Poems and Verses

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!

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. Ah! I felt so sorely wounded, I should see her nevermore, For pale death had swiftly borne her To that misty, silent shore. In her bridal robe we laid her Clasped her gems o’er filmy lace With her golden tresses streaming Round about her saintly face. So my thoughts went ever trending To my darling’s lonely grave, While the firelight threw its shadows And the tears my cheeks did lave. Sudden, came a thrill of terror— As a long despairing moan Smote my ear, from out the casement, Where the elder tree had grown. Fearful, oped I wide the window, Where, with lantern gleaming red, Stood my dearest Isodora Or her spirit from the dead. Then she spoke in voice quite human, “’Tis your own, your Isodore;” Quickly I unbarred the portal As she prone sank to the floor. ’Twas no vision; she was mortal And her tale she slowly told; How the wicked sexton robbed her, As she lay in coffin cold. He had hacked her slender fingers To secure the rings so rare; She, from cataleptic slumber Woke, and saw his lantern there. Then the sexton ghastly gazing, Dropped his booty there and fled, Little thinking, he, in robbing, Gave me back my precious dead. Happy years have we together Spent, my Isodore and I; And no more I pensive ponder, Lonely when the night winds sigh.

She hath no strands of coral, rimmed with gold, Or mermaids, in green dells of ancient story; But rippling, laughing waves her feet enfold, And land and seascape gleam with glittering glory. Clad in her verdant raiment, in the crystal dawning While golden wings of beauty o’er her rest, Its passion, dimming the pale star of morning, The Sun god’s kiss upon her face is pressed. And ’neath the ti-tree’s shade, and spreading fig trees, The meek kine, lowing, wander at their will; While, borne upon the fragrant evening breeze, The mopoke’s notes are heard from “copse” and hill. And lo! When Luna’s orb in splendour lies O’er Stradbrooke’s purple hill, and gem-set isles, She gazes o’er the Point ’neath opal skies To Cotton’s mountain wreathed in vernal smiles. The red land waits for man to till the sod With plough-share and with courage, heart and will— To sow the seed where lies the barren clod, Turning the grist to gold, with Nature’s mill.

One of a large house party, on a frosty Christmas Eve, The conversation led to ghosts in which some folks believe. “I wish this house were haunted,” cried a lady young and gay; “I’d shut myself within its gloom, and none should say me nay.” Our host informed us gravely that up the broad oak stair, Was a sealed and disused chamber, which owned a haunted chair. His grandfather long years before was missing from his bed; They searched and found him sitting within the arm-chair—dead. His wealth had been proverbial, but no one found a will; And though in manner sometimes strange, no one had wished him ill. “The secret never had been solved,” our host said, “nor a trace Of ought remained, except the land, and this ancestral place.” “’Tis done,” the lady said; “to-night I sleep in that arm-chair. “And if his ghost appears to me, I’ll never show my fear.” That night the lady went and sat within the chamber dim; She drew the curtain, chose a book, and read a Christmas hymn. And then a fear possessed her, she grasped the huge arm-chair, For in the shadows she could see a man with whitened hair. His hands were clasped above him in suppliant attitude. And tears were streaming down like rain, while words in torrent flowed: “I had a brother once, a boy. I loved him as my life, But he destroyed my happiness, he stole my promised wife. We parted, he to Austral’s land, I for long years to mourn, Until his widow sought me out to aid her infant son. We married, and I brought him up, but he my wealth desired; I hid it here, for of this youth with fear was I inspired. Who’er shall find this secret, as my will doth so declare, Shall take the half, and all the rest the poor shall have a share; And Christ reward the hand that finds, and does this Christian deed, For He hath said unto His flock, “See that my lambs ye feed.” She rose with awe, he beckoned her, the chair began to creak; He pressed two large brass nails which lay beneath the leather back. And there inside the haunted chair were heaps and heaps of gold. And papers tied with tapes, and strings, and dusty parchments old. Her dream she told that Christmas morn, the haunted chair was brought— A fearful weight it was to move, ’twas well and truly wrought— At length with pressure brought to bear the nails began to move. When there disclosed to light of day, lay the old man’s treasure-trove. The lady won’t believe in ghosts, but she believes in dreams, And also that this lovely world is better than it seems. To-day we are the owners of the ancient haunted chair— And clasping Christmas presents my wife is seated there.

Somewhere it lies near the gleaming bay, On the Redland road with its winding way Through the bush—where a fence in a lonely spot Surrounds a grave in its hallowed plot. List in nights so lonely Zephyrs sigh only A requiem. Through the scorching heat of the bush fire’s breath, Which hath spent its rage near this place of death, Unscathed it remains—with the tree which grows At the foot of this grave, which nobody knows— Where in night so lonely The winds breathe only A requiem. Somebody knew; but now nobody knows Of the poor lone corse which in deep repose Lies in earth’s embrace—till the sleeper awakes In the glorious dawn, when God’s morning breaks, And no more so lonely The winds sigh only A requiem. Is it the grave of a father old Who had toiled too hard for the red, red gold? Or a brother, a sister, a mother, or son Or a lover adored by a trusting one, Who, through long years, Shed bitter tears— Her requiem? Then peace to this grave, of whom nobody knows, Right close to the track, where the sunset glows Through the network and woof of the whispering leaves— One spirit at least for thy loneliness grieves— Where in nights so lonely, The winds chant only Thy requiem.

A baby softly nestling ’Mid clouds of fluffy white, In nurse’s arms, with pinken charms Quite hidden out of sight. Or next, displayed on cushion fine, For visitors to see, This precious mite is brought to light For compliments—at tea. A lovely girl, with angel face, And hair like molten gold, Whose violet eyes, in sweet surprise, ’Neath ivory lids unfold Their meeting charm, with eyebrows arched And forehead broad and low; And scarlet lips, where Cupid sips The honey from its bow. Behold, her schooldays almost o’er, Slight, pretty and precise, A favourite at all the sports— And voted “very nice,” At tennis, and at golfing, or at swimming Quite au fait; And all the rage upon the stage Of amateurs at play. At length the happy day arrives; She at the altar stands, Declaring that she will obey Her dear liege lord’s commands. The vows are said, and she is wed, Queen of his heart she’ll reign, And never, never make him wish To be unwed again. A few years flown, a little dent Appears between her eyes; When vexed, she murmurs, “I’m not sure That I was very wise To marry young, with nerves unstrung; For me there is no mirth; Of course, I would not change my “hub” For anyone on earth.” At forty, she is young again, The children growing up, And, what with theatres, and trips To see the Melbourne Cup, Pandora-like, she clings to hope As long as it will last— If only Time will stay his hand, Nor sow crow’s feet so fast. At fifty-five, too tired to walk, And only taking drives, The doctor says she is too plump, Still, to look young she strives. And well she may; why should she not? She’s just the age she looks; And man is just the age he feels, Least, so it says in books.

T The wild winds moan a requiem for the dead H Hard by Newfoundland. In an icy bed E England’s, America’s, illustrous men L Lie side by side, vanished from mortal ken. O Oh! Earth is plunged in grief: brothers are we; S Souls cry to souls across that cold grey sea. S So late she sped along that gleaming track, O Oh! could unnumbered tears but call her back. F Forth to her doom with twice seven hundred breasts T Throbbing with pulsing life, that floating palace rests. H Howl loud ye winds! Ye cruel ice-floes weep! E E’en though thy victims, yet they calmly sleep, T Thou canst not harm them more. The human tears I In memory’s casket down the future years T Their grief will take; recount the awful fate. A Alas! Those calls for aid which came too late N Nought could avail. The mammoth vessel dashed I In sudden thundering, while her timbers crashed. C Caught in the vortex ’neath the deafening boom; I Instant the shock which hurled her to her doom. N No fond adieu; gone beyond time and sense, M Mourn for the sudden call of those departed hence. E E’en though their burial place, the lonely deep, M Mutely we plead with Him their souls to keep. O On their dear forms no more, or their sweet eyes R Resting on beauty’s lines n’er may they rise. I In their dark home they lie while billows surge A Around that sunken ship, and chant a dirge M Mournful for they who sleep beneath the surge.

Sing, sing of Australia whose golden clime Hath the Eucalyptus and odorous Lime, The emblem of freedom for chaplet fair, And pearls and opals to bind her hair, Lo! softly Aurora her beams hath shed In crimson shafts o’er her ocean bed. Daughter of Helios, whose azure eyes Reflect the rays of the Southern skies. Sing the feathery Palm, her fan so gay, While jewell’d isles with her fingers play; Sing her flocks and herds of the glowing West, And the olives and vines of her hills’ green crest, Sing her silver rivers and yellow gold, And the glorious Wattle whose buds unfold A wealth of beauty ’neath sun and shower, Fit for a queen in royal bower. Sing her flashing falls, and her rillets flow, As in the ages long, long ago, When in embryo she stately lay Waiting the dawn of her natal day. Sing of her morn which hath come at last Though perchance she will shiver before the blast; But the storm must come and the clarion call Will resound from her Eastern to Western wall. Sing of her peerless youth so free As she beareth the lamp of Liberty With a proud high look, and a sensitive ear Fill’d with expectant hope and fear. Sing of her prestige exalted and pure In the hearts of her patriots ever secure, The Midas of Empires, resplendent and brave In magnificence reigns, the queen of the wave.

I will paint thee as thou art; Summers two have left their trace On thy features, and thy heart Hath its reflex in thy face. Hair of gold thy brow doth crown; Eyes like sparkling jewels two, For no evil yet hath thrown Shadows o’er those wells of blue. Little hands our face caress, Tiny pinken earshells two, Sweetest smiling lips that press Drops of limpid fairy dew. When in slumber thou dost lie, Even in thy baby dreams, Angels weave a lullaby To the murmur of the streams. I will paint thee as I muse On thy journey up Life’s hill; Courage for thy guerdon choose; Work with heart, and brain, and will. I would paint thee, if I might, Tender, patient, doing good, In thy coming years so bright— Patriot, Statesman, if I could.

T Thou mighty Monoliths of Nature’s mould, H Horologes of time and seasons which have rolled E Ere mortals’ drama on life’s stage begun. G Gray ocean hid thee in oblivion. L Lo! in the archaic rocks thy feet were laid, A And Saurian monsters once around thee played, S Sun, moon and stars alone thy forms had viewed, S Standing in weird mysterious solitude. H Heaving and shuddering with internal wrath O Out from thy vitals Jovian bolts came forth: U Unchained thy fury and malignant ire, S Spirits of Vulcan poured their liquid fire, E Epochs rolled on. The waves retreating fled. M Moribund thou, thy craters cold and dead, O O’er thy scarred summits lurid flames no more U Unsheathed their molten tongues—thy life was o’er. N Now, man upon thy rugged shoulders stands T Turning expectant eyes o’er dunes and strands; A Amethyst islands in enchanting beauty lie I In Moreton’s waters ’neath the sapphire sky. N Nature hath carved thy frames inscrutable:— S Stupendous mounds of God immutable. Q Quelled is thy passion! In the glowing dawn U Under a misty veil thy mitred heads forlorn, E Ever in solemn beauty mid the silence stand, E Eternal sentinels of Time’s stern hand. N ’Neath thy vast shadows browse the goat and steer, S Sphinx-like thy gaze thou canst not see or hear, L Lovely in death, though slow be thy decay, A All things created change and pass away. N Nor, though man would thy secret learn in vain, D Doth thou confess: Ye watch towers of the plain.

I see Australia’s footprints marking out her destiny, No castles proud or battlements proclaim her ancestry: But the Empire Mother’s children are strong and lithe and free, And they bravely bear their starry flag; true knights of chivalry. Beneath the glittering Southern Cross where the red hibiscus’ flame, Where set in a sea of silver lie the thousand isles of fame, Is the Barrier Reef—the rampart—whence with hundred eyes of hate The shrapnel shell may sound the knell of the foe at the Eastern Gate. And the lineal sons of Norsemen with the lightning of their glance Will ready be for the enemy with rapier and with lance. Her ships may scour the ocean but the nation holds the key Of future power, who, with aerial fleet, can claim supremacy. The shadow of the hand is there which presages a power When, with alliance severed in some unguarded hour, Heedless of signs portentous we see no clouds of war, With pomp and pride through portals wide the alien hordes may pour. Then let us fill Australia with our kin, there’s room for all, For see the fingers writing still the message on the wall; And listen with our pride of race we children of the dawn, To the warning voice of nations while yet it is the morn. And like true soldier citizens, who armed, may keep the peace, ’Twill lead the way unto the day when the demon war shall cease.

A child of the Sun I am ages old, I live on the past, and its wisdom unfold; A handmaid of nature my dwelling unseen, I’m integrally part of whatever has been. Like a meteor I sprang from the womb of the sky, For of sun dust and star dust an atom am I; Whatever my place in cosmogonic laws, I belong to the great and invisible cause. Incorporate yet with the corporate mind I resolve myself, evolve, and govern mankind. I was nursed in oblivion, with silence was reared, Controlling man’s destiny, ever unheard; I press through the centuries slowly, but sure, And I never may rest until time be no more. An atom of mighty centrifugal force, No power can destroy or can alter my course: Though earth and her satellite fall like a star, I still will rejoice on some planet afar. A mentor I am if man will but read, For cause and effect are God’s agents indeed. Though I ever despoil, yet I ever renew, And I silently work where no mortal may view: I move on the mountains, I move in the deep, I never am still, yet eternally sleep; Like the dew of the morning refreshing the ground I bless and am blended with all things around. From the steps of the past to the future I climb, For from Heaven I am sent with a message sublime: On the rocks—nature’s book—my traces I leave, That in me—Evolution—you all may believe.

I sang a song one glorious eve Meant for your ears alone, I may not sing that song again For years since then have flown; But I remember that the dew Lay glistening in your eyes so blue. I sang to you one summer day All through the golden hours As down a mossy dell we strayed And plucked the scented flowers; And as I sang love’s sweet refrain Your eyes were dim with tears again. I sang when night in splendour fell Where southern stars look down And they and you alone could tell How deep my love had grown, And when I saw your eyes ashine It seemed to make my love divine. Dear heart, I sang to you alone My song with trembling voice, Which told how love could make our lives A holy sacrifice. Then tenderly, with quivering breath You gave yourself to me till death.

Goddess of beauty: at thy magic breath My spirit turneth from the gate of death, And in thy deep red heart would find repose And dreams of Arcady: thou queenly rose. This morn I deemed that happiness had flown, For all the world to me had colder grown. But lo! The angel of the flowers hath kissed Thy petals with the dew of morning mist. The fragrant violet, in its mossy shrine, Hath not the blushing loveliness of thine; And though within thy silky stem a dart Doth lurk, pray do not pierce my heart. In all my garden, in its beauty set, With waxen lilies and with mignonette, And pansies purple with sweet amber eyes— The charm of Flora’s glory with thee lies.

Not in mausoleum built of carven stone Sleep Britain’s heroes, but they lie alone In temple grand as human heart could crave Scott and his comrades in their mighty grave. The ice their couch, with pure white snow for shroud. Oh! Avalanche of woe: earth weeps aloud: The star-fringed sky their pall. No mournful bell, Or loving voice to breathe farewell: farewell. No muffled drum, nor flag to drape their bier; No shot was heard, nor fell one human tear. But where dark Erebus her vigil lone doth keep, Our heroes sleep serene their long last sleep. Their names are written in the Terrene sod: Their spirits are immortal with their God.

We praise the deeds of ancient heroes bred Beneath Olympus’ venerable head, Or proud Parnassus’ patriarchal crown And victors’ wreaths which sons of Hellas won. Of Solon, whose impassioned lips once poured From the great Pynx his eloquence of word; And mighty Hector, and Astyanax, his boy, At once the idol and the pride of Troy. These vanished heroes, and the temples of the plain Though voiceless, ever deathless will remain; For though her brilliant Sun has long since set The spell of Hellas lingers o’er us yet. But we, as thus we sing of Greece and Rome, Have heroes such as they, and nearer home; The sons of sires who through the ages fought Like Trojans, fired with all the deeds they wrought; Our pioneers who delved the virgin soil In this new land with patient endless toil; In the primeval forest with companions few The more they toiled, their minds the greater grew. For they through long and dreary, lonely hours Wrestled with all the dim remorseless powers Of doubt, distress, and solitude and fear, While grim despair stood ever hovering near. Yet they with ever glowing fierce desire Of a consuming, and a never dying fire, Which latent in the human breast doth ever lie, Potent in hidden power and vast immensity Pressed bravely onward while they hewed the track, From death and danger never turning back; But through the bush bizarre and gorge they strode Their watchword ringing “On and clear the road.” And lo! Upon the pathless waste of desert plain Stood hunger, thirst, disease, and all their train, Marshalled like hosts of old to smite and slay The unhappy victims as they fainting lay: But like the Greeks they fought, and would not yield Until their bones lay stretched upon the field. While Drought the King, as Agamemnon great, Stretched forth his Sceptre o’er his mighty State. Then Oh! Forget not, we who live in ease to-day, That great Australian heroes paved the way To present greatness; noble souls as these Of this reincarnated Greece of Southern seas: And Austral’s Sons, should swords they ever wield, Must die like heroes, or return with shield Emblazoned with the motto, “Macte Animo,” With ideals high, and breasts with love aglow For God and duty: thus each name a gem Shall gleam in Austral’s peerless diadem.

Go thou, when sorrow’s night thy soul hath torn, And turn thine eyes expectant to the dawn, And view the sunlight o’er the distant hills Until its rays with peace thy spirit fills; Then brave thyself unto the daily strife— The world demands thou make the best of life. Go forth to duty, girt with golden chain Of courage, born of weakness, not in vain. Tho’ weak, thou’lt find thy greatest strength will lie In steadfast purpose with unfaltering eye Fixed on thy goal. Oh! Be thou valiant men, And point the higher path, for little do we ken Of they who labour in Life’s noonday sun. Go thou, when heat of toil hath left thy brow, Commune with Nature, and thy soul shall know The why and wherefore of the chastening rod Imposed on thy sad spirit by thy God, Hear how the breakers of the ocean moan, The thousand voices of the forest lone. The trees and flowers, the sigh of whispering winds— All speak of beauty, and the power that binds Man to his Maker. Then take heart of grace, And meet the world with ever-smiling face. It hath enough of grief; go hide thy care, And scatter joy, tho’ blent with tears thy share.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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 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.

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!

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.

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—

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.”

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.

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!”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

The pure pale blossoms of God’s gift, the flowers, Breathe immortality. They tell us of sweet, heavenly, dreamless hours All through eternity. They tell us of dear Mother Earth who press’d So soft and deep Their tiny seeds within her tender breast As children sleep. They tell us, these white souls of flowers, sent To beautify Our minds, of human souls, an emblem meant, Which never die. And when our bodies, like dear flowers, must At length decay, The seeds we sow will bloom, when we from dust Have passed away. Then let our lives be pure as these pale blooms With fragrance blent, That deeds, like flowers, shall be upon our tombs A monument.

Because of thee, the earth is fair to see, The dawn more radiant for it breathes of thee, It gloweth deeper in the eastern skies As dawneth love within thy beauteous eyes. Because of thee, my heart a song doth sing, Its cadence in mine ear doth ever ring So dulcet sweet, and though thou art not near I feel, and know in spirit, thou can’st hear. Because of thee, weak words may not convey The holy calm which comes at close of day; When sunsets flame like seas of beaten gold Ere night her spangled draperies hath unrolled. Because of thee, upon the balmy air, Pæans from every plumaged worshipper Thrill all my soul, dear love, and seem to me Each liquid note a message sent from thee. Because of thee, the flowers more odorous still, With subtle fragrance, waken at my will Sweet memories of the perfume-laden dew Of the old garden, redolent of you. Because of thee, this longing heart of mine Hath none but thee to dwell within its shrine, Its sacred taper thou, a glorious light, My lode-star like a splendid vision bright. Because of thee, the stars seem all enwrought With beauty which enriches every thought; The moon, a golden chariot in which we May circle space for all eternity. Because of thee, as o’er life’s mighty deep, We glide together, soft shall be thy sleep; His hand will guide our barque to yonder shore To live, Oh, love—true life for evermore.

How well I remember the tranquil hours We spent in the haunted wood; How fair was the glade and the primrose flowers Where the ruined abbey stood, For there, near the lake where water springs— It gushed in a crystal stream— From the mouth of a dragon with carven wings And eyes of a fearful gleam. And there was the grotto, with walls inlet With shells from the shining sands, And the floor with mosaic scenes was set, All relics from Eastern lands. We played, and we idly wondered who In the centuries past and gone Had chiselled the antique shape so true Of this monster in sculptured stone. And the legend weird of this ancient pile We many a time had heard, And oft in the dusk we would list, the while The leaves by the wind were stirred. For ages and ages ago ’twas said A prince of the Saxon blood With the Lady Osyth one day was wed By a priest of the holy rood. He bade adieu at the altar there, But alas, for the vows they made, A rival prince took his bride so fair By force to the forest shade. She was rescued, assuming the sacred veil, And a nun she had scarce been made, When up to the abbey, in coat of mail, Rode the prince with a gleaming blade. And with sword held high he espied the face Of his wife in a window near, A moment more, in his fast embrace Swooned the lady in deadly fear. And fast on his palfrey they rode away These twain through the woodland deep, And saw not the rival till brought to bay Near the “Fatal Lover’s Leap.” And the enemy’s knights came and bore them on And round to the moonlit lake And jeered: “So perish each wicked one Who is false to the vows they make.” The prince they bound to his steed and led The lady whose every limb Trembled, while faltering prayers she said And her glorious eyes grew dim. Then they bade her stand by the dragon’s side When with swift and sudden blow The rapier fell, and her life’s red tide Welled o’er to the stream below. And the legend runs that the headless form Of the maiden quickly bent And lifted her head beneath her arm While a shriek the wild echoes rent. And the prince enraged, when he knew her fate, Unbuckled his heavy mail, And, stabbing himself as his steed he sate, He died with a mournful wail. And the story goes that the lady’s shade Still walks, and her voice is heard, When the moon is old in the haunted glade— Like the cry of a wounded bird— And the headless image in marble chased Of this saint in the chancel old Still stands, though time hath its lines effaced And despoiled it of beauty’s mould. And oft as I think of the woodland fair And the legend, I fain would be Once more near the dragon which standeth where St. Osyth lived, just by the sea.

In lone magnificence and stately pride, Majestic in thy ruin and decay, Thou, whose unfathomed crater yawned wide When Pluto’s furies in thy depths held sway; And forked lightning on black clouds astride, And igneous rocks, their glowing masses hurled While streams of lava in a ceaseless tide Flowed o’er thy base upon a darkened world. What hast thou felt in cycles long untold? What hast thou heard within thine eyrie there, That scalding tears of rage hath down thee rolled Scarring thine image and thy bosom bare? What hath the glorious sun-god looked upon, Searching thy heart with brilliant-zoned light? What hath the silver-veiled Fingari, lone Viewed from her vantage in the solemn night? Thou must have breathed when regal Pompeii, placed On proud Italia’s olive-mantled shore Was by Vesuvius’ wrath engulfed and rased, And eighteen centuries was covered o’er. If thou but had a tongue, mayhap thou would Tell us when fair Lemuria disappeared, Or how the dusky tribes, with rites of blood, In bora rings their writhing victims speared. Thou antique dial: scarce thou feeleth, though Thy faint spasmodic tremblings still are felt, And o’er thy sunken cranium waters flow, The rocky amphitheatre thy belt. Now, foliage green adorns thy noble form— Lo! Mansions fair are nestling there serene Around thy neck, and in the gathering gloom At eve we picture what thou once hath been. And Oh! Thou mighty Gambier, not in vain Thou teacheth like a sad and silent sage The wisdom and the pleasure we may gain While pondering on thy splendour and thine age.