Chapter 6

The gods their faces turn away From nations and their little wars; But we our golden drama play Before the footlights of the stars.

There lives -- though Time should cease to flow, And stars their courses should forget -- There lives a grey-haired Romeo, Who loves a golden Juliet.

Anna

The pale discrowned stacks of maize, Like spectres in the sun, Stand shivering nigh Avonaise, Where all is dead and gone.

The sere leaves make a music vain, With melancholy chords; Like cries from some old battle-plain, Like clash of phantom swords.

But when the maize was lush and green With musical green waves, She went, its plumed ranks between, Unto the hill of graves.

There you may see sweet flowers set O'er damsels and o'er dames -- Rose, Ellen, Mary, Margaret -- The sweet old quiet names.

The gravestones show in long array, Though white or green with moss, How linked in Life and Death are they -- The Shamrock and the Cross.

The gravestones face the Golden East, And in the morn they take The blessing of the Great High Priest, Before the living wake.

Who was she? Never ask her name, Her beauty and her grace Have passed, with her poor little shame, Into the Silent Place.

In Avonaise, in Avonaise, Where all is dead and done, The folk who rest there all their days Care not for moon or sun.

They care not, when the living pass, Whether they sigh or smile; They hear above their graves the grass That sighs -- "A little while!"

A white stone marks her small green bed With "Anna" and "Adieu". Madonna Mary, rest her head On your dear lap of blue!

The Night Ride

The red sun on the lonely lands Gazed, under clouds of rose, As one who under knitted hands Takes one last look and goes.

Then Pain, with her white sister Fear, Crept nearer to my bed: "The sands are running; dost thou hear Thy sobbing heart?" she said.

There came a rider to the gate, And stern and clear spake he: "For meat or drink thou must not wait, But rise and ride with me."

I waited not for meat or drink, Or kiss, or farewell kind -- But oh! my heart was sore to think Of friends I left behind.

We rode o'er hills that seemed to sweep Skyward like swelling waves; The living stirred not in their sleep, The dead slept in their graves.

And ever as we rode I heard A moan of anguish sore -- No voice of man or beast or bird, But all of these and more.

"Is it the moaning of the Earth? Dark Rider, answer me!" "It is the cry of life at birth" He answered quietly:

"But thou canst turn a face of cheer To good days still in store; Thou needst not care for Pain or Fear -- They cannot harm thee more."

Yet I rode on with sullen heart, And said with breaking breath, "If thou art he I think thou art, Then slay me now, O Death!"

The veil was from my eyesight drawn -- "Thou knowest now," said he: "I am the Angel of the Dawn! Ride back, and wait for me."

So I rode back at morning light, And there, beside my bed, Fear had become a lily white And Pain a rose of red.

Alice Werner.

Bannerman of the Dandenong

I rode through the Bush in the burning noon, Over the hills to my bride, -- The track was rough and the way was long, And Bannerman of the Dandenong, He rode along by my side.

A day's march off my Beautiful dwelt, By the Murray streams in the West; -- Lightly lilting a gay love-song Rode Bannerman of the Dandenong, With a blood-red rose on his breast.

"Red, red rose of the Western streams" Was the song he sang that day -- Truest comrade in hour of need, -- Bay Mathinna his peerless steed -- I had my own good grey.

There fell a spark on the upland grass -- The dry Bush leapt into flame; -- And I felt my heart go cold as death, And Bannerman smiled and caught his breath, -- But I heard him name Her name.

Down the hill-side the fire-floods rushed, On the roaring eastern wind; -- Neck and neck was the reckless race, -- Ever the bay mare kept her pace, But the grey horse dropped behind.

He turned in the saddle -- "Let's change, I say!" And his bridle rein he drew. He sprang to the ground, -- "Look sharp!" he said With a backward toss of his curly head -- "I ride lighter than you!"

Down and up -- it was quickly done -- No words to waste that day! -- Swift as a swallow she sped along, The good bay mare from Dandenong, -- And Bannerman rode the grey.

The hot air scorched like a furnace blast From the very mouth of Hell: -- The blue gums caught and blazed on high Like flaming pillars into the sky; . . . The grey horse staggered and fell.

"Ride, ride, lad, -- ride for her sake!" he cried; -- Into the gulf of flame Were swept, in less than a breathing space The laughing eyes, and the comely face, And the lips that named HER name.

She bore me bravely, the good bay mare; -- Stunned, and dizzy and blind, I heard the sound of a mingling roar -- 'Twas the Lachlan River that rushed before, And the flames that rolled behind.

Safe -- safe, at Nammoora gate, I fell, and lay like a stone. O love! thine arms were about me then, Thy warm tears called me to life again, -- But -- O God! that I came alone! --

We dwell in peace, my beautiful one And I, by the streams in the West, -- But oft through the mist of my dreams along Rides Bannerman of the Dandenong, With the blood-red rose on his breast.

Ethel Castilla.

An Australian Girl

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

She has a beauty of her own, A beauty of a paler tone Than English belles; Yet southern sun and southern air Have kissed her cheeks, until they wear The dainty tints that oft appear On rosy shells.

Her frank, clear eyes bespeak a mind Old-world traditions fail to bind. She is not shy Or bold, but simply self-possessed; Her independence adds a zest Unto her speech, her piquant jest, Her quaint reply.

O'er classic volumes she will pore With joy; and true scholastic lore Will often gain. In sports she bears away the bell, Nor, under music's siren spell, To dance divinely, flirt as well, Does she disdain.

A Song of Sydney

(1894)

High headlands all jealously hide thee, O fairest of sea-girdled towns! Thine Ocean-spouse smileth beside thee, While each headland threatens and frowns. Like Venice, upheld on sea-pinion, And fated to reign o'er the free, Thou wearest, in sign of dominion, The zone of the sea.

No winter thy fertile slope hardens, O new Florence, set in the South! All lands give their flowers to thy gardens, That glow to thy bright harbour's mouth; The waratah and England's red roses With stately magnolias entwine, Gay sunflowers fill sea-scented closes, All sweet with woodbine.

Thy harbour's fair flower-crowned islands See flags of all countries unfurled, Thou smilest from green, sunlit highlands To open thine arms to the world! Dark East's and fair West's emulations Resound from each hill-shadowed quay, And over the songs of all nations, The voice of the sea.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams.

Something

It is something in this darker dream demented to have wrestled with its pleasure and its pain: it is something to have sinned, and have repented: it is something to have failed, and tried again!

It is something to have loved the brightest Beauty with no hope of aught but silence for your vow: it is something to have tried to do your duty: it is something to be trying, trying now!

And, in the silent solemn hours, when your soul floats down the far faint flood of time -- to think of Earth's lovers who are ours, of her saviours saving, suffering, sublime:

And that you with THESE may be her lover, with THESE may save and suffer for her sake -- IT IS JOY TO HAVE LIVED, SO TO DISCOVER YOU'VE A LIFE YOU CAN GIVE AND SHE CAN TAKE!

Gordon's Grave

All the heat and the glow and the hush of the summer afternoon; the scent of the sweet-briar bush over bowing grass-blades and broom;

the birds that flit and pass; singing the song he knows, the grass-hopper in the grass; the voice of the she-oak boughs.

Ah, and the shattered column crowned with the poet's wreath. Who, who keeps silent and solemn his passing place beneath?

~This was a poet that loved God's breath; his life was a passionate quest; he looked down deep in the wells of death, and now he is taking his rest.~

To A. L. Gordon

In night-long days, in aeons where all Time's nights are one; where life and death sing paeans as of Greeks and Galileans, never begun or done;

where fate, the slow swooping condor, comes glooming all the sky -- as you have pondered I ponder, as you have wandered I wander, as you have died, shall I die?

Love and Death

Death? is it death you give? So be it! O Death, thou hast been long my friend, and now thy pale cool cheek shall have my kiss, while the faint breath expires on thy still lips, O lovely Death!

Come then, loose hands, fair Life, without a wail! We've had good hours together, and you were sweet what time love whispered with the nightingale, tho' ever your music by the lark's would fail.

Come then, loose hands! Our lover time is done. Now is the marriage with the eternal sun. The hours are few that rest, are few and fleet. Good-bye! The game is lost: the game is won.

Thomas William Heney.

Absence

Ah, happy air that, rough or soft, May kiss that face and stay; And happy beams that from above May choose to her their way; And happy flowers that now and then Touch lips more sweet than they!

But it were not so blest to be Or light or air or rose; Those dainty fingers tear and toss The bloom that in them glows; And come or go, both wind and ray She heeds not, if she knows.

But if I come thy choice should be Either to love or not -- For if I might I would not kiss And then be all forgot; And it were best thy love to lose If love self-scorn begot.

A Riverina Road

Now while so many turn with love and longing To wan lands lying in the grey North Sea, To thee we turn, hearts, mem'ries, all belonging, Dear land of ours, to thee.

West, ever west, with the strong sunshine marching Beyond the mountains, far from this soft coast, Until we almost see the great plains arching, In endless mirage lost.

A land of camps where seldom is sojourning, Where men like the dim fathers of our race, Halt for a time, and next day, unreturning, Fare ever on apace.

Last night how many a leaping blaze affrighted The wailing birds of passage in their file; And dawn sees ashes dead and embers whited Where men had dwelt awhile.

The sun may burn, the mirage shift and vanish And fade and glare by turns along the sky; The haze of heat may all the distance banish To the uncaring eye.

By speech, or tongue of bird or brute, unbroken Silence may brood upon the lifeless plain, Nor any sign, far off or near, betoken Man in this vast domain.

Though tender grace the landscape lacks, too spacious, Impassive, silent, lonely, to be fair, Their kindness swiftly comes more soft and gracious, Who live or tarry there.

All that he has, in camp or homestead, proffers To stranger guest at once a stranger host, Proudest to see accepted what he offers, Given without a boast.

Pass, if you can, the drover's cattle stringing Along the miles of the wide travelled road, Without a challenge through the hot dust ringing, Kind though abrupt the mode.

A cloud of dust where polish'd wheels are flashing Passes along, and in it rolls the mail. Comes from the box as on the coach goes dashing The lonely driver's hail.

Or in the track a station youngster mounted Sits in his saddle smoking for a "spell", Rides a while onward; then, his news recounted, Parts with a brief farewell.

To-day these plains may seem a face defiant, Turn'd to a mortal foe, yet scorning fear; As when, with heaven at war, an Earth-born giant Saw the Olympian near.

Come yet again! No child's fair face is sweeter With young delight than this cool blooming land, Silent no more, for songs than wings are fleeter, No blaze, but sunshine bland.

Thus in her likeness that strange nature moulding Makes man as moody, sad and savage too; Yet in his heart, like her, a passion holding, Unselfish, kind and true.

Therefore, while many turn with love and longing To wan lands lying on the grey North Sea, To-day possessed by other mem'ries thronging We turn, wild West, to thee!

23rd December, 1891.

Patrick Edward Quinn.

A Girl's Grave

"Aged 17, OF A BROKEN HEART, January 1st, 1841."

What story is here of broken love, What idyllic sad romance, What arrow fretted the silken dove That met with such grim mischance?

I picture you, sleeper of long ago, When you trifled and danced and smiled, All golden laughter and beauty's glow In a girl life sweet and wild.

Hair with the red gold's luring tinge, Fine as the finest silk, Violet eyes with a golden fringe And cheeks of roses and milk.

Something of this you must have been, Something gentle and sweet, To have broken your heart at seventeen And died in such sad defeat.

Hardly one of your kinsfolk live, It was all so long ago, The tale of the cruel love to give That laid you here so low.

Loving, trusting, and foully paid -- The story is easily guessed, A blotted sun and skies that fade And this grass-grown grave the rest.

Whatever the cynic may sourly say, With a dash of truth, I ween, Of the girls of the period, in your day They had hearts at seventeen.

Dead of a fashion out of date, Such folly has passed away Like the hoop and patch and modish gait That went out with an older day.

The stone is battered and all awry, The words can be scarcely read, The rank reeds clustering thick and high Over your buried head.

I pluck one straight as a Paynim's lance To keep your memory green, For the lordly sake of old Romance And your own, sad seventeen.

John Sandes.

`With Death's Prophetic Ear'

Lay my rifle here beside me, set my Bible on my breast, For a moment let the warning bugles cease; As the century is closing I am going to my rest, Lord, lettest Thou Thy servant go in peace. But loud through all the bugles rings a cadence in mine ear, And on the winds my hopes of peace are strowed. Those winds that waft the voices that already I can hear Of the rooi-baatjes singing on the road.

Yes, the red-coats are returning, I can hear the steady tramp, After twenty years of waiting, lulled to sleep, Since rank and file at Potchefstroom we hemmed them in their camp, And cut them up at Bronkerspruit like sheep. They shelled us at Ingogo, but we galloped into range, And we shot the British gunners where they showed. I guessed they would return to us, I knew the chance must change -- Hark! the rooi-baatjes singing on the road!

But now from snow-swept Canada, from India's torrid plains, From lone Australian outposts, hither led, Obeying their commando, as they heard the bugle's strains, The men in brown have joined the men in red. They come to find the colours at Majuba left and lost, They come to pay us back the debt they owed; And I hear new voices lifted, and I see strange colours tossed, 'Mid the rooi-baatjes singing on the road.

The old, old faiths must falter, and the old, old creeds must fail -- I hear it in that distant murmur low -- The old, old order changes, and 'tis vain for us to rail, The great world does not want us -- we must go. And veldt, and spruit, and kopje to the stranger will belong, No more to trek before him we shall load; Too well, too well, I know it, for I hear it in the song Of the rooi-baatjes singing on the road.

Inez K. Hyland.

To a Wave

Where were you yesterday? In Gulistan, With roses and the frenzied nightingales? Rather would I believe you shining ran With peaceful floods, where the soft voice prevails Of building doves in lordly trees set high, Trees which enclose a home where love abides -- His love and hers, a passioned ecstasy; Your tone has caught its echo and derides My joyless lot, as face down pressed I lie Upon the shifting sand, and hear the reeds Voicing a thin, dissonant threnody Unto the cliff and wind-tormented weeds. As with the faint half-lights of jade toward The shore you come and show a violet hue, I wonder if the face of my adored Was ever held importraitured by you. Ah, no! if you had seen his face, still prest Within your hold the picture dear would be, Like that bright portrait which so moved the breast Of fairest Gurd with soft unrest that she, Born in ice halls, she who but raised her eyes And scornful questioned, "What is love, indeed? None ever viewed it 'neath these northern skies," -- Seeing the face soon learned love's gentle creed; But you hold nothing to be counted dear -- Only a gift of weed and broken shells; Yet I will gather one, so I can hear The soft remembrance which still in it dwells: For in the shell, though broken, ever lies The murmur of the sea whence it was torn -- So in a woman's heart there never dies The memory of love, though love be lorn.

Bread and Wine

A cup of opal Through which there glows The cream of the pearl, The heart of the rose; And the blue of the sea Where Australia lies, And the amber flush Of her sunset skies, And the emerald tints Of the dragon fly Shall stain my cup With their brilliant dye. And into this cup I would pour the wine Of youth and health And the gifts divine Of music and song, And the sweet content Which must ever belong To a life well spent. And what bread would I break With my wine, think you? The bread of a love That is pure and true.

George Essex Evans.

An Australian Symphony

Not as the songs of other lands Her song shall be Where dim Her purple shore-line stands Above the sea! As erst she stood, she stands alone; Her inspiration is her own. From sunlit plains to mangrove strands Not as the songs of other lands Her song shall be.

O Southern Singers! Rich and sweet, Like chimes of bells, The cadence swings with rhythmic beat The music swells; But undertones, weird, mournful, strong, Sweep like swift currents thro' the song. In deepest chords, with passion fraught, In softest notes of sweetest thought, This sadness dwells.

Is this her song, so weirdly strange, So mixed with pain, That whereso'er her poets range Is heard the strain? Broods there no spell upon the air But desolation and despair? No voice, save Sorrow's, to intrude Upon her mountain solitude Or sun-kissed plain?

The silence and the sunshine creep With soft caress O'er billowy plain and mountain steep And wilderness -- A velvet touch, a subtle breath, As sweet as love, as calm as death, On earth, on air, so soft, so fine, Till all the soul a spell divine O'ershadoweth.

The gray gums by the lonely creek, The star-crowned height, The wind-swept plain, the dim blue peak, The cold white light, The solitude spread near and far Around the camp-fire's tiny star, The horse-bell's melody remote, The curlew's melancholy note Across the night.

These have their message; yet from these Our songs have thrown O'er all our Austral hills and leas One sombre tone. Whence doth the mournful keynote start? From the pure depths of Nature's heart? Or from the heart of him who sings And deems his hand upon the strings Is Nature's own?

Could tints be deeper, skies less dim, More soft and fair, Dappled with milk-white clouds that swim In faintest air? The soft moss sleeps upon the stone, Green scrub-vine traceries enthrone The dead gray trunks, and boulders red, Roofed by the pine and carpeted With maidenhair.

But far and near, o'er each, o'er all, Above, below, Hangs the great silence like a pall Softer than snow. Not sorrow is the spell it brings, But thoughts of calmer, purer things, Like the sweet touch of hands we love, A woman's tenderness above A fevered brow.

These purple hills, these yellow leas, These forests lone, These mangrove shores, these shimmering seas, This summer zone -- Shall they inspire no nobler strain Than songs of bitterness and pain? Strike her wild harp with firmer hand, And send her music thro' the land, With loftier tone!

. . . . .

Her song is silence; unto her Its mystery clings. Silence is the interpreter Of deeper things. O for sonorous voice and strong To change that silence into song, To give that melody release Which sleeps in the deep heart of peace With folded wings!

A Nocturne

Like weary sea-birds spent with flight And faltering, The slow hours beat across the night On leaden wing. The wild bird knows where rest shall be Soe'er he roam. Heart of my heart! apart from thee I have no home.

Afar from thee, yet not alone, Heart of my heart! Like some soft haunting whisper blown From Heaven thou art. I hear the magic music roll Its waves divine; The subtle fragrance of thy soul Has passed to mine.

Nor dawn nor Heaven my heart can know Save that which lies In lights and shades that come and go In thy soft eyes. Here in the night I dream the day, By love upborne, When thy sweet eyes shall shine and say "It is the morn!"

A Pastoral

Nature feels the touch of noon; Not a rustle stirs the grass; Not a shadow flecks the sky, Save the brown hawk hovering nigh; Not a ripple dims the glass Of the wide lagoon.

Darkly, like an armed host Seen afar against the blue, Rise the hills, and yellow-grey Sleeps the plain in cove and bay, Like a shining sea that dreams Round a silent coast.

From the heart of these blue hills, Like the joy that flows from peace, Creeps the river far below Fringed with willow, sinuous, slow. Surely here there seems surcease From the care that kills.

Surely here might radiant Love Fill with happiness his cup, Where the purple lucerne-bloom Floods the air with sweet perfume, Nature's incense floating up To the Gods above.

'Neath the gnarled-boughed apple trees Motionless the cattle stand; Chequered cornfield, homestead white, Sleeping in the streaming light, For deep trance is o'er the land, And the wings of peace.

Here, O Power that moves the heart, Thou art in the quiet air; Here, unvexed of code or creed, Man may breathe his bitter need; Nor with impious lips declare What Thou wert and art.

All the strong souls of the race Thro' the aeons that have run, They have cried aloud to Thee -- "Thou art that which stirs in me!" As the flame leaps towards the sun They have sought Thy face.

But the faiths have flowered and flown, And the truth is but in part; Many a creed and many a grade For Thy purpose Thou hast made. None can know Thee what Thou art, Fathomless! Unknown!

The Women of the West

They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill, The houses in the busy streets where life is never still, The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best: For love they faced the wilderness -- the Women of the West.

The roar, and rush, and fever of the city died away, And the old-time joys and faces -- they were gone for many a day; In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock chains, O'er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains.

In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run, In the tent beside the bankment of a railway just begun, In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man's unrest, On the frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West.

The red sun robs their beauty, and, in weariness and pain, The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again; And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say -- The nearest woman's face may be a hundred miles away.

The wide bush holds the secrets of their longing and desires, When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar fires, And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast -- Perchance He hears and understands the Women of the West.