Part 2

Away! Away! Let sluggards stay The sluggish ruck within, While Beauty stands With outstretched hands To welcome those who win! And gems divine And wealth and wine Are strewn upon the board, Where life and love Go hand and glove, Like slaves before their lord!

The motors fly, The ships go by, The tram-cars whizz and whirr— I see them pass As in a glass, Where dim-limned shadows stir: I long to hail Some friendly sail Ere _all_ the throng be past— Then failure’s sense And indolence Reach down and hold me fast.

Away! Away! To act to-day! The victor’s creed is _Now_— A cloudless brain, An easy rein, A firm hand on the plough! Aside is flung The pall that hung From damned Inaction’s mast ... Then half-thought themes And dreamer’s dreams Reach down ... and hold me fast.

TILL DAY IS DONE.

What does it matter Though wealth pass by, Where follies flatter And red lips lie— Though cloud shades darken The spring-time sheen, And dull threads mingle Life’s woof between— Which winds blow whither O’er land and sea— What does it matter To you and me?

Here at the door of Our Peace-thatched cot Cosmea nods, and Forget-me-not Seems to say from Its eyes of blue, “Life is fairest Where hearts are true!”

And far beyond, where The world is wide, Where wrecked lives drift on An ebbing tide, There is a garland A queen may wear, Of sweet boronia And maidenhair. Never grey thyme, or A spray of rue Tarnish the garland I’ve twined for you! Let love-fires light, in Each fragrant gem A setting fair for Your diadem!

What though its petals May, one by one, Pale grow and pass with The mid-day’s sun— Though velvet fingers At midnight’s hush Shall paint your tresses With silvered brush— Though shadows creep, and The earth grows wan, Our love will last As the years roll on!

With hand in hand, with Our hearts that beat Time to the music Of twinkling feet— Wrapped in a dream that Will live and last Into the night When the day is past— Though sails be set for The shoreless sea— What will it matter To you and me?

[Decoration: Man with swag walking away]

TO YOU.

I love you, Sweetheart! better far than all; And still will love, with love that makes or mars, When round my head eternal curtains fall, And sleep shall close the eyelids of the stars: Though all the houris of celestial bars Should lure me on with eyes of liquid light, Joined to the wondrous music of guitars, Without _you_ there, my blood were cold and white!

Beyond that phase of something some call death I want to love you always, just as now— To feel my cheek fanned by your clover breath, And feel your hand press sometimes on my brow: I would not turn one instant from the plough, But follow on from starry fence to fence, And question not the whither, whence, or how, With _you_ as earnest of God’s providence!

And when at last my evening glooms and greys, And when, at last, my last sun westward dips, And I go out upon dim, unknown ways Where men are borne on heavenly spirit-ships, I’ll watch and wait their oft-returning trips, Hoping for you to step upon the quay, That I may clasp you heart to heart with me, And kiss you ... _thus_ ... upon your rose-red lips!

THE GOSPEL OF SHIRK.

The strenuous rhymer appals me to-night With the pitch of his strenuous song That shrieks for the god or the goddess of Right! Or that lashes the legions of Wrong With a vicious and venomous thong— By Crumbs! With a knotted and merciless thong!

He points, with the pointer of arrogant rhyme, To the pathway of Wealth and Renown, Where weary fools falter and fall, as they climb To their Goal, that so grimly looks down From its gloomy and sinister crown— Ah me! From its blasted and desolate crown!

And still, on the stretch of the moon-silvered sand, With the ripple of waves on the bar There comes, from a point jutting down from the land, A discordant Voice, echoing far: “Steer your boat, steer your boat for a star!” There you are! And the Voice is quite sure of the star!

And to-night, dear Eileen! in our cockle-shell ship, To our star that is constant and true, We will float on the stream where the willow-boughs dip ’Neath a sky that is wondrously blue, And a myriad eyes twinkle through— All for you! And for me, while I live loving you!

Let earnest men answer the crack of the whip, With their shibbolethed banners aflap— On the fur-covered planks of our cockle-shell ship, As I lie with my head on your lap, I do not care one Commonwealth rap What may hap! Not — one — blooming — young — Commonwealth — rap!

Let other hands delve ’mid the garbage and grime, And let other lips puff till they blaze— Oh! ’tis weary work marching when fools beat the time— But ’tis easy to drift and to laze All our nights and our jubilant days, Sweet Eileen! All our nights, starry nights, and our days!

UNDER THE HEEL OF FATE.

Stay we here as the crowd goes by, Twining along the street— Listless steps and a half-breathed sigh; Laughter and twinkling feet: Care-worn faces where Time has set Pathos in every line: Budding Hope with a dead Regret— Rue and roses and mignonette Bunched in a queer design!

One is clad in a purple gown; One in a skirt of grey; Brushing past where the lights beat down, Following each her way: One is marked by a barefoot son; One by a florid beau, Tangled still was the skein she spun— She who slept when the day was done ... Say—was it ordered so?

See who comes with the drunkard’s gait Out from the taproom door! He was born to a man’s estate, White to his inmost core: Few were turned from the Master’s hand Fit to compare with Jim ... Now by the world despised and banned, Clear as day shows the damning brand Destiny placed on him!

Fools may prate of a will that’s free, Else of their strength and brain: Know they not that the jarrah tree Only splits with the grain? Think they not that a man denies, Or takes his faith on trust— Not from the words of the foolish wise, Not from the vision of sightless eyes— But just because he _must_!

So pass they, while the music plays, Tramping to God knows where: Some goal His in the outer haze Waiting the pilgrims there; But if, as preachers aver, it be Part of some changeless plan Typed in the shop of Eternity, Never a sentence, my friends, did we Write for the play of “_Man_”!

DREAMING THE DREAM OF LIFE.

A fig for the world and its carping cares, Its worry and wear and fret— A fig for the poppies that passion wears, Fast followed by dull regret: A fig for the glitter, and gilt, and gaud That’s won in a tawdry strife, Filling the world with the clash of swords— Marring the sweetest of human chords Born in the valleys where dreamers wait, Dreaming the dream of Life.

If I own no love for the arts that mould The minds and the souls of men, There lurks no charm in the miser’s gold, Or the heft of the writer’s pen. I wear no frown for the clod below, No cringe for the clown above; For I tread but the path where the roses blow, And I pin one bud to her breast of snow, And I weave a glorious wreath to crown My goddess of Peace and Love.

Her liquid eyes are a hazel grey And her lips are ruby red, And the dusk of the night and the light of day In the depths of her glance are wed. The old world hustles on eager feet, And its songs are the songs of strife, But we stand aside from the glare and heat And we draw the curtain of Love’s retreat— This dainty spirit of youth and I Dreaming the dream of Life.

A fig for the warrior’s crown of fame! For the faithless world’s caress! A fig for the poet’s or painter’s name Whose haven is nothingness! A fig for the transient light divine That halos some godlike head! For the Spring-time breaks and the stars all shine, And the world goes round for this wife of mine ... Oh, the spirit of languorous love will live When the spirit of strife is dead!

[Decoration: Man leading camel]

A GLIMPSE OF SUMMER.

While the world’s a-bustle On the upward grade— Straining brain and muscle, Plying pen and spade— Let us go a-dreaming, With your hair a-streaming ... Cupid lies a-scheming ’Neath the mulga shade.

How the rabble clatters As it hurries by! Chasing Passion’s tatters, Sighing Passion’s sigh. Soft airs, sandal-scented, Fan us: golden-tinted, Like a landscape minted, Plain and hill-top lie.

Willy-willies whirling Play for me and you, Curling up, and curling, Till they reach the blue: Like a giant sweeping, Creeping on, and creeping ’Mongst the trees, a-sleeping Mid-day’s languor through.

Bell-bird notes are swelling Upward from the glade; Lovelorn swains are telling Love-tales worn and frayed: Let them strain their tether! You and I together Never wilt a feather, Lolling in the shade.

Earnest souls, or sighing, Death has ever paid! See pale Effort lying Rue- and wreath-arrayed! Come then, Jean, a-dreaming, With your hair a-streaming ... Cupid lies a-scheming ’Neath the mulga shade.

[Decoration: Mining equipment]

THE END OF THE EPISODE.

There is no need to say Good-bye, And weep; There is no call on us for tear or sigh. Men say: “Just as ye sow, so shall ye reap.” Is that, think you, a lie?

Now fate points out our different ways, And so We leave the spot where glamour clothed the days— Leave for those duller worlds that lie below, With something like amaze.

No use to curse: whatever crossed Our way: No need for words: when hearts are tempest-tossed— But those alone may know the cost, who pay, And bankrupt, pay the cost.

THE GOLDEN AGE.

Then life was young And roses hung In gay festoons from star to star, And o’er the farm A silvered charm, The moonlight, flooded full and far— The moonlight, telling wondrous tales Of things that are not, and that are.

How strange the thrall Around it all! The subtle flapping of a wing! You plainly hear Each wheaten spear Unto its neighbour whispering, And almost catch their secrets, too— Those kindred children of the Spring!

And, watching so, The branches throw Fantastic shadows on the grass: How quaint and clear Their lines appear! A woven way where fancies pass— Those secret bairns, that come to most, And live and breathe—but die—alas!

No longer chimes The gold of rhymes That would make music, ay or nay! I number still The month, at will, Clare gave to me a lilac spray ... ’Tis dead and withered now—how long? An age, a year, or yesterday.

Thus rhyme and spray Have turned to clay, While Discord plays on life’s guitar ... ’Twere wise and meet To book a seat, A cushioned seat, in Daphne’s car, While bright eyes shine, and roses twine In gay festoons from star to star!

[Decoration: Gold mining camp]

AT PARTING.

I sit beside you, this last afternoon, And watch the sunset’s change from gold to grey, That mirrors well my life of yesterday Where shadows, born of twilight, fell so soon.

And yet, you seemed so womanly and true— I never guessed “’Twas but to kill the time!” For I, who dwelt in Passion’s summer clime, Played for a life that centred all in you.

I’ve spun no webs, as money-spiders spin, Nor stacked the shining shekels row on row; And yet I have one plea—I love you so! And fatuously dreamed that love might win.

For me this old world smiled when you were by; Life’s circles spread their limits wider yet; There came no grey train-bearers of regret To grace the triumph of hypocrisy.

My heart throbbed to the rustle of your dress; My soul drank in each message of your eyes; For Love, they say, is all our paradise, And wanting Love, this life were nothingness.

But ere we part—O girl grown worldly-wise!— I place one glory-rose amid your hair, And kiss your lips, with something of despair: For, Dear, I love you yet—and yet despise.

THE LEADEN HOOF.

What use to puff a blackened fire Grown emberless within the grate? What use to twang a damaged lyre That’s only half articulate? What use for dumb Desire to thumb The leaves of a curriculum When other men matriculate?

’Tis vain to plan a fabric gay With tangled warp and broken woof— Just listen for a moment, pray, —A magpie singing on the roof— Just hear, and then Throw down the pen: The songs and wings of common men Are anchored to a leaden hoof.

And yet, are other days, that bear No weight of pessimistic sin— A laurel leaf for me to wear, A thought to stir, a smile to win; And o’er the sea There comes to me The echo of a symphony That sets the smiling world a-spin.

Now carmine-hued are Renée’s lips, A thousand gleams light life’s old wine— I tremble to the finger tips To breathe devotion at her shrine; But while I write, Some blasting light Reveals my rose an ashen white That crumbles in these hands of mine.

What use to fret a halting brain While inspiration holds aloof? And hark! the voice bursts forth again, —A magpie singing on the roof— Just hear, and then Throw down the pen: The songs and wings of common men Are tethered to a leaden hoof.

[Decoration: Mining with a windsail]

THE PILGRIMAGE.

For many a year we wandered over hill and dale and mountain, For ever pressing onward till we’re nearly worn and old: Searching for some spot Elysian where the poets’ crystal fountain Sings its songs of calm contentment in a valley draped with gold:

Where the flowers bloom for ever ’neath the sun’s life-giving kisses, But never droop ’neath thirsty skies or feel the winter’s chill: Where roses wreath an arbour where no fatal adder hisses, And the promise of our youthful dreams our later days fulfil.

Then the purple flush of morning thrilled our careless hearts with pleasure, And the sunbeams shooting downward with our spirit shared their glow: Once every bell and buttercup that blossomed was a treasure— In those days that we have dreamed of, in the misty long-ago.

But the joys of life would pall upon the heart that they for ever, Unbroken by a shadow, lit with one eternal glare; And the bonds of love are strengthened by the thought that they may sever, And are hallowed in the memory of lives and loves that were.

The ropes of sand that bound us then appeared so deftly woven That we noticed not each single grain the breezes swept away, Nor underneath the robe of Beauty, silken-cased, the cloven Hoof of Time, that swept the garlands into ruin and decay.

[Decoration: Horse-powered mining]

MIDDLE TWIGS

THE DIAMOND WEDDING.

To-day is our diamond wedding, old wife! Some seventy summers and more Since first we paired off in this battle of life On thirty a year, and the run of a knife ... What! You say I’m a blessed old bore!

Oh, yes, now we are, I admit, pretty right; But still to that hard-grafting time My mind often wanders in quiet delight ’Way down from the tree of prosperity’s height That our industry’s helped us to climb.

And I picture the day to the station we tramped With our characters safe in the swags— A long weary walk, and, by George! you were camped; And don’t you remember the lads had me stamped As one of Glint’s runaway lags?

Well! well! now I wonder is _he_ living still— The super that then bossed the run, You know he was “Captain,” and I “Bo’s’n Bill” In those pleasant old days when we lived on the hill, And I scarcely knew life had begun.

A fine lot of fellows now, wife! were they not? And genuine, too, to the core; And, if they weren’t quite on to the spot In their speech—there’s one thing they never forgot: To leave the latch key in the door!

But then one ne’er dreamed as one worked straight ahead What the future held for us in store; Nor that thrift would build up from this stringy-bark shed A right little, tight little cottage instead, With enough in the stocking—and more.

We hadn’t much then in the furniture line— That’s not to call gorgeous, you know— But still round it all there’s a glow of sunshine That makes the blood dance in this old frame of mine In a stream that naught else can make flow.

Some magic hangs round the old iron-hooped tongs And the splutter the tallow-lamp made ... All seem to my memory like beautiful songs As they float on before me in numberless throngs From the depths of a fifty years shade.

But you must remember how proudly you’d bring Home the cheque at the end of the year: Then you were a queen, lass! and I was a king; Though we usedn’t to lunch off a butterfly’s wing Or any of that kind of cheer.

Have those pleasures all vanished, old girl! did you say? What! Tears in those precious old eyes! No, lass! for you’re dearest and fairest to-day When the golden-haired girl has grown wrinkled and grey ... We’re together, and shall be for ever and aye In our home up above in the skies.

[Decoration: Gold miner with dolly pot]

A GARLAND OF SIGHS.

What is the use of a sheaf of regrets? What is the use of a garland of sighs? Ever is Destiny trailing her nets, A smile on her lips, and with hate in her eyes. Heedless the spirit, beseeching, that cries! Helpless the mortal who sorrows and frets! What is the use of a garland of sighs? What is the use of a sheaf of regrets?

Cast in the midst of the limitless skies, Lost in the æons that e’en God forgets. Merely a life-light that flashes and dies, Merely a soul-spark that glimmers and sets— These are the glories that “being” begets, Granted alike to the foolish and wise— What is the use of a sheaf of regrets? What is the use of a garland of sighs?

Ah! but philosophy always forgets— Writ though the sentence, and cast though the dies— Love may fly downward from God’s parapets, Fanning Eternity’s breath as she flies! Groundlings awake from their squalor and rise, Destiny then may well gather her debts— What is the use of a garland of sighs? What is the use of a sheaf of regrets?

WAITING FOR THE CALL.

Though to-day may groan ’neath its weight of care, and the sun be a raven’s wing That darkens the faces of children fair and saddens the songs they sing; I know it will change at the faintest touch from the hand of a God-sent Spring!

And I know, though the desert be grim and grey, and its life be a Lethe’s pond Whose waters of indolence hold alway the spirits of men in bond, Full well there is room for a strenuous life in the Land that is Just Beyond.

Thus we wait for the touch of a magic string and a glance of a love-lit eye: For a breath from some spirit awakening that passes us clearly by: —We legion of dreamers that drift and live, and dabble and drink—and die.

My Swag and I

When I tramp forth attended by A retinue of “blues,” And all the world and all its wife Are clothed in sombre hues, Then life holds nothing much to win, And nothing much to lose.

’Tis little use to preach and pray, And none to fume and fret— No solace dwells within the days Of love and lush and debt— ’Tis then I throw the bundle off And light a cigarette.

And seeking, so, some mental perch Upon some mental crag, I straightway run the colours up Of self-assertion’s flag, Assume a tragic air, and thus Apostrophise the swag:

“You’ve tarried closer far than friends, And closer too than foes; You’re with me when the autumn falls, And with the first spring rose; Though whence such fond affection comes The Devil only knows.

“You’ve driven me along the track Like mankind’s primal curse; You’ve driven me—behold the proof!— To scrawling slipshod verse; And every wrinkle in your face Denotes an empty purse.

“I know you well from stem to stern, From centrepiece to rim; For many, many years ago You cost a modest ‘jim’— Those years, those sun-tipped years! that now Live with the seraphim.

“Since then I’ve marched the dusty way That better feet have trod, But always found, my bride! in you, An unresponsive clod; Until we two have grown alike As peas within a pod.

“And yet to flirt with you I left A woman passing fair (A pleasant girl who had for me A smile or two to spare), A half-a-dozen quid a week, A couch and easy chair.

“I left——” But, ah! a wintry wind Awakes Matilda’s charms: I calmly spread the old girl out And snuggle in her arms— Untouched by sighs or sentiment, Unscathed by love’s alarms.

SOAKER SMITH.

_He died of thirst._

They tell no tale lugubrious Or horror finely spun, Of martyr’s groans and human bones A-bleaching in the sun; But those who cut beneath the bark May find the very pith Of pathos, in the yarn they spin, Concerning Soaker Smith.

He never dogged on Bayley’s tracks, Nor battled through with Frost, In wild times, when the souls of men Were torn and tempest-tossed, Nor bore the brunt, nor claimed the rank Of fearless pioneer— He was, in point of fact, a joint Who played his life for beer.

Smith sat upon the shanty floor With blazing eyes and brain, While, from the sand, the impish band Of fantods sprang again: They mocked him with a phantom pot, They laughed and lured and lied— “A pint! or I,” he howled, “must die Of thirst!”—and so he died.

Then all the tribe of whiskered wits That nourishes up North, From rub-a-dubs and frowsy pubs Like one gay ghoul came forth; And Blastus painted on a slab A dead marine, reversed, And wrote, the knave, beside his grave, “Hic! jacet. Died of thirst.”

And still, around the shanty bar, When wit and humour fly, They greet the tale that ne’er grows stale With wild hilarity; But those who probe it to the core May find the very pith Of pathos, in the yarn they spin Concerning Soaker Smith.

Pay Wash

Did you ever drive on pay-wash in this land of boom and bust? Did you ever see gold glitter in the dull light of the glim, Where the face is specked and sprinkled with the best of sovereign-dust, And you calkerlate your income at a pick-blow to the jim?

_Hello, on top! Hello! Hook on, and let her go! Or we’ll never make our tucker in a five-ounce show!_