An Anthology of Australian Verse Part 13

And the sea, so calm out yonder, Wherever we turned our eyes, Like the blast of an angel's trumpet Rang out to the earth and skies, Till the reefs and the rocky ramparts Throbbed to the giant fray, And the gullies and jutting headlands Were bathed in a misty spray.

Oh, sweet in the distant ranges, To the ear of inland men, Is the ripple of falling water In sa.s.safras-haunted glen, The stir in the ripening cornfield That gently rustles and swells, The wind in the wattle sighing, The tinkle of cattle bells.

But best is the voice of ocean, That strikes to the heart and brain, That lulls with its pa.s.sionate music Trouble and grief and pain, That murmurs the requiem sweetest For those who have loved and lost, And thunders a jubilant anthem To brave hearts tempest-tossed.

That takes to its boundless bosom The burden of all our care, That whispers of sorrow vanquished, Of hours that may yet be fair, That tells of a Harbour of Refuge Beyond life's stormy straits, Of an infinite peace that gladdens, Of an infinite love that waits.

Wattle and Myrtle

Gold of the tangled wilderness of wattle, Break in the lone green hollows of the hills, Flame on the iron headlands of the ocean, Gleam on the margin of the hurrying rills.

Come with thy saffron diadem and scatter Odours of Araby that haunt the air, Queen of our woodland, rival of the roses, Spring in the yellow tresses of thy hair.

Surely the old G.o.ds, dwellers on Olympus, Under thy shining loveliness have strayed, Crowned with thy cl.u.s.ters, magical Apollo, Pan with his reedy music may have played.

Surely within thy fastness, Aphrodite, She of the sea-ways, fallen from above, Wandered beneath thy canopy of blossom, Nothing disdainful of a mortal's love.

Aye, and Her sweet breath lingers on the wattle, Aye, and Her myrtle dominates the glade, And with a deep and perilous enchantment Melts in the heart of lover and of maid.

The Australian Sunrise

The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea, And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free, The l.u.s.trous purple blackness of the soft Australian night, Waned in the gray awakening that heralded the light; Still in the dying darkness, still in the forest dim The pearly dew of the dawning clung to each giant limb, Till the sun came up from ocean, red with the cold sea mist, And smote on the limestone ridges, and the shining tree-tops kissed; Then the fiery Scorpion vanished, the magpie's note was heard, And the wind in the she-oak wavered, and the honeysuckles stirred, The airy golden vapour rose from the river breast, The kingfisher came darting out of his crannied nest, And the bulrushes and reed-beds put off their sallow gray And burnt with cloudy crimson at dawning of the day.

John Farrell.

Australia to England

June 22nd, 1897

What of the years of Englishmen?

What have they brought of growth and grace Since mud-built London by its fen Became the Briton's breeding-place?

What of the Village, where our blood Was brewed by sires, half man, half brute, In vessels of wild womanhood, From blood of Saxon, Celt and Jute?

What are its gifts, this Harvest Home Of English tilth and English cost, Where fell the hamlet won by Rome And rose the city that she lost?

O! terrible and grand and strange Beyond all phantasy that gleams When Hope, asleep, sees radiant Change Come to her through the halls of dreams!

A heaving sea of life, that beats Like England's heart of pride to-day, And up from roaring miles of streets Flings on the roofs its human spray; And fluttering miles of flags aflow, And cannon's voice, and boom of bell, And seas of fire to-night, as though A hundred cities flamed and fell;

While, under many a fair festoon And flowering crescent, set ablaze With all the dyes that English June Can lend to deck a day of days, And past where mart and palace rise, And shrine and temple lift their spears, Below five million misted eyes Goes a grey Queen of Sixty Years --

Go lords, and servants of the lords Of earth, with homage on their lips, And kinsmen carrying English swords, And offering England battle-ships; And tribute-payers, on whose hands Their English fetters scarce appear; And gathered round from utmost lands Amba.s.sadors of Love and Fear!

Dim signs of greeting waved afar, Far trumpets blown and flags unfurled, And England's name an Avatar Of light and sound throughout the world -- Hailed Empress among nations, Queen Enthroned in solemn majesty, On splendid proofs of what has been, And presages of what will be!

For this your sons, foreseeing not Or heeding not, the aftermath, Because their strenuous hearts were hot Went first on many a cruel path, And, trusting first and last to blows, Fed death with such as would gainsay Their instant pa.s.sing, or oppose With talk of Right strength's right of way!

For this their names are on the stone Of mountain spires, and carven trees That stand in flickering wastes unknown Wait with their dying messages; When fire blasts dance with desert drifts The English bones show white below, And, not so white, when summer lifts The counterpane of Yukon's snow.

Condemned by blood to reach for grapes That hang in sight, however high, Beyond the smoke of Asian capes, The nameless, dauntless, dead ones lie; And where Sierran morning shines On summits rolling out like waves, By many a brow of royal pines The noisiest find quiet graves.

By l.u.s.t of flesh and l.u.s.t of gold, And depth of loins and hairy breadth Of breast, and hands to take and hold, And boastful scorn of pain and death, And something more of manliness Than tamer men, and growing shame Of shameful things, and something less Of final faith in sword and flame --

By many a battle fought for wrong, And many a battle fought for right, So have you grown august and strong, Magnificent in all men's sight -- A voice for which the kings have ears, A face the craftiest statesmen scan; A mind to mould the after years, And mint the destinies of man!

Red sins were yours: the avid greed Of pirate fathers, smocked as Grace, Sent Judas missioners to read Christ's Word to many a feebler race -- False priests of Truth who made their tryst At Mammon's shrine, and reft or slew -- Some hands you taught to pray to Christ Have prayed His curse to rest on you!

Your way has been to pluck the blade Too readily, and train the guns.

We here, apart and unafraid Of envious foes, are but your sons: We stretched a heedless hand to s.m.u.tch Our spotless flag with Murder's blight -- For one less sacrilegious touch G.o.d's vengeance blasted Uzza white!

You vaunted most of forts and fleets, And courage proved in battle-feasts, The courage of the beast that eats His torn and quivering fellow-beasts; Your pride of deadliest armament -- What is it but the self-same dint Of joy with which the Caveman bent To shape a bloodier axe of flint?

But praise to you, and more than praise And thankfulness, for some things done; And blessedness, and length of days As long as earth shall last, or sun!

You first among the peoples spoke Sharp words and angry questionings Which burst the bonds and shed the yoke That made your men the slaves of Kings!

You set and showed the whole world's school The lesson it will surely read, That each one ruled has right to rule -- The alphabet of Freedom's creed Which slowly wins it proselytes And makes uneasier many a throne; You taught them all to prate of Rights In language growing like your own!

And now your holiest and best And wisest dream of such a tie As, holding hearts from East to West, Shall strengthen while the years go by: And of a time when every man For every fellow-man will do His kindliest, working by the plan G.o.d set him. May the dream come true!

And greater dreams! O Englishmen, Be sure the safest time of all For even the mightiest State is when Not even the least desires its fall!

Make England stand supreme for aye, Because supreme for peace and good, Warned well by wrecks of yesterday That strongest feet may slip in blood!

Arthur Patchett Martin.

Bushland

Not sweeter to the storm-tossed mariner Is glimpse of home, where wife and children wait To welcome him with kisses at the gate, Than to the town-worn man the breezy stir Of mountain winds on rugged pathless heights: His long-pent soul drinks in the deep delights That Nature hath in store. The sun-kissed bay Gleams thro' the grand old gnarled gum-tree boughs Like burnished bra.s.s; the strong-winged bird of prey Sweeps by, upon his lonely vengeful way -- While over all, like breath of holy vows, The sweet airs blow, and the high-vaulted sky Looks down in pity this fair Summer day On all poor earth-born creatures doomed to die.

Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen.