An Anthology of Australian Verse Part 20

Perchance, he saw in dreams Beside our sunlit streams In some majestic hour Old England's banners blow; Mayhap, the radiant morn Of this great nation born, August with perfect power, A hundred years ago.

We know not, -- yet for thee Far may the season be, Whose harp in shameful sleep Is soundless lying low!

Far be the noteless hour That holds of fame no flower For those who dared our deep A hundred years ago.

M. A. Sinclair.

The Chatelaine

I have built one, so have you; Paved with marble, domed with blue, Battlement and ladies' bower, Donjon keep and watchman's tower.

I have climbed, as you have done, To the tower at set of sun -- Crying from its parlous height, "Watchman, tell us of the night."

I have stolen at midnight bell, Like you, to the secret cell, Shuddering at its charnel breath -- Left lockfast the spectre, Death.

I have used your lure to call Choice guests to my golden hall: Rarely welcome, rarely free To my hospitality.

In a glow of rosy light Hours, like minutes, take their flight -- As from you they fled away, When, like you, I bade them stay.

Ah! the pretty flow of wit, And the good hearts under it; While the wheels of life go round With a most melodious sound.

Not a vestige anywhere Of our grim familiar, Care -- Roses! from the trees of yore Blooming by the rivers four.

Not a jar, and not a fret; Ecstasy and longing met.

But why should I thus define -- Is not your chateau like mine?

Scarcely were it strange to meet In that magic realm so sweet, So! I'll take this dreamland train Bound for my chateau in Spain.

Sydney Jephcott.

Chaucer

O gracious morning eglantine, Making the far old English ways divine!

Though from thy stock our mateless rose was bred, Staining the world's skies with its red, Our garden gives no scent so fresh as thine, Sweet, th.o.r.n.y-seeming eglantine.

White Paper

Smooth white paper 'neath the pen; Richest field that iron ploughs, Germinating thoughts of men, Though no heaven its rain allows;

Till they ripen, thousand fold, And our spirits reap the corn, In a day-long dream of gold; Food for all the souls unborn.

Like the murmur of the earth, When we listen stooping low; Like the sap that sings in mirth, Hastening up the trees that grow;

Evermore a tiny song Sings the pen unto it, while Thought's elixir flows along, Diviner than the holy Nile.

Greater than the sphering sea, For it holds the sea and land; Seed of all ideas to be Down its current borne like sand.

How our fathers in the dark Pored on it the plans obscure, By star-light or stake-fires stark Tracing there the path secure.

The poor paper drawn askance With the spell of Truth half-known, Holds back h.e.l.l of ignorance, Roaring round us, thronged, alone.

O white list of champions, Spirit born, and schooled for fight, Mailed in armour of the sun's Who shall win our utmost right!

Think of paper lightly sold, Which few pence had made too dear On its blank to have enscrolled Beatrice, Lucifer, or Lear!

Think of paper Milton took, Written, in his hands to feel, Musing of what things a look Down its pages would reveal.

O the glorious Heaven wrought By Cadmean souls of yore, From pure element of thought!

And thy leaves they are its door!

Light they open, and we stand Past the sovereignty of Fate, Glad amongst them, calm and grand, The Creators and Create!

Splitting

Morning.

Out from the hut at break of day, And up the hills in the dawning grey; With the young wind flowing From the blue east, growing Red with the white sun's ray!

Lone and clear as a deep-bright dream Under mid-night's and mid-slumber's stream, Up rises the mount against the sunrise shower, Vast as a kingdom, fair as a flower: O'er it doth the foam of foliage ream

In vivid softness serene, Pearly-purple and marble green; Clear in their mingling tinges, Up away to the crest that fringes Skies studded with cloud-crags sheen.

Day.

Like birds frayed from their lurking-shaw, Like ripples fleet 'neath a furious flaw, The echoes re-echo, flying Down from the mauls hot-plying; Clatter the axes, grides the saw.

Ruddy and white the chips out-spring, Like money sown by a pageant king; The free wood yields to the driven wedges, With its white sap-edges, And heart in the sunshine glistening.

Broadly the ice-clear azure floods down, Where the great tree-tops are overthrown; As on through the endless day we labour; The sun for our nearest neighbour, Up o'er the mountains lone.

And so intensely it doth illume, That it shuts by times to gloom; In the open s.p.a.ces thrilling; From the dead leaves distilling A hot and harsh perfume.