Chapter 9

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.