Part 4

Peace to thee, Mother of Empires: Austral, thy younger child Far removed from thy steadfast hand across the ocean wild, Sees not thy mighty cities, nor the pleasurance of thy mead, Nor the glory of thy landscapes where tender flocklets feed. Nor the ancient feudal castles flanked with turrets and with moats, The fane of great Westminster, nor hath heard Big Ben’s deep notes. Thy palaces and heirlooms with proud earls and ladies fair, Of noble blood and long descent, and costly jewels rare. Thy wondrous wealth and poverty with streets one shining blaze, Where tiny children clad in rags are driven within the maze Or labyrinth of alleys, just to sell God’s gift--the flowers, With little bodies blue with cold to pass the mid-night hours. Oh, Britain! Thy great heart doth swell with passionate regret That thou hast so many mouths to fill; then thou must not forget That far away ’neath Southern Cross thy child doth bless thy name, For she hath written in her heart the story of thy fame. Thy battles fought, thy hopes for peace on that expectant day When the crimson tides of human blood for aye shall fade away. And see! Thy royal daughter waits to plead with Britain’s race, To send her vessels filled with kin, to choose a dwelling-place Beneath the soft and balmy skies where giant forests gleam, And the yellow ribboned wattle grows beside the silver stream; Where golden sands of islets float beyond the purple rim Of sapphire seas, and lofty palms wave languourously and slim Where the vine and fig tree flourish within the rich, red soil, And poverty is never known save to those who will not toil. Oh, not with tones of other climes thy daughter Austral sings; Not as the birds of other lands their note’s wild echo rings, The cadence of the bell-bird’s call, the curlew’s haunting cry, The green and scarlet plumage gay which sweep across the sky, The ’possum and the mopoke, and the soft-eyed kangaroo, Nature in all her curious shapes, with flowers of gorgeous hue. In solitary splendour Austral waits within her walls Of rocky sea-girt armoury and for population calls; Her empty Northern Territory hath smiling emerald plains, Her pasture land is waiting for the men who have the brains. Oh! Mother of ours, thy children in thine island of the west Will find a home through Britain’s shore in where their hearts may rest. We know the name of Austral shines upon thy royal crown And that with thine own glorious seal her deeds are written down; And that Austral’s heart is loyal and is ever beating true, And the women of her nation are not dreamers, but they do. And their ever-marching army with intelligence will prove That Australia is advancing in her work of peace and love. Oh! Empire Mother, whom we love, we know thy greatest need Is to teach thy sons to follow--where a little child may lead--

YOUTH AND AGE.

Though lovely youth seems far apart to lie It treadeth ever on the heels of age; A few delicious years of transient joy Then turns the fly-leaf of life’s solemn page.

Some duties stern blent with the lessons meet From nature’s wondrous garden of delight; Fair meadows, where the gold-eyed marguerite ’Opes to the sun and prays, as we, at night.

Then comes a page of slowly dawning thought, The alley-ways where wrong in painted guise Rose-coloured, glows in filmy beauty wrought, “’Tis then that calm reflection makes us wise.”

Again a leaf, and then life’s real intent, Forceful with all its earnestness and pain, Presents itself--but useless to lament Past idle hours--Oh! waste them not again.

Youth and old age, twin destinies which sway The human leaves; youth feeleth not the blast But age though withered knoweth well that May Must pass December’s threshold at the last.

We turn the leaf of this the longer page By some as yet unfinished--let it stand A volume of our hearts, while hoping age Will lead us gently to the shadow land.

And when at length our page is nearly closed With all our faults and virtues there impressed, Let age, its mortal garment--quit composed By the sweet thought: “Who made us knowest best.”

IMAGINATION.

Swifter than light imagination springs Unfettered by its tenement of clay; One moment here, the next on joyous wings Poised o’er the stars which pave the “Milky Way.”

Oh boundless space! Oh mighty concaved dome! Graven with tessallated groups of stars; Imagination hears God’s vibrant loom As the frail spirit soars beyond its bars.

There jewelled in the blue empyreal height Gleam glittering Sirius, Deneb and Altair; Lo, clustering gems of scintillating light, The brilliant retinue of Crucis fair.

Lost in infinitude, it views with awe The majesty of rolling spheres around, Where golden argosies are speeding o’er The vast celestial seas without a bound.

It is enough! We may not lift the veil Which shrouds the altar of the Eternal Throne; The thought doth the imagination quail As meek it kneels before the Gate alone.

Alone a space, within that vastitude-- Beyond all mundane things of time and sense, And change and swift vicissitude, To worship Him for his beneficence--

Imagination’s bounds are limitless, No star of eve trembling above the sea Hath wider path, or sheddeth sweeter bliss, For it, of all God’s gifts, to man is free.

AN AUSTRALIAN REVERIE.

I stood in the Temple of Silence Where in crimson splendour shone, The rich light through stained windows O’er a matchless crystal throne. And a vista of stately pillars Stretched far ’neath a dome of gold, And sculptured recumbent figures Of mortals of kingly mould. Yet with all its surpassing beauty I could feel the icy breath Of the wings of some brooding phantom In this gilded house of death. Here no sound ever broke the stillness, Here solitude ever abode, I stayed till the moonbeams quivered, Then left Silence alone with God.

I stood in the Palace of Pleasure, The revels were wild and gay, And mocking laughter rose and fell As the swift hours sped away. The lights waxed dim, and the flowers Drooped dead in the gorgeous bowls, And the painted faces anon grew sad, And mirthless their empty souls. The long night waned, and the dancers, Their beauty all faded and worn, Looked pallid, and listless, and weary, In the rays of the glorious morn. Ever seeking ephemeral pleasure, Which leads to the path of pain, And down to the Valley of Never, Whence none may return again.

I stood in life’s Garden of Beauty, And, lo! in a floral shrine Of roses and lilies entwining Lay a chalice of dew divine. And a throng of mortals stood waiting For the Angel of Love to pour This holy dew of libation, Which falleth for evermore. And children were weaving garlands As they walked o’er the verdant sward With the flowers of Truth and Perfection In sunlight which ever poured. And here, in this new earthly Eden, With its gleaming wings of white, Was Peace, for all men were Brothers-- I awoke from my dream: “’Twas night!”

THE VOICE OF SONG.

Come, oh song, and charm my sadness, For I fain would weep, With melodious notes of gladness Wooing balmy sleep. While the troops of stars are smiling Calm my fevered brow, All my soul with sound beguiling, Charm, oh! charm me now. Golden daylight hath its laughter, Moonlight hath its tears; Songs are dreams which follow after Thought along the years. Waves of joy, and waves of sorrow, Placid, turbulent, Darkest days have bright to-morrows, Each a message sent. Love and life on wings are flying, Dreams of yesterday, Like the precious hours, are lying Far from us to-day. Sing, then, sing your sweetest number Softer than a sigh, That it bring me dreamless slumber For my weary eye. And thy song shall be for dreamers Tender, soft, and low, And the tune that Boreas murmurs, Which none others know. Waft, oh voice of song, thy measure O’er the air of even, Till the soul, consumed with pleasure, Wakes to thoughts of Heaven.

ALIENATION.

What gulf so deep, what arid desert plain, Or dreary vastitude of ocean main, So deep as the divide of hearts once stirred To sweet response, which only winds had heard? The dead who live but love us now no more, Gone are the echoes of the tones of yore; The faces of our sighs and tears and dreams Are cold as gleaming ice on frozen streams. The days that were may ne’er return again, Though each perchance has felt the aching pain; Yet pride forbade thy wounded heart to let Me plead; but, oh! thou never can’st forget. ’Tis destiny’s decree, and ’twere not meet That when I see thy cold eyes I should greet Thee more--thy burning heart ’neath snow Can never flame again with tender glow.

And yet how strange that it should thus befall, Since love is dead, that fain we would recall Each note that trembled on the golden lyre, Ere it lay silent on the funeral pyre. So be it: Destiny for all sad mortals leaves Some little grains of comfort from life’s sheaves; So, though my love be lost to me for aye, The flowers of memory ne’er will fade away.

AT NIGHT.

When sinks the sun a globe of gold Across the ocean’s breast, And night doth all the world enfold, My spirit will not rest.

And forth it speeds without a sound, For nought can bind my will. The moonbeams cast a halo round, And everything is still.

Once more I tread the flowery field As in the days of yore, My beating heart doth almost yield When near the garden door.

There stand the stately old elm trees Which once my childhood knew, The tulips bend unto the breeze, The fountain plashes, too.

I hear the silvery laughter float From out the cool, dim hall, I hear my brothers’ merry shout As they each other call.

I stand within the ancient room I see the books so rare, And smell the olden rich perfume Of roses clustering there.

And I become a child again, And listen to the prayer My father breathes, like a refrain, Which all our beings stir.

And from the stairs, so black with age The mullioned windows view, Through which once gazed some vanished sage The while he pensive grew.

Its leaden panes with vitreous eyes Look over o’er the sea, Which there in rolling grandeur lies, God’s moving mystery.

And as I through each chamber tread With footsteps light as air, I feel that sorrow’s years have fled And left me young and fair.

And then the old clock in the tower, With solemn voice and deep, Booms out the ne’er returning hour, And wakes me from my sleep.

Lo! from all sadness springs a joy The world may never give, And in these realms of memory My soul at night doth live.

THE WATTLE.

A maze of gorgeous golden bloom The yellow wattle gleams, A glorious wealth of sweet perfume, It dwells beside the streams.

And deep in bush and forest glade On verdurous velvet lawn, Or avenues of waving shade, This empress--Austral born.

With leaves of frosted silver chased, Their myriad tiny heads By trembling drops of dew enlaced A glittering radiance sheds.

And Auster’s beauteous witching flower Hath e’er a jealous hue, For Helios breathed his passion there, And flamed it through and through.

The dawn with heavy scent is sweet, The petals shower their gold In soft abandon at its feet New glory to unfold.

’Tis seen in Afric’s torrid clime, Yet, though it bloometh there, Its spirit dreameth of the time It drank of Austral’s air.

Dear national flower, an emblem thou Of what our children need; To train with love their hands to do Each day some golden deed.

AUSTRAL’S SONG.

Lo! from her long sleep of ages Austral now awakes; Hear the glorious strains ye sages, Her glad morning breaks. Borne afar across the water Trembling to the sky, List! For Britain’s royal daughter Chants her song of joy.

’Mid terrestrial constellations May her statesmen shine; Weld, O Lord, her vast foundations With the link divine. Righteousness be her attendant, Majesty her throne, Liberty her shield resplendent, Equity her crown.

Guard her army and her navy, Citadel and fleet, Vanquish all her foes, we pray thee, Lord, if it be meet. May she ever be sustained In her darkest hour; Grant that peace be e’er maintained By Thy grace and power.

Hark! the grand refrain is swelling, Thrilling every ear; Lord of hosts, within Thy dwelling Holy Spirit, hear. Though earth’s empires all must crumble, Suns and systems wane, In magnificence, yet humble, Long may Austral reign.

I KNOW NOT.

I know not if my future years will be With sorrow crowned, Or if in solitude unknown to thee I may be bound.

I know not, if, as down life’s stream I float With look divine, Some other hand will guide my fragile boat Better than mine.

I know not, when right out of sight of port, High on the crest, Of raging billows which I vainly fought I shall find rest.

I know not if dear spirit friends of yore Will hear my voice, And when they meet me safe upon yon shore They will rejoice.

But this I know that He, my Lord, will stand With glance of love And hand stretched out to lead me o’er the strand To Heaven above.

MOBILITE.

I sought the fragrance of the roses’ breath, Bending beneath their burden of sweet dew; How could I reconcile the thought of death With blooms, which in such matchless beauty grew?

I sought the lily, pure as a pale bride, So stately with its waxen petals wet, Green-stemmed and slender, and it gently sighed “Yet a few days and all my sun is set.”

I sought the woods wherein the whispering wind Chanted a lullaby into my listening ear, And faintly came an echoing voice behind, “E’en as the leaves I change and disappear.”

I sought old ocean with its ceaseless moan, Flinging white clinging arms of spumy spray To grasp the shore, then in a solemn tone It made reply, “I too must pass away.”

I sought the stars which in their orbits sway, And just as day obscures their brilliant light, The star of faith, though doubt may cloud the way, Illumes with fervent glow the mists of night.

Oh! earth. Oh! heaven. Oh! death, which is but life. That still small voice within doth ever say, Here for a season set amid the strife, Live thou thy best--for all must pass away.

Passing away where crowns and sceptred right, Kings, lowly, meekly lay before the Throne, And saints with creeds, and sinners, in the light Of God’s great dawn, will worship Him alone.

MUSIC.

Let the sound of sweet music my spirit fill, Come like the fall of a sparkling rill Which murmureth ever a golden hymn Of enchanting melody, or the dim Low symphony, soft as the zephyrs make, When they ruffle the face of the silver lake. Then pouring beauty, and grace, and light In voluptuous sounds of majestic might; Nearer the beat of the mystic wings, Sweet strains which only an angel sings, While stars as the dew seems to fall around, Then melt again at the heavenly sound.

Breathing, ravishing, tender notes, A billow of chords which for ever floats O’er shimmering seas of exalted bliss, Touching the waves with a soft caress, Sighing through forests where pale moon flowers Glimmer and thirst for thy limpid showers, Or pulsing and thrilling the heart and brain, Oh! loosen the clouds of thy golden rain, And steep my soul in its precious dower Till it panteth overwhelmed ’neath thy magic power.

THE CITY OF THE “VIOLET CROWN.”

Stately upon Egea stands The city of the “Violet Crown,” Where gods and men in fancy met And oratory attained renown; Where sculptured beauty art disclosed In all its matchless symmetry, Brilliant as first when Phœbus glowed Upon its dazzling purity.

There for all time the Prophylæ, The glorious Acropolis, And Nike Apteron doth speak Of Marathon and Salamis. Still looks the Areopagos o’er Where Socrates was once arraigned, His sentence heard--the hemlock drank, And died, but his great words remained.

Here was the lap of literature With elegance and wisdom blent, With the majestic Parthenon Its overwhelming monument. In spirit once again we hear The voices borne upon the wind, High in the Temple of great Zeus, On Mount Olympus far behind.

Oh! gods and heroes, ye no more In solemn conclave since have met, Thy gods were myths, but thy great deeds Burneth within our memory yet. And Corinth, Athens’ sister, lies Straight, straight along the sacred road Where gray Hymettus proudly swells ’Mid purple plain by heroes trode.

Lo! Arcady and Argoli Unfold before our ravished sight, And still the magic influence grows And time moves backward in its flight. There lies the ancient Argive plain Where chiefs in angry council met, When Paris took the Spartan frail, The insult they did n’er forget.

Then fled in haste with her to Troy, And Nemesis the pair pursued, For calling all their braves to arms Greece vengeance vowed to Priam’s brood. And n’er will a magician weave Their tales of prowess and of skill As Homer--none so deft as he Could thus the imagination thrill.

Lo! Delphi, where in darkness sat The sacred priestess, while in wrath ’Mid clouds of incense serpent wound The Oracle would issue forth. Oh! Athena, the “violet crowned,” Thy crystal founts and cypress groves, Where Daphne and Minerva walked, Leave but memory of their loves.

AURELLE.

I would frame a lyric sweet To ma belle Aurelle; Tresses rippling to her feet, Laughing lips as well. She hath hands as lilies pure, Head of beauty’s mould, Eyes like great brown pools so clear, Sparkling depths enfold. On a grassy knoll she stands, Clasping wattle bloom-- Golden flower of Austral’s lands, With its rich perfume. Roses grace her cheeks so fair, And she knoweth well That she doth my heart ensnare-- Ma belle Aurelle. And she singeth like a bird At heaven’s gate, When its swelling notes are stirred By its mate. And I know that Cupid’s dart-- Sharp, yet slender-- Some fine day will pierce her heart, Oh, so tender. But this stately maid of mine Loveth none as me: For her summers are but nine-- Aurelle mine, you see!

THE TALE OF THE GREAT WHITE PLAINS.

Day by day and night by night, Till the great white plains in sight-- Speeds the “Terra Nova” on; Britain’s laurels must be won, So they press to reach their goal: Point they to the Southern Pole. What a tale thou dost unfold, Far surpassing deeds of old. Shades of Spartan heroes these Mightier see in southern seas, Mountain pillars gleaming white In the lone Antarctic night. Dazzling peaks, all tempest riven; Shrouded ghosts, which gaze at heaven: There, majestic, grand and free, Towering o’er that frigid sea, Terror, Erebus, look down From their smouldering fiery throne. Sunken eyes and cheeks so pale, Still the stout hearts do not quail, Though they pay a heavy toll Yet, at length, they reach the Pole. Lo! The Union Jack unfurled, Britain’s finger leads the world. Glory gained, they may not stay, There is danger in delay. Back o’er that wide trackless plain, Mighty Scott with all his train Passed, while death the white steed rode Side by side the way they trode, Through the blizzard’s freezing blast. Will he claim his prey at last? Buoyed with thoughts of northern skies Oft’ their drooping spirits rise. Where fond loved ones’ hopes and fears Mingle with their prayers and tears-- So they struggle weakly on, Strength and courage almost gone. On, until with grief they find Evans they must leave behind. Ah! The other hut in view, Will they see the blizzard through? Yes! The camp at last they reach Cold exhaustion numbing speech, And brave Oates! Oh! Gallant heart, Nobly doth he take his part In this awful tragedy Of the icy polar sea. Facing death ’mid ice and snow See the loyal comrade go; Knowing nought his life could save Sought he thus a lonely grave. Silently we draw the veil And his mournful end bewail.

Months elapse--what is their fate? Wilson, Bowers, alas! Too late: With their chief at length they find In their sleeping bags enshrined, Fresh as when their parting breath Froze within the embrace of death. Saintly looking in their sleep, Only angels o’er them weep; There in royal robes of snow Lie our glorious heroes now.

And the message Scott would send: “Guard our loved ones to the end.” Britain’s, Austral’s hearts will be With their dead in that white sea, And their children, not in vain, Oft will read the tale again, And immortal memory shelve Nineteen hundred years and twelve. Not unmarked the way they trod, For it led them up to God. Lo! A cairn above them stands Raised by gentle, loving hands And a cross upon the spot In that grand Antarctic grott, While for aye they will remain Martyrs of the Great White Plain.

AN AUSTRALIAN HYMN.

God of earth’s nations, Thee we sing-- Loud may Australia’s Anthem ring; Look down in mercy from Thy throne And with great empires make her one.

Lord, not supreme alone in health, Or might, is she a Commonwealth, But by the grace which Thou hast given To spread her seed beneath the Heaven.

Grant that her sons, her citadel, May ever hold impregnable; Swift to defend and slow to hate-- The enemy within her gate.

Fair waves her pennon on the breeze, Long may she reign in southern seas; Oh, may Thy power and glory wait Upon her mighty ship of state.

Oh, may her empire builders be Faithful to base her dynasty On Truth, with Liberty for shield, And Battle-axe of Justice wield.

Yea, Thine the glory, Lord, may she Fulfil her glorious destiny; And Austral’s Anthem ever pour Thy praise till time shall be no more.

GOD’S GIFT.