Part 17
The Charter’s read; the rites are o’er; The trumpet’s blare and cannon’s roar Are silent, and the flags are furled; But not so ends the task to build Into the fabric of the world The substance of our hope fulfilled-- To work as those who greatly have divined The lordship of a continent assigned As God’s own gift for service of mankind.
O People of the onward will, Unit of Union greater still Than that to-day hath made you great, Your true Fulfilment waiteth there, Embraced within the larger fate Of Empire ye are born to share-- No vassal progeny of subject brood, No satellite shed from Britain’s plenitude, But orbed with _her_ in one wide sphere of good!
_James Brunton Stephens._
RUSSELL
CCXXII
THE BIRTH OF AUSTRALIA
Not ’mid the thunder of the battle guns, Not on the red field of an Empire’s wrath, Rose to a nation Australasia’s sons, Who trod to greatness Industry’s pure path. Behold a people through whose annals runs No damning stain of falsehood, force or wrong,-- A record clear as light, and sweet as song, Without one page the patriot’s finger shuns! Where ’mid the legends of old Rome, or Greece, Glows such a tale? Thou canst not answer, Time! With shield unsullied by a single crime, With wealth of gold and still more golden fleece, Forth stands Australia, in her birth sublime,-- The only nation from the womb of Peace!
_Percy Russell._
LAWSON
CCXXIII
THE WAR OF THE FUTURE
There are boys to-day in the city slum and the home of wealth and pride Who’ll have one home when the storm is come, and fight for it side by side, Who’ll hold the cliffs ’gainst the armoured hells that batter a coasted town, Or grimly die in a hail of shells when the walls come crashing down; And many a pink-white baby girl, the queen of her home to-day, Shall see the wings of the tempest whirl the mist of our dawn away-- Shall live to shudder and stop her ears to the thud of the distant gun, And know the sorrow that has no tears when a battle is lost or won,-- As a mother or wife, in the years to come, will kneel, mild-eyed and white, And pray to God in her darkened home for the ‘men in the fort to-night.’
But, O! if the cavalry charge again as they did when the world was wide, ’Twill be grand in the ranks of a thousand men in that glorious race to ride, And strike for all that is true and strong, for all that is grand and brave, And all that ever shall be, so long as man has a soul to save.
He must lift the saddle, and close his ‘wings,’ and shut his angels out, And steel his heart for the end of things, who’d ride with the stockman scout, When the race is rode on the battle track, and the waning distance hums, And the shelled sky shrieks or the rifles crack like stockwhips amongst the gums-- And the ‘straight’ is reached, and the field is ‘gapped,’ and the hoof-torn sward grows red With the blood of those who are handicapped with iron and steel and lead; And the gaps are filled, though unseen by eyes, with the spirit and with the shades Of the world-wide rebel dead who’ll rise and rush with the Bush Brigades.
All creeds and trades will have soldiers there--give every class its due-- And there’ll be many a clerk to spare for the pride of the jackeroo. They’ll fight for honour, and fight for love, and a few will fight for gold, For the devil below, and for God above, as our fathers fought of old; And some half-blind with exultant tears, and some stiff-lipped, stern-eyed, For the pride of a thousand after-years and the old eternal pride. The soul of the world they will feel and see in the chase and the grim retreat-- They’ll know the glory of victory--and the grandeur of defeat.
They’ll tell the tales of the ‘nights before’ and the tales of the ship and fort, Till the sons of Australia take to war as their fathers took to sport, Their breath come deep and their eyes grow bright at the tales of chivalry, And every boy will want to fight, no matter what cause it be-- When the children run to the doors and cry, ‘O, mother, the troops are come!’ And every heart in the town leaps high at the first loud thud of the drum. They’ll know, apart from its mystic charm, what music is at last, When, proud as a boy with a broken arm, the regiment marches past; And the veriest wreck in the drink-fiend’s clutch, no matter how low or mean, Will feel, when he hears the march, a touch of the man he might have been. And fools, when the fiends of war are out and the city skies aflame, Will have something better to talk about than a sister’s or brother’s shame, Will have something nobler to do by far than to jest at a friend’s expense, Or to blacken a name in a public bar or over a backyard fence. And this you learn from the libelled past (though its methods were somewhat rude), _A nation’s born when the shells fall fast, or its lease of life renewed;-- We in part atone for the ghoulish strife--for the crimes of the peace we boast-- And the better part of a people’s life in the storm comes uppermost_.
_Henry Lawson._
MAQUARIE
CCXXIV
A FAMILY MATTER
Come, my hearties--work will stand-- Here’s your Mother calling!-- Wants us all to lend a hand, And go out Uncle-Pauling. Catch your nags, and saddle slick, Quick to join the banners! Folks that treat the fam’ly thick Must be taught their manners.
Who would potter round a farm Fearful of clubbed gunstroke, And, keeping cosy out of harm, Die of loafer’s sunstroke? Gusts of distant battle-noise Tell that men are falling; Get your guns, my bonny boys, Here’s your Mother calling!
Buckle on your cartridge belts, Waste no time about it! Force is massing on the veldts, We must off and rout it. What if fate should work its worst! Men can grin in falling; Come on, chaps, and be the first,-- Here’s your Mother calling!
_Arthur Maquarie._
ADAMS
CCXXV
THE DWELLINGS OF OUR DEAD
They lie unwatched, in waste and vacant places, In sombre bush or wind-swept tussock spaces, Where seldom human tread And never human trace is-- The dwellings of our dead!
No insolence of stone is o’er them builded; By mockery of monuments unshielded, Far on the unfenced plain Forgotten graves have yielded Earth to free earth again.
Above their crypts no air with incense reeling, No chant of choir or sob of organ pealing; But ever over them The evening breezes kneeling Whisper a requiem.
For some the margeless plain where no one passes, Save when at morning far in misty masses The drifting flock appears. Lo, here the greener grasses Glint like a stain of tears!
For some the common trench where, not all fameless, They fighting fell who thought to tame the tameless, And won their barren crown; Where one grave holds them nameless-- Brave white and braver brown.
But, in their sleep, like troubled children turning, A dream of mother-country in them burning, They whisper their despair, And one vague, voiceless yearning Burdens the pausing air....
‘_Unchanging here the drab year onward presses, No Spring comes trysting here with new-loosed tresses, And never may the years Win Autumn’s sweet caresses-- Her leaves that fall like tears._
_And we would lie ’neath old-remembered beeches, Where we could hear the voice of him who preaches And the deep organ’s call, While close about us reaches The cool, grey, lichened wall._’
But they are ours, and jealously we hold them; Within our children’s ranks we have enrolled them, And till all Time shall cease Our brooding bush shall fold them In her broad-bosomed peace.
They came as lovers come, all else forsaking, The bonds of home and kindred proudly breaking; They lie in splendour lone-- The nation of their making Their everlasting throne!
_Arthur Adams._
OGILVIE
CCXXVI
THE BUSH, MY LOVER
The camp-fire gleams resistance To every twinkling star; The horse-bells in the distance Are jangling faint and far; Through gum-boughs lorn and lonely The passing breezes sigh; In all the world are only My star-crowned Love and I.
The still night wraps Macquarie; The white moon, drifting slow, Takes back her silver glory From watching waves below; To dalliance I give over, Though half the world may chide, And clasp my one true Lover Here on Macquarie side.
The loves of earth grow olden Or kneel at some new shrine; Her locks are always golden-- This brave Bush-Love of mine; And for her star-lit beauty, And for her dawns dew-pearled, Her name in love and duty I guard against the world.
They curse her desert places! How can they understand, Who know not what her face is And never held her hand?-- Who may have heard the meeting Of boughs the wind has stirred, Yet missed the whispered greeting Our listening hearts have heard.
For some have travelled over The long miles at her side, Yet claimed her not as Lover Nor thought of her as Bride: And some have followed after Through sun and mist for years, Nor held the sunshine laughter, Nor guessed the raindrops tears.
If we some white arms’ folding, Some warm, red mouth should miss-- Her hand is ours for holding, Her lips are ours to kiss; And closer than a lover She shares our lightest breath, And droops her great wings over To shield us to the death.
The winds of Dawn are roving, The river-oaks astir ... What heart were lorn of loving That had no Love but her? Till last red stars are lighted And last winds wander West, Her troth and mine are plighted-- The Lover I love best!
_William Ogilvie._
EVANS
CCXXVII
A FEDERAL SONG
In the greyness of the dawning we have seen the pilot-star, In the whisper of the morning we have heard the years afar. Shall we sleep and let them be When they call to you and me? Can we break the land asunder God has girdled with the sea? For the Flag is floating o’er us, And the track is clear before us;-- From the desert to the ocean let us lift the mighty chorus For the days that are to be.
We have flung the challenge forward:--‘Brothers stand or fall as one!’ She is coming out to meet us in the splendour of the sun;-- From the graves beneath the sky Where her nameless heroes lie, From the forelands of the Future they are waiting our reply! We can face the roughest weather If we only hold together, Marching forward to the Future, marching shoulder-firm together; For the Nation yet to be.
All the greyness of the dawning, all the mists are overpast; In the glory of the morning we shall see her face at last. He who sang, ‘She yet will be,’ He shall hail her, crowned and free! Could we break the land asunder God had girdled with the sea? For the Flag is floating o’er us, And the star of Hope before us, From the desert to the ocean, brothers, lift the mighty chorus For Australian Unity!
_George Essex Evans._
O’HARA
CCXXVIII
FLINDERS
He left his island home For leagues of sleepless foam, For stress of alien seas, Where wild winds ever blow; For England’s sake he sought Fresh fields of fame, and fought A stormy world for these, A hundred years ago.
And where the Austral shore Heard southward far the roar Of rising tides that came From lands of ice and snow, Beneath a gracious sky To fadeless memory He left a deathless name A hundred years ago.
Yea, left a name sublime From that wild dawn of Time, Whose light he haply saw In supreme sunrise flow, And from the shadows vast, That filled the dim dead past, A brighter glory draw, A hundred years ago.
Perchance, he saw in dreams Beside our sunlit streams In some majestic hour Old England’s banners blow; Mayhap, the radiant morn Of this great nation born, August with perfect power, A hundred years ago.
We know not,--yet for thee Far may the season be, Whose harp in shameful sleep Is soundless lying low! Far be the noteless hour That holds of fame no flower For those who dared our deep A hundred years ago!
_John Bernard O’Hara._
CCXXIX
THE AUSTRALIAN COMMONWEALTH
Lo, ’tis the light of the morn Over the mountains breaking, And our Empire’s day is born, The life of a Nation waking To the triumph of regal splendour, To the voice of conquering fate That cries ‘No longer wait!’ To the rising hopes that send her Fearless upon her way With no thoughts of her yesterday, But dreams of a mighty State Great ’mid the old grave nations, Divine in her aspirations; Blest be the men who brought her, Freedom’s starriest daughter, Out of the night Into the light, A power and a glory for evermore!-- Let the old world live in the pages Time wrote in the dark of the ages, For us ’tis the light of the morning breaking on sea and shore!
They found her a maiden with dower Only of seasons sunny, Blue skies and the frail white flower Of Peace with its song’s sweet honey, And the joy of her wild seas flinging Their voices on fairy strands Where only the winds’ soft singing Broke on the sleep of day, Or a whistling spear by the dim green way Of the water and the lands. Green were the woodlands round her, Blue were the seas that bound her, Soft was the sky above her, A dreamily lonely lover; Streams and dells And the mountain wells, And the voice of the forest were hers alone, And the life of the grim grave ranges, The night and the noon and the changes Of light on the topmost peaks when the rose of the dawn was blown.
Lift up thine honoured head! The skies are all aflame; The east to morn is wed; Lift up thine honoured head, And fearless keep thy fame! There is work for thee to do, A nation’s work is thine; O land, beloved, mine! Gird thee for life anew! With strength, that fails not, keep Thy pathway bright with Good; Let Honour, Justice, sweep Aside the weeds that creep-- Grim Error, Unbelief, And their Titanic brood, Be thine the task to rear The spacious halls of Art, To hearken to sweet Song, Be thine the pride to fear No foe while in thy heart The love of Truth is strong, To help the weak, and be Beloved and great and free, Even as thy Mighty Mother--the Grey Queen of the Sea!
_John Bernard O’Hara._
IX
NEW ZEALAND
BRACKEN
CCXXX
NEW ZEALAND HYMN
God of Nations! at Thy feet In the bonds of love we meet, Hear our voices, we entreat, God defend our free land! Guard Pacific’s triple star From the shafts of strife and war. Make her praises heard afar, God defend New Zealand!
Men of every creed and race Gather here before Thy face, Asking Thee to bless this place, God defend our free land! From dissension, envy, hate, And corruption guard our State, Make our country good and great, God defend New Zealand!
Peace, not war, shall be our boast, But, should foes assail our coast, Make us then a mighty host, God defend our free land! Lord of Battles, in Thy might, Put our enemies to flight, Let our cause be just and right, God defend New Zealand!
Let our love for Thee increase, May Thy blessings never cease, Give us plenty, give us peace, God defend our free land! From dishonour and from shame Guard our country’s spotless name, Crown her with immortal fame, God defend New Zealand!
May our mountains ever be Freedom’s ramparts on the sea, Make us faithful unto Thee, God defend our free land! Guide her in the nations’ van, Preaching love and truth to man, Working out Thy glorious plan, God defend New Zealand!
_Thomas Bracken._
BATHGATE
CCXXXI
OUR HERITAGE
A perfect peaceful stillness reigns, Not e’en a passing playful breeze The sword-shaped flax-blades gently stirs: The vale and slopes of rising hills Are thickly clothed with yellow grass, Whereon the sun, late risen, throws His rays, to linger listlessly. Naught the expanse of yellow breaks, Save where a darker spot denotes Some straggling bush of thorny scrub; While from a gully down the glen, The foliage of the dull-leaved trees Rises to view; and the calm air From stillness for a moment waked By parakeets’ harsh chattering, Swift followed by a tui’s trill Of bell-like notes, is hushed again. The tiny orbs of glistening dew Still sparkle, gem-like, ’mid the grass; While morning mist, their Mother moist, Reluctant loiters on the hill, Whence presently she’ll pass to merge In the soft depths of the blue heav’ns. This fertile Isle to us is given Fresh from its Maker’s hand; for here No records of the vanished past Tell of the time when might was right, And self-denial weakness was; But all is peaceful, pure, and fair. Our heritage is hope. We’ll rear A Nation worthy of the land; And when in age we linger late, Upon the heights above life’s vale, Before we, like the mist, shall merge In depths of God’s eternity, We’ll see, perchance, our influence Left dew-like, working for the good Of those whose day but dawns below.
_Alexander Bathgate._
MONTGOMERY
CCXXXII
TO ONE IN ENGLAND
I send to you Songs of a Southern Isle, Isle like a flower In warm seas low lying: Songs to beguile Some wearisome hour, When Time’s tired of flying.
Songs which were sung To a rapt listener lying, In sweet lazy hours, Where wild-birds’ nests swing, And winds come a-sighing In Nature’s own bowers.
Songs which trees sing, By summer winds swayed Into rhythmical sound; Sweet soul-bells sung Through the Ngaio’s green shade, Unto one on the ground.
Songs from an Island Just waking from sleeping In history’s morning; Songs from a land Where night shadows creep When your day is dawning.
* * * * *
O songs, go your way, Over seas, over lands, Though friendless sometimes, Fear not, comes a day When the world will clasp hands With my wandering rhymes.
_Eleanor Elizabeth Montgomery._
CCXXXIII
A VOICE FROM NEW ZEALAND
_Cooee!_ I send my voice Far North to you, Rose of the water’s choice, Dear England true! Guardian angels three-- Faith, Hope, and Charity-- Welcome the strong sons free Born unto you.
_Cooee!_ Through flamegirt foam Speeds now my soul Straight to thy hero home. Blue waters roll Round where Immortals trod-- Shakespeare--half man, half God-- Laughed, with divining rod, Sounding the soul.
Thou shining gem of sea! Angels on wing, Resting where men are free, Teach them to sing Such songs blind Milton heard, Coleridge and Wordsworth stirred, Keats’, and our own lost bird’s Haunting, sweet ring.
_Cooee!_ North, hear the song On the South’s breath, Laurels to life belong; Cypress to death! Wreathe in song’s garland fair, Culled with a Nation’s care, My cypress leaf--a prayer, Warm with South’s breath!
_Eleanor Elizabeth Montgomery._
NOTES
I.--ENGLAND
I
_Agincourt, or the English Bowmans Glory. To a pleasant new Tune._ Quoted in Heywood’s _King Edward IV._, and, therefore, popular before 1600. This ballad has been severely edited, and I omit several stanzas. It is printed in full in Hazlitt’s edition of Collier’s ‘Shakespeare’s Library,’ vol. i. (Reeves & Turner, 1825).
II
Published in 1589.
III-IV
Both were published in _Poemes Lyrick and Pastorall_ (1605?) and _Poemes_ (1619). As to the first:--l. 6. _Caux_ (‘commonlie called Kidcaux,’ says Holinshed) was the district north-east of the mouth of the Seine.
l. 83. _bilbos._ Swords, from Bilbao.
92. _ding._ To belabour with blows.
V-VI
The first is from John of Gaunt’s dying speech (_King Richard II._, Act ii. sc. 1). _King Richard II._ was probably written early in 1593. It was published anonymously in 1597. The second is from _King John_, Act v. sc. 7. 1594 is the date assigned to Shakespeare’s _King John_, which was first printed in the First Folio (1623). These and the two succeeding numbers follow the text of ‘The Globe Edition’ of Shakespeare’s Works. I am indebted to the publishers of that edition, Messrs. Macmillan & Co., and to the Delegates of the Clarendon Press, Oxford, for kindly extending to readers of this volume the benefits of the scientific labours of Dr. W. G. Clark and Mr. W. A. Wright.
VII
From various parts of _King Henry V._ The play was written in 1598, and performed for the first time early in 1599. The first complete version was published in the First Folio (1623).
l. 23. _rivage._ The shore.
27. _sternage._ (To sternage of=astern of, so as to follow.)
40. _puissance._ Strength.
87. _battle._ An army, or division of an army.
90. _accomplishing._ Equipping.
144. _Crispian._ ‘The daie following,’ says Holinshed, ‘was the five and twentieth of October in the year 1415, being then fridaie, and the feast of Crispine and Crispinian, a daie faire and fortunate to the English, but most sorrowfull and unluckie to the French.’
174. _Whiffler._ Herald or usher.
183. _ostent._ Clear, visible.
VIII
_King Henry VIII._, Act ii. sc. 3.
IX
Printed by Percy (_Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, 1765). ‘From an old black-letter copy.’
_Cailìver_ (l. 21)=Caliver, a kind of light musket.
X
There are broadsides of this ballad in the Roxburghe and Bagford Collections. The version here given is taken from Mr. Henley’s volume, _Lyra Heroica_ (David Nutt, 1891), by permission of editor and publisher. The full title of the Roxburghe broadside is as follows:--‘The Honour of Bristol, shewing how the Angel Gabriel of Bristol fought with three ships, who boarded as many times, wherein we cleared our Decks, and killed five hundred of their Men, and wounded many more, and make them fly into Cales, where we lost but three men, to the Honour of the Angel Gabriel of Bristol. To the tune of _Our Noble King in his Progress_.’
Calés (l. 13), pronounced as a dissyllable, is, of course, Cadiz.
XI--XII
The first is entitled: _To the Lord General Cromwell, May 1652: On the Proposals of certain Ministers at the Committee for Propagation of the Gospel_, and was written against the intolerant Fifteen Proposals of John Owen and the majority of the Committee. This sonnet first appeared at the end of Philip’s _Life of Milton_ (1694).
_Hireling wolves_ (l. 14)=the paid clergy.
The second is from the chorus of _Samson Agonistes_ (ll. 1268-1286). _Samson Agonistes_ was first published in 1671, in the small octavo volume which contained _Paradise Regained_.
XIII--XIV
The _Horatian Ode_ was first printed in 1776, in Captain Edward Thompson’s edition of Marvell’s _Works_.
l. 15. _side._ Party.
32. _Bergamot._ A kind of pear.
67, &c. The finding of the human head at Rome, regarded as a happy omen, is mentioned by Pliny (_Nat. Hist._, xxviii. 4).
The second appeared in _Poems_ (1681).
XV