Part 1

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“_Stella Australis_”

_POEMS VERSES and PROSE FRAGMENTS_

_by_

_E. COUNGEAU_

GORDON AND GOTCH, QUEEN ST., BRISBANE, Printers and Publishers

1914.

_To Miss F. Vida Lahey, of Brisbane, this small volume is dedicated._

In East or West though I abide, By peaceful vale or mountain side, Thy crystal rills and sunlit sea-- Dear land of beauty--calleth me.

Preface.

The _raison d’être_ of this small work was suggested to me at the time of the lamented death of King Edward of happy memory. I essayed to mark the date of his decease by writing a few lines in commemoration of the event, and from that time forward I have felt a desire to express my thoughts in verse, with the hope that Queenslanders, no less than others, may see beauty in everything God has made. I am conscious there are many defects, and ask the leniency of my readers.

I would here acknowledge the kindness and courtesy of “The Brisbane Courier” for the production of my efforts in their valuable journal, which encourages me to trust that some little pleasure may be derived from their perusal. Such is the earnest wish of the Authoress.

Contents

PAGE

Le Roi Est Mort 1

To Australia 2

Peace 4

Hope 6

To Selene 8

If I Might Choose 9

Queensland Pioneers 10

Ibrahim Pasha at Scutari 11

Loss of the “Yongala” 13

“The King” 14

The Brotherhood of Man 16

Isodore 17

Cleveland, Q. 19

The Haunted Chair 20

A Lonely Grave 23

The Seven Ages of Woman 25

The Loss of the “Titanic” 27

A Song of Australia 28

To a Child 29

The Glasshouse Mountains, Queensland 30

Australia’s Destiny 32

Evolution 34

Love’s Reverie 35

To the Rose 36

In Memoriam: Captain Scott and his Comrades who perished in Antarctica 37

Austral’s Heroes 38

Life’s Duty 40

The Temple of the Years 41

The Weavers 42

The Jacaranda 43

Where All is Understood 44

Remember 45

The Quest 46

The Muse 47

In Memoriam: Bishop Webber 49

At Eventide 50

Autumn 51

To Sleep 52

What is Man? 53

The Blue Mountains, N.S.W. 55

The Poet Laureate: Alfred Austin 57

Mount Tambourine, Queensland 59

Dreams 60

Australia to the Empire Mother 61

Youth and Age 64

Imagination 65

An Australian Reverie 66

The Voice of Song 68

Alienation 69

At Night 70

The Wattle 72

Austral’s Song 73

I Know Not 74

Mobilite 75

Music 76

The City of the “Violet Crown” 77

Aurelle 79

The Tale of The Great White Plains 80

An Australian Hymn 83

God’s Gift 84

Because of Thee 85

The Legend of Osyth’s Wood 87

Mount Gambier, South Australia 90

Scents and the Past--A Strong Connecting Link 92

Malta--Just a Glimpse 94

Smyrna 97

The Ports of Palestine 103

The Ivory Temple--For Australian Women 107

The Little Children--Making Good Citizens 109

Music--Its Magnetic Charm 111

Man and His Dress 114

So Long Ago 116

LE ROI EST MORT.

A nation’s soul had hung with bated breath Upon two fateful words: ’Twas Life or Death. The King is dead!

Low lies that royal head; Death’s seal is pressed on that cold marble brow, Free from all sorrow now. He is at rest: The King is dead!

And she, whom he adored, is stricken low; Nor tears, nor loving words, avail him now. The King is dead!

Swifter than morning lights his soul hath Winged its flight beyond the stars. The King is dead!

Earth’s nations bow the head in mutest grief For this: The Royal dead who sleeps beneath yon pall. The King is dead!

Life’s pageantry is o’er; nor pomp, nor cavalcades disturb him more. The King is dead!

Upon that stately bier reposeth now All that remains so dear, whom millions knew. The King is dead!

O Angels, waft him home! O Lord of Life and Death, Thy will be done! The King is dead!

And yet, he lives again! his son doth Him succeed! God bless his reign!

TO AUSTRALIA.

Stella Australis! who with matchless grace Riseth like Aphrodité from the ocean’s foam, With dawn resplendent in thy smiling face And tresses flung to the wild breezes of thy home.

Brilliant the gems thy bosom fair adorning, Rich run thy veins with golden treasure down; Thy girdle formed of pearls fair, as the morning, The starry Southern Cross thy peerless crown.

The silver rills thy rocky slopes o’erflowing, The thunders of thy falls go rushing o’er To join the tree-fringed rivers in their going Down to the briny deep of Neptune’s floor.

And Kosciusko towers in mighty solitude, Poising her regal head toward the sky, And ’mid the vast silence of her altitude Views undisturbed the storm clouds passing by.

Thy subterranean rivers are unsounded, The golden corn is quivering on thy plain, Thy depths are stored with mineral wealth unbounded, The fame of which hath crossed the sounding main.

And thou dost stand, thine arms outstretched with pleasure, To greet thy friends from that dear Motherland, To welcome them and give them of thy treasure, The wealth of ages which thou can’st command--

Of ages when thy central seas became Haunts of primeval monsters of the deep; When thy volcanoes belched their sulphurous flame, And covered all with an eternal sleep,

But thou art waking now, thou great Australia; Thou art an empire of thy very self, A trinity of oceans thee embraces, And crowns thee Empress of one Commonwealth.

Oh, may our Empire-builders faithful be, Basing thy pillars’ vast foundations’ might Firm on the rock of justice, truth, and liberty, Leading thy people upward to the light.

PEACE.

Would that I had the muse’s lyre, The poet’s gift, and warm desire To cleave the heights to glory’s fame; From mountain pinnacles proclaim-- Peace, universal peace.

I’d string my lute, and make the chords Echo my heart’s deep burning words; And bid the nations contemplatively To vibrate to the grandest harmony-- The song of peace.

For nations rise, and nations fall; Battles are fought, and over all Death’s wings, their shadowy darkness spread With woe and terror, fraught with dread To all mankind.

Where are the ruins of magnificence Which the grim demon war has overthrown? Where are the hanging gardens of Semiramis When Babylonian maids their glances threw Upon their bloom?

Egypt and Carthage, Greece and Rome havepassed In long procession down the stream of Time; The sands of centuries o’er them are cast. Gone are those mighty cities at whose shrine Knelt luxury and vice.

And in their train came war with cruel knife, Creating widows, pestilence and death; And man against his brother in the strife Fell ’neath the devastating monster’s breath, His blood the price.

Then speed the day when the white dove of peace, With olive branch extended to the world, Shall all unite in brotherhood to man, With flag of universal love unfurled-- And war shall cease.

HOPE.

I walked with joy: the path was smooth And rose-strewn, for all things to youth Seem beautiful; and in those childhood’s days Oft’ would I wander dreaming down the ways Which led into the grotto in the leafy wood, Where chestnut trees and tall laburnums stood, Waving their golden heads; and ’neath my feet Grew cowslips, anemones, and bluebells sweet; And past the statue of old “Time,” so scarred, Who, scythe in hand, in stony silence stared. And the green sward, like velvet carpet, spread, With the vast canopy of azure sky o’erhead. And down the slope where deer with lustrous eye And schools of rooks would weary homeward fly. Across the lake the swans would graceful glide, While we our daisy chain would weave, beside The bank where lay the water lilies white-- Where in our childish fancy dwelt a sprite. Ah, me! Those days returning nevermore! But thoughts remain alone of those sweet days of yore.

I walked with grief. The way was rough and long. The world was gray and gloomy, and the voice of song Was hushed. No longer did the silver tones of dear Home voices with their music greet mine ear; But sudden memory would sometimes ope a door, And forms and faces, long since gone before, Would force the poignant tears of grief to flow-- For those dear vanished friends of long ago.

I walked with Hope, who stretched a tender thread And led me on and upward, past the dead, Dark days. Then did my captive spirits find That disappointments and the years had sunk behind The grandeur and the majesty sublime Of higher thoughts, and hidden things divine. And sweet communion of kindred souls Without the mortal ban, as free as rolls The ocean when in placid mood; Or the pure air, pouring in joyous flood, Piercing the veil of flesh to see some noble spirit in its purity, With lofty and exalted mein in calm serenity, Making the common tasks a noble duty and a prayer, Ascending to the skies, and placing there A holy sacrifice--The altar place Heaven’s throne-- Making our Earth an Eden of our own.

TO SELENE.

Pale queen of beauty, in thy cold abode Lonely thou art, lonely thou e’er wilt be; No sweet companion ever with thee rode Along that trackless waste of vast immensity.

Or asked thee what dark secrets thou dost hold In thy deep jagged craters, now so dead, Which once with Vulcan’s rage and mutterings bold, Were filled with Jovian darts and thunders dread.

Thou art a soul-less beauty, yet thy form Reflects its softly glowing radiance! And unborn millions yielding to thy charm Will bask in blissful dreams of dalliance.

How many vows, dear, cold and proud Selene, Hast thou seen plighted ’neath thy smiling face? How many broken hearts now rest serene In their last slumber ’neath thy dwelling place?

We love thee for thy sweet insouciance, Nor would we care to dwell without thy light. Thy pallor doth thy loveliness enhance, Adored and stately Lady of the Night.

IF I MIGHT CHOOSE.

If I might choose the home where I would dwell, I’d choose to live where the long rolling swell And murmuring voices of the sun-lit sea Bring restful dreams and sweet tranquility.

If I might choose the flowers that I love best, I’d choose the violet and the pansy, pressed Against my wounded heart to ease its pain, And stay the bitter tears which fall in vain.

If I might choose the songs which I would sing, I’d choose the songs which breathe of gentle spring; With thoughts of love and life, and flowers that bloom, And scatter fragrance after winter’s gloom.

If I might choose the books o’er which I’d pore, I’d choose the treasures rare of ancient lore Where sages told of kingdoms come and gone, And glorious heroes who had laurels won.

If I might choose the friends whom I could love, I’d choose the friends who brave and true would prove In days of sadness and in days of mirth, Tried like fine tempered steel, strong in its worth.

If I might choose the time when I could live In happiest mood, I’d choose the early eve Of life, when feet could rest, and thoughts could flow Like gentle wavelets, rippling to and fro.

If I might choose the grave where I would lie, I’d choose the forest depth, where symphony Of winds would like Æolian harp-strings blend, And sweetest solace to my spirit send.

QUEENSLAND PIONEERS.

The pens of Austral’s sages shall in the misty future dim Write a grand record--Australia’s national hymn Of progress. And on the scroll of ages shall the rhyme Inscribed and treasured be upon the shelf of Time-- Of pioneers’ illustrious names, who fought so brave Against barbaric nature, and who found a grave In the lone bush, and on the burning sand, Fighting the King of Terrors, with no loving hand To pillow soft their dying head, or wipe Death’s dew From their damp forehead ere the tortured spirit grew Fainter and weaker still, till all was o’er; And naught but their great names for evermore Remain. Such heroes hath Australia given to be The graven basic landmarks of her dynasty, When mighty cities on her verdant shore shall rise And teeming millions dwell beneath her skies, Her starry standard, ever white, unsoiled shall be, Urging her onward towards her glorious destiny.

IBRAHIM PASHA AT SCUTARI.

The voices of the Heralds, repeated by the echoes From the mountain-tops to the depths of the Valleys, are calling all good patriots to arms. Those heroes so proud and intrepid who will Never again see their native hearth until covered With glory, bearing their trophies of victory. They will return or die.

Thus they will assemble around their chiefs; Their silver-mounted arms, their burnished Swords flashing resplendent in the sun. The gun, faithful companion of all Albanians, Must be placed in the hands of every youth who Has attained three times the age of five years.

They must, like a furious torrent, rush precipitantly Towards the danger which menaces them. Our dear country is in peril. The enemy hides His designs, and sends ambassadors; but behind Them are the chains with which they will bind Us should they attain their desires; They will make us serfs, slaves, for such is their intention.

And shall we calmly await such dishonor? What is Death to us? Does not the memory Of our forefathers rise and reproach us for our Indolence and lack of courage? Our dear country is the Mother who nourished Our children, and who inspires us to loyal and Pure sentiments, and filial love. Shall we not Then shed our blood for our country?

Hark! bitter cries are borne on the wings of the North wind. The dust whirling in nebulous globes Announces the coming march of an army. It is the thirty-thousand Albanians of Scutari marching to meet the enemy. But see! Who is this mounted officer approaching, Bearing himself with such dignity and repose of Mien; yet who withal can inspire such terror? He of colossal stature, with eagle glance, who With uplifted sword leads on to battle.

This is Ibrahim Pasha, most illustrous of Warriors, distinguished as much for his virtue as for his courage. Advance, then, ye Bosnians, ye Roumelians! Asiatics, all of ye. We fear you not, though Ye were thrice as numerous. We shall be victorious; Death to us is nought.

The carnage is terrible, Amhed succumbs, And there with their great general lie the Brave dead of the Ottoman Army. The rage of the combatants ceases suddenly. A panic seems to have seized them. The Ottoman troops take flight. They are overcome by fear.

Why do they depart? Rather they should remain And learn of the valour and prowess of the Albanians. Their brilliant standards are mingled with Those of the victors. They are trophies, spoils of The enemy, abandoned upon the field of battle.

Return we now to the bosom of our families. Welcome us (youths and husbands) who desire To rest after the heat of the Battle. And, oh Faithful wives, we will teach our children to Follow in our footsteps and imitate our courage.

LOSS OF THE “YONGALA.”

Toll, ocean, toll thy melancholy dirge! Hard fought that gallant ship with foaming surge; Ere morning broke, scarce was there left a trace-- Youth, beauty, all clasped in thy cold embrace. Gone like a dream! dear eyes and gleaming hair, And Queensland’s noble manhood with a prayer Laid on their lips, now cold and still, and dumb, All their last thoughts of God and home, sweet home. Oh, avalanche of grief! see Austral weep For those, her sacred dead, who calmly sleep Inside the Barrier Reef, on coral bed.

* * * * *

Mourn, Austral, mourn! our country’s heart stands still! E’en though rebellious, kneel we to His will. Mourn for the beautiful, who, in the bloom Of life and health, were destined for the tomb! Roll on, remorseless and resistless waves, Incline the mourner’s ear to Him who saves, And at the fiat “Time shall no more be,” May thou restore our dead to us, O Sea.

“THE KING”

Australia’s flag floats on the breeze, On this the Coronation day. From torrid zones to zones that freeze, Old England still doth wield her sway.

So to our King with loyal hearts We lift our loving cup and say “Be as thy sire--a man of parts-- In the great drama thou must play.”

He hath not asked to be a King; The destinies decreed it so. Then forth the royal mantle bring, And press the crown on regal brow!

Australia with her pride of race; The younger Empire’s daughter fair-- The sea-king’s child of gentle face-- Noble and strong to do and dare.

Whose ties of blood far stronger are Cementing freedom’s civil rights Than bands of steel or iron bar-- A constitution strong in might--

Swears her allegiance to thy throne, And sacred person by the sign Of her own virtue, fervent grown, In love of liberty divine.

A race distinctive she hath bred, Offspring of high unsullied name; And down the centuries her tread Shall never bend to servile fame.

Her sons, within her ramparts grim, Watch in her rocky coat of mail; Chivalrous, strong and lithe of limb-- Ready, should foe their land assail.

Well doth she know the hour must come, When boom of cannon, clash of spear, And martial music, sound of drum, Announce to all “the foe is near.”

And in her hands she holds the keys; I hear her footsteps at the gate-- The Eastern Gate--of Eastern Seas, O’er which shall ride her ships of state.

When Western Empires disappear As lost Lemuria in the myths Of ages, Austral still will bear Her story in her Monoliths.

THE BROTHERHOOD OF MAN.

What, though thou be not rich, or great; What, if of thy deeds some men shall prate; What, though thy dearest friends should blame, Or scandal weave around thy name. Walk in the light of day; thy steps shall leave Some traces by the way. Nor do thou grieve O’er thy past deeds. If thou would’st drain the cup To its last dregs of happiness, look up And labour ’gainst despair and doubt And help thy fellow man. Look up! Look out! For every noble deed thy heart shall swell With joy; for thou thyself within the well Of thine own heart dost hold the keys of Heaven or Hell. Endowed with knowledge thou must see His ways; though sometimes veiled they be. Then do not murmur at thy weary load, But sow the seeds of patience on thy road, And in the harvest of the sun and sod Perchance thou’ll lead a brother up to God. Be true unto thyself, so that thou can Seal with love’s seal, the brotherhood of man.

ISODORE.

Once upon a night so dreary I was seated all alone In my sanctum sad and weary, All my heart was turned to stone.

And the rain fell, never ceasing, While the wind with angry roar Howled against the leaden casements, As it n’er had done before.

And my soul was filled with sorrow For my lost and lonely bride; I had gained her, but to lose her, Isodore, my joy and pride.