty people stir, And Australia be as one.

At Cape Schanck

Down to the lighthouse pillar The rolling woodland comes, Gay with the gold of she-oaks And the green of the stunted gums, With the silver-grey of honeysuckle, With the wasted bracken red, With a tuft of softest emerald And a cloud-flecked sky o'erhead.

We climbed by ridge and boulder, Umber and yellow scarred, Out to the utmost precipice, To the point that was ocean-barred, Till we looked below on the fastness Of the breeding eagle's nest, And Cape Wollomai opened eastward And the Otway on the west.

Over the mirror of azure The purple shadows crept, League upon league of rollers Landward evermore swept, And burst upon gleaming basalt, And foamed in cranny and crack, And mounted in sheets of silver, And hurried reluctant back.

And the sea, so calm out yonder, Wherever we turned our eyes, Like the blast of an angel's trumpet Rang out to the earth and skies, Till the reefs and the rocky ramparts Throbbed to the giant fray, And the gullies and jutting headlands Were bathed in a misty spray.

Oh, sweet in the distant ranges, To the ear of inland men, Is the ripple of falling water In sassafras-haunted glen, The stir in the ripening cornfield That gently rustles and swells, The wind in the wattle sighing, The tinkle of cattle bells.

But best is the voice of ocean, That strikes to the heart and brain, That lulls with its passionate music Trouble and grief and pain, That murmurs the requiem sweetest For those who have loved and lost, And thunders a jubilant anthem To brave hearts tempest-tossed.

That takes to its boundless bosom The burden of all our care, That whispers of sorrow vanquished, Of hours that may yet be fair, That tells of a Harbour of Refuge Beyond life's stormy straits, Of an infinite peace that gladdens, Of an infinite love that waits.

Wattle and Myrtle

Gold of the tangled wilderness of wattle, Break in the lone green hollows of the hills, Flame on the iron headlands of the ocean, Gleam on the margin of the hurrying rills.

Come with thy saffron diadem and scatter Odours of Araby that haunt the air, Queen of our woodland, rival of the roses, Spring in the yellow tresses of thy hair.

Surely the old gods, dwellers on Olympus, Under thy shining loveliness have strayed, Crowned with thy clusters, magical Apollo, Pan with his reedy music may have played.

Surely within thy fastness, Aphrodite, She of the sea-ways, fallen from above, Wandered beneath thy canopy of blossom, Nothing disdainful of a mortal's love.

Aye, and Her sweet breath lingers on the wattle, Aye, and Her myrtle dominates the glade, And with a deep and perilous enchantment Melts in the heart of lover and of maid.

The Australian Sunrise

The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea, And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free, The lustrous purple blackness of the soft Australian night, Waned in the gray awakening that heralded the light; Still in the dying darkness, still in the forest dim The pearly dew of the dawning clung to each giant limb, Till the sun came up from ocean, red with the cold sea mist, And smote on the limestone ridges, and the shining tree-tops kissed; Then the fiery Scorpion vanished, the magpie's note was heard, And the wind in the she-oak wavered, and the honeysuckles stirred, The airy golden vapour rose from the river breast, The kingfisher came darting out of his crannied nest, And the bulrushes and reed-beds put off their sallow gray And burnt with cloudy crimson at dawning of the day.

John Farrell.

Australia to England

June 22nd, 1897

What of the years of Englishmen? What have they brought of growth and grace Since mud-built London by its fen Became the Briton's breeding-place? What of the Village, where our blood Was brewed by sires, half man, half brute, In vessels of wild womanhood, From blood of Saxon, Celt and Jute?

What are its gifts, this Harvest Home Of English tilth and English cost, Where fell the hamlet won by Rome And rose the city that she lost? O! terrible and grand and strange Beyond all phantasy that gleams When Hope, asleep, sees radiant Change Come to her through the halls of dreams!

A heaving sea of life, that beats Like England's heart of pride to-day, And up from roaring miles of streets Flings on the roofs its human spray; And fluttering miles of flags aflow, And cannon's voice, and boom of bell, And seas of fire to-night, as though A hundred cities flamed and fell;

While, under many a fair festoon And flowering crescent, set ablaze With all the dyes that English June Can lend to deck a day of days, And past where mart and palace rise, And shrine and temple lift their spears, Below five million misted eyes Goes a grey Queen of Sixty Years --

Go lords, and servants of the lords Of earth, with homage on their lips, And kinsmen carrying English swords, And offering England battle-ships; And tribute-payers, on whose hands Their English fetters scarce appear; And gathered round from utmost lands Ambassadors of Love and Fear!

Dim signs of greeting waved afar, Far trumpets blown and flags unfurled, And England's name an Avatar Of light and sound throughout the world -- Hailed Empress among nations, Queen Enthroned in solemn majesty, On splendid proofs of what has been, And presages of what will be!

For this your sons, foreseeing not Or heeding not, the aftermath, Because their strenuous hearts were hot Went first on many a cruel path, And, trusting first and last to blows, Fed death with such as would gainsay Their instant passing, or oppose With talk of Right strength's right of way!

For this their names are on the stone Of mountain spires, and carven trees That stand in flickering wastes unknown Wait with their dying messages; When fire blasts dance with desert drifts The English bones show white below, And, not so white, when summer lifts The counterpane of Yukon's snow.

Condemned by blood to reach for grapes That hang in sight, however high, Beyond the smoke of Asian capes, The nameless, dauntless, dead ones lie; And where Sierran morning shines On summits rolling out like waves, By many a brow of royal pines The noisiest find quiet graves.

By lust of flesh and lust of gold, And depth of loins and hairy breadth Of breast, and hands to take and hold, And boastful scorn of pain and death, And something more of manliness Than tamer men, and growing shame Of shameful things, and something less Of final faith in sword and flame --

By many a battle fought for wrong, And many a battle fought for right, So have you grown august and strong, Magnificent in all men's sight -- A voice for which the kings have ears, A face the craftiest statesmen scan; A mind to mould the after years, And mint the destinies of man!

Red sins were yours: the avid greed Of pirate fathers, smocked as Grace, Sent Judas missioners to read Christ's Word to many a feebler race -- False priests of Truth who made their tryst At Mammon's shrine, and reft or slew -- Some hands you taught to pray to Christ Have prayed His curse to rest on you!

Your way has been to pluck the blade Too readily, and train the guns. We here, apart and unafraid Of envious foes, are but your sons: We stretched a heedless hand to smutch Our spotless flag with Murder's blight -- For one less sacrilegious touch God's vengeance blasted Uzza white!

You vaunted most of forts and fleets, And courage proved in battle-feasts, The courage of the beast that eats His torn and quivering fellow-beasts; Your pride of deadliest armament -- What is it but the self-same dint Of joy with which the Caveman bent To shape a bloodier axe of flint?

But praise to you, and more than praise And thankfulness, for some things done; And blessedness, and length of days As long as earth shall last, or sun! You first among the peoples spoke Sharp words and angry questionings Which burst the bonds and shed the yoke That made your men the slaves of Kings!

You set and showed the whole world's school The lesson it will surely read, That each one ruled has right to rule -- The alphabet of Freedom's creed Which slowly wins it proselytes And makes uneasier many a throne; You taught them all to prate of Rights In language growing like your own!

And now your holiest and best And wisest dream of such a tie As, holding hearts from East to West, Shall strengthen while the years go by: And of a time when every man For every fellow-man will do His kindliest, working by the plan God set him. May the dream come true!

And greater dreams! O Englishmen, Be sure the safest time of all For even the mightiest State is when Not even the least desires its fall! Make England stand supreme for aye, Because supreme for peace and good, Warned well by wrecks of yesterday That strongest feet may slip in blood!

Arthur Patchett Martin.

Bushland

Not sweeter to the storm-tossed mariner Is glimpse of home, where wife and children wait To welcome him with kisses at the gate, Than to the town-worn man the breezy stir Of mountain winds on rugged pathless heights: His long-pent soul drinks in the deep delights That Nature hath in store. The sun-kissed bay Gleams thro' the grand old gnarled gum-tree boughs Like burnished brass; the strong-winged bird of prey Sweeps by, upon his lonely vengeful way -- While over all, like breath of holy vows, The sweet airs blow, and the high-vaulted sky Looks down in pity this fair Summer day On all poor earth-born creatures doomed to die.

Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen.

Under the Wattle

"Why should not wattle do For mistletoe?" Asked one -- they were but two -- Where wattles grow.

He was her lover, too, Who urged her so -- "Why should not wattle do For mistletoe?"

A rose-cheek rosier grew; Rose-lips breathed low; "Since it is here, and YOU, I hardly know Why wattle should not do."

Victor James Daley.

Players

And after all -- and after all, Our passionate prayers, and sighs, and tears, Is life a reckless carnival? And are they lost, our golden years?

Ah, no; ah, no; for, long ago, Ere time could sear, or care could fret, There was a youth called Romeo, There was a maid named Juliet.

The players of the past are gone; The races rise; the races pass; And softly over all is drawn The quiet Curtain of the Grass.

But when the world went wild with Spring, What days we had! Do you forget? When I of all the world was King, And you were my Queen Juliet?

The things that are; the things that seem -- Who shall distinguish shape from show? The great processional, splendid dream Of life is all I wish to know.