Part 3

I opened wide the Portal of the Temple of the Years, And passed adown the vista of the aisle of buried tears, Which once my feet had trodden in their deeply furrowed way, The _via dolorosa_ of all we of earthly clay. I sought the aisle of Memories, where in niches finely wrought Were long, long rolls of archives of good and evil thought; I took a scroll, and while I read, the scalding tears would flow, When I saw inscribed the errors of the days of long ago. And then I saw my mother as in the years of old, And all the beauty of her mind she did to me unfold, And spoke to me as erstwhile in her sweet, glowing voice, And told me that each good deed made Angels in Heaven rejoice. Oh, she above, long, long has lived, but still I feel quite sure Her spirit watches over me just as in the days of yore, And when I leave Earth’s twilight, and part from all I love, From the Temple of the Years I’ll go to join her there above.

THE WEAVERS.

Each day we weave, unseen, the web of Fate With threads of tenderest love or threads of hate; The strands are slender when they are unfurled, Yet strong to reach some soul across the world.

With Beauty’s shuttle weave we dews which prism sweet The morning air before the noonday heat, Or web of roses’ attar redolent, Bedewed with silver mist of memories blent.

Oh! Fragrant memory, with its vibrant power, Weaving in daylight, or in evening hour Some poet’s lay to touch the human heart With golden music of the minstrel’s art.

The Past and Gone are woven, and the Present now Is in the web, with cruel, thorny bough, For some frail mortals; but the Angel Sleep Weaves ever future joys for those who weep.

The wind within the trees doth weave a melody, The bright-winged birds weave dulcet harmony With their alluring notes, and wood nymphs hear And weave a sonnet for their lover’s ear.

Whether we in seclusion weave where none intrude On mountain steep or in deep solitude Of the dense bush, or mossy fen, or glade, We weave our bed with web which we have made.

Then let us dream, and weave that no remorse With silent shadow clouds our future course, With love to guide, whose eyes wax never dim, While weaving make some lives one long sweet hymn.

THE JACARANDA.

Once in a garden, Oh! So fair! Was a leafy path, and I tell not where, But it led to an arbor beneath the shade Of a jacaranda, where sunlight played And flickered and flashed through the tasselled leaves In the crimson flush of long summer eves, And in web and woof of the trellised roof From sweet birds’ throats fell golden notes.

Once lovers murmured within that bower Where grew the gracefullest purple flower, And a trembling maiden’s soft answer stole Through somebody’s ear and thrilled his soul, And then with her dark eyes growing dim She solemnly plighted her troth with him, In the hush of night while the pale moonlight Shed a silver shower o’er this lovers’ bower.

Once it fell on a summer day This handsome lover sailed away, And he had vowed he would faithful be To the maiden he loved when o’er the sea, So each day in the leafy arbor dim The maiden waited and dreamed of him, But no missive came, and she breathed his name In stress and tears for three long years.

Once, in the witching gloaming hour, Soft murmurs were heard within that bower, For the lover, a knight, had come to take The lady who waited for his dear sake, And he told his tale, while her starry eyes Tenderly glowed with sweet surprise, And these lovers twain, reunited again, Loved each other more than in days of yore.

And now, in that beautiful garden old, Where the jacaranda its buds unfold, They wander adown the paths so green, Where once as lovers they talked unseen, And the gracefullest flower that bloometh there Is somebody’s darling with golden hair, And still in the woof of the trellised roof, From sweet birds’ throats fall liquid notes.

WHERE ALL IS UNDERSTOOD.

Divinity of heavenly breath which we call life; Which makes us sentient beings ’mid the strife Of earthly years: Oh! make us wise and good, E’en tho’ misunderstood; misunderstood.

Divinity of fate; at thy cold, stern decree, Potent in power, cradled in mystery, Dauntless in courage, and with spirit set, We will not fret; we will not fret.

Divinity of faith; there is one creed, To suffer and be strong; ’tis all we need, Then strengthen us to cling to thee, though should We be misunderstood; misunderstood.

Divinity of love; oh! may we ever be All that thou art in angel purity, And make our lives--forgive the unbidden tear-- The endless song which only thou canst hear.

Divinity of death; though cold, thou press The heavy eyelids with thy damp caress, Thy pinions bear us to the golden flood Of perfect life, where all is understood.

REMEMBER.

Remember when the velvet robe of night Falls softly, or when Luna’s mystic light Earth veils in dim, delusive beauty cold, And all her myriad secrets doth unfold.

Remember when in rosy dawn or dewy eve Some vagrant thought a tender trace may leave Upon thy chastened spirit of a golden hour Which cast its spell with all its magic power.

Remember when the vows so fondly made ’Neath oleanders in the web of sun and shade, That to our throbbing souls with love’s eyes clear It seemed that Paradise to us was near.

Remember when in noontide’s languid heat, ’Mid haunts of men, or mart, or busy street, Or in sweet sleep’s embrace when dreams are bright, My spirit watches in the solemn hush of night.

Remember when ’neath cypress tree I rest With calmly folded hands across my breast, And nought but sacred dust at last remain, It may be that I had not lived in vain.

THE QUEST.

Lo! I have sought thee, Happiness, Beneath the sun, Whose golden core doth Earth caress Till day is done. Where scintillating stars appear, Breathing of thee, As quivering in the vault of air They seem to see. And where pearl-girdled proud Selene, With queenly grace, Climbeth the stairs of Heaven, serene With smiling face. And where in grove and woodland dell, So sweetly meek, Shy, drooping dew-crowned violets dwell Did I seek. There at length I thee have found In solitude, Where but echoes soft resound, Zephyr wooed. And with books of hero lore There thou art, And the chaplets which they bore, And my heart. Happiness, I would not lose Thee so dear; All may find thee if they choose, Ever near.

THE MUSE.

When great Apollon woke his lyre With breath of the celestial fire, To mortals he bequeathed the skill To invoke the goddess at their will, That when with melancholy bound Sweet solace with the Muse was found. Oh! soft the melting strains sublime Which echoed once in Grecia’s clime When pæans of the Homeric bard In marble palaces were heard. And love-lorn Lesbia’s Sappho sung The while her heart with grief was wrung, Who vainly sought with burning words And sweet seductive trembling chords Her Phidias’ love to win, nor more She tuned her lyre on Egea’s shore, Or bent with futile tears to weep, But threw herself from Leucan steep, And still ’tis said from ocean cave At eve is heard beneath the wave Her lute by unseen spirits played Where died the glorious lyric maid, And since, in every sacred shrine, Music’s sweet symphonies divine, On golden wings in darkest hour Float with a deep and vibrant power. The Muse but lifts her magic wand-- We view empyreal heights beyond-- Seraphic sounds caress the ear The Poet Wind breathes on the air. Imagination! List! ’tis thine-- A pastoral scene. The meek-eyed kine Knee-deep in herbage gently low, As loitering to their haunts they go; The velvet turf, the silver stream, The tranquil beauty of the theme; The dark-haired Rosalind in white, Like Neptune’s nymph, sweet Amphytrite. Then sudden stillness; over all The rustling leaves the raindrops fall; Darkness, with thunder pealing loud; The golden light behind the cloud; The storm is o’er, birds trill their lays, Soft-throated rhapsodies of praise-- Thus doth the Muse o’er mortals vain Cast her sweet spell in hours of pain, Exalting souls to high desire, Apollon of the Golden Lyre.

IN MEMORIAM.

BISHOP WEBBER.

In dreams he saw that stately pile appear In matchless beauty of proportion clear On rocky eminence, the city ’neath its feet And winding river, and the vision sweet Which his soul cherished was not all in vain. Behold the vast Cathedral with its lofty fane! For which he toiled and prayed, but Heaven decreed He should not see fruition of the seed. And now within those hallowed walls at rest He lies with meek hands folded o’er his breast Beneath the altar fair he is assigned A fitting resting place for his great mind. Though he be dead, his works will follow him And stones shall speak in that great minster dim, Of strength and majesty so truly wrought-- A temple beautiful for heavenly thought; Each arch in its magnificence alone Reveals a poem writ with pen of stone. Perchance when the sweet sound of vesper bell And trembling notes of the grand organ swell, Reverberating, or with cadence soft and clear, His listening spirit may be hovering near. When holy chant floats down that stately aisle And angel voice of choristers beguile The soul in rapturous awe from mundane things Will soar aloft on Adoration’s wings! And may each human pillar moulded be By master minds of eloquence and oratory; And down the centuries the founder’s name shall shine With his successors in God’s House Divine, While “Glorio in Excelsis Deo” rise In grandest anthem to the lofty skies.

AT EVENTIDE.

With trembling limbs and side by side Two old folks walk at eventide, Two dear old wrinkled faces bow, Two pairs of feet are weary now, At eventide.

Hush! Now they reach the old house door, Where, more than fifty years before, The bride came on her wedding morn, And true love waited for his dawn, Ere eventide.

They gaze with tender age-dimmed eyes Around the hearth while memories Surge backward down the vanished years, Fraught with their sweetness, blent with tears, This eventide.

They talk of loved ones long since gone, And one whom they in silence mourn, The erring one, and thus they stay With bended heads for him to pray, At eventide.

And he, with sudden, deep remorse Resolves to change his evil course, And plead forgiveness ere too late, So softly opes the old green gate, One eventide.

The cottage door is open wide, He sweeps a vagrant tear aside, Sees empty dear familiar chairs, Then gently mounts the oaken stairs At eventide.

Ah! Yes! it is their eventide, For see! He finds them side by side, Wrapped in magnificent repose, Beyond the golden light that glows At eventide.

AUTUMN.

Lo! Sad-eyed Autumn walks o’er all the land, Tenderly touching with caressing hand, Each quivering leaflet, hung from parent stem, Bearing a radiant dew-kissed diadem; And tasselled ruddy gold and variant shade Droop o’er Psyche as in Arcadian glade She doth recline, and Autumn’s lover--Wind-- Chants solemn dirge for Summer, left behind To music of dead leaves, with tears of rain, While whispering, “Summer cometh yet again, And Autumn lingereth but a little while, With glance compassionate on flowers that smile In winsome beauty ere their blooms decay And change when Winter cometh cold and grey.” See! Satin-winged sweet butterflies have flown Like fairy sprites, to choose a graceful throne On crimson rose or soft hydrangea blue, Emblems of the transition we must view. These tender spirits through the fleeting hours Cull the sweet essence from the glorious flowers, And the short seasons pass and may not stay-- Ephemeral pleasures, too, must pass away. So, did not Autumn Winter meet, and Winter Spring, Dear Summer’s charms would vanish nor hope bring Then melancholy Autumn with her Wind may sigh, For Spring, her smiling sister, cometh by-and-bye.

TO SLEEP.

Sweet seraph! Borne upon the wings of love, Softly thou cometh from the realms above, With kiss as light as air, and gentler breath, More beauteous thou than thy pale brother Death, Yet not so calm as he, though both bestow A wondrous loveliness o’er cheek and brow; He with a regal majesty so marble cold In immobility of matchless grace doth mould Each feature with the waxen beauty of the tomb, While thou dost lend the blush of living bloom, And the soft dew of Heaven doth linger there, And lovely Peace imprints her image fair. When eve in crimson splendour of delight Falleth, thou Spirit of the starry night, And they, all million-eyed in radiance shine, Like scattered silver seeds o’er fields divine, Thou to dear children giveth dreamless rest, Softly embraced upon thy tender breast, While care-worn sufferers on the tideless sea Of blissful dreams forget their misery, And bask in visions of the verdurous hills Of some enchanted isle where flashing rills, Gushing sweet music, to the green vales flow, Where cool, slim palms their graceful shadows throw-- Angel of love, by dear Compassion led, To fold in deep repose each weary head. Nature’s sweet nurse, oh ever near us stay Till, life’s dreams o’er, “the shadows flee away.”

WHAT IS MAN?

Monarch of all the animals is man, but what his goal? Being material, yet endowed with an immortal soul, Whence comes he? Hath he lived before? He knoweth not, But if he be immortal, must be Heaven-begot. To live for naught in the great cosmic plan Would prove him lesser than his claim as man. Alone he stands amid his empire, clothed with speech, And attributes of reason and intelligence to reach The heights sublime, for he alone surveys The skies or lifts his eyes to mark the boundless ways Of the vast galaxy of the celestial star-strewn plains, He of the mighty animal kingdom o’er which he reigns, He who is but the veriest echo of the Almighty sound, A faint reflection of his Maker, but who yet is bound By ties unbreakable, for doth he not receive The realm of thought from Him, the air to breathe? The glorious constellations move in their appointed place To the deep throbbing heart-beats of the universe. The planets, trembling arteries of the spacious whole, With each frail mortal the molecule called soul, And he in turn respondeth to the Almighty thought, Each entity distinct, yet like the other wrought; Creature of elements mysterious, half divine! Emotional, fearful, yet vibrating to the electric line Of the invisible, which holds him startled at the flight And magnitude of thought soaring beyond the night Of mundane things; then asks himself--as thousands more-- If death the end of all created beings is, wherefore All the ennobling longings in the human mind innate And love of nature and which all things beautiful elate, This spark of immortality flaming with fitful gleams Of vague remembrance of a pre-existence, seems To shape itself into a dream which comes and goes. And when the influence of the Almighty over spirit throws The searching rays of the great Omnipresent power In Whom we live, to Whom we kneel in sorrow’s hour, Who bids the ministers of all the Heavenly Argosies Of Faith, and Hope, and Mercy, on the ethereal spheres Enthroned with Justice, Truth and Liberty, To teach man that, though mortal, immortality Is his, Oh not, for nought, the powers of death and life, Oh not, for nought, it is the everlasting strife ’Twixt mind and matter, if we be--as some would deem-- Nought but the moving shadows of a melting dream, Why live, why love, why breathe the unconscious prayer? Because, deep down in the human heart, we feel God there; And dare the shadow of his Maker,--man--profess That he can build this empire without him to bless.

THE BLUE MOUNTAINS, NEW SOUTH WALES.

Imperial battlements, whose frowning brows Look ever into space and watch the dawn In roseate loveliness above the snows Of feathery cloudlets which thy breasts adorn.

Ye regal forms! Whose jagged chasms bear The scars of ages, scored by tempests’ rage When cataclysms thundering rent the air-- Thou mammoth ruins of a bygone age.

And hoary Kosciusko in dim distance gleams, So not alone in thy most awful pride Art thou great Austral Alps, whose purling streams Gush from the fissures in thy wounded side.

What buried secrets doth thy caverns hold Of aeons marked by time’s unerring hand? What mystic rites were held by warriors bold, The dusky children of an almost vanished band?

Perchance they crept within thy strongholds grim, Hiding, as erst cave dwellers once had done In old Europa--fearful lest limb from limb They should be torn by some great mastodon.

Mayhap from giddy height they gazed with awe Upon thy ever-changing billowy cloud, Deeming the “Eagle Rock” and “Bear” they saw Gods to which they in adoration bowed.

Oh! lo we bend to Him who fashioned thee From chaos at His own almighty word-- Creation’s wonderland of moving mystery, When seas and winds alone His voice had heard.

So wildly beautiful art thou, the spirit fails To utterly describe thy variant mood. The mantled velvet of thy mossy, vernal vales And magic falls, which flash in foaming flood;

Ye tree-crowned hills! With leafy branches spread, Ye scented pines! Whose odorous breath is flung, Wafted from “Govett’s Leap” and fen and glade, From aerial censer by wood-spirits swung.

And when the orb of day in splendour dies, And trailing flambent clouds thy peaks enlace, The opalescent tints of western skies Reveal the enchantments of thy dwelling-place.

Or when our lady of the night, so fair, Silvers thy forests in translucent showers, Deftly the sylvan poet thrills the air With murmuring symphony from wind-wooed bowers.

Gorges and canyon, clefts and ravines deep, And fairy grotts with starry flowerets set, Where water-lilies pale on green pool sleep; Lo! Nature’s masterpiece, her grand magnificat.

Ye massive pillars! Which have viewed the spray Far, far away upon the impulsive tide For countless years--ye too must pass away. For at His fiat who shall then abide?

And He who changeth not, He who hath made All things of earth we love to change and die, Hath made thee beautiful, that ’neath thy shade Vain man may muse upon his immortality.

THE POET LAUREATE.

ALFRED AUSTIN.

The lyre is mute, the strings unstrung, The muse hath left the song unsung; He weareth on his poet’s brow A fairer wreath than men bestow Or fame may give. As leaves are scattered o’er the mould, Unheeded by the world so cold, Yet, traced indelibly on stone, Their shapes remain through ages flown, So sweet words live.

His pleasure was a healthy mind, Teaching man’s duty to mankind; No thought of glory or of gain Centred within that brilliant brain But love to men. Oh, life! Oh, death! Thou hast no sting! Swiftly upon thy glorious wing, Trembling, within the golden maze, He passed to pour his sweetest lays Beyond our ken.

His ivory casket lies at rest In that dear island of the west; His song hath ceased, his rest is won, And peace is his at set of sun, For he hath led Some weary mortals to the spheres Of fancy, far from pensive tears, Where, in imagination’s bliss, They hung upon a poet’s kiss. Oh, happy dead!

And Britain mourns him not alone, And not because of sculptured stone, Or tributes great, or elegy, Will her laureate remembered be, But in her heart. Though rugged be the path to fame, Yet history hath writ his name A star of magnitude that shines; For fame, whose lustre few entwines, Hath crowned his art.

MOUNT TAMBOURINE, QUEENSLAND.

How shall I paint in words thine image fair, Set in a background of red-winged light, Glinting through portieres of soft foliage there, Gold-flecked ere fading into deepening night? List to the music of cascades which pour Their liquid silver tribute down the steep To moss-clad boulders, where it bubbles o’er, And fronded ferns in verdurous beauty peep. Breathless--I wait near thy pellucid stream To view some woodland nymph with flashing feet And brow, flower-bound for this alluring dream-- A witching Flora in this cool retreat. Pensive I grow until the bell-bird’s note-- Organ-like, pealing in its grand solemnity-- Brings haunting memories, as the deep tones float, Of vanished hours--lost chords of melody. Crowned in magnificence is thy majestic head, Queenly thy royal robe of purple grace, With tender nuances o’er dewy verdure spread, Where the Pacific’s jasper waves embrace. Whether in winnowed raiment of the crystal dawn, Or golden mantle of the sun’s rich ore, Or jewelled scarf star studded round thee worn, Thy smiles or tears but charm me more and more. Farewell, thy stately beauty! Stay--a thought Hath touched the deep recesses of my soul-- Thou standest, thou Colossus, tempest-wrought, A Beacon on Time’s sea to mark a shoal!

DREAMS.

I dream of thee when morn is nigh And Eos, incense laden, Through rosy portals of the sky, Chaseth the white mist maiden.

I dream when falls the tender night, And walks the pale queen moon, And peeping stars with eyes so bright Whisper “She cometh soon.”

I watch them in the fragrant gloom Hanging so pure and high, For they are woven in my dream, And gleam all silently.

Beloved! As a budding rose With petals just unfolding, My passion would thy heart unclose A flower of love’s own moulding.

And oft in slumber wrapped profound I see thy lashes wet, And know thy thoughts with mine are bound, And thou dost not forget.

My dreams I cherish, and thou must By this, my only token, Know that my love, till I am dust, Shall e’er remain unbroken.

And when that “Light that never was” On earth or sky or sea Shall break o’er me, ’twill be because God led me up through thee.

AUSTRALIA TO THE EMPIRE MOTHER.