An Anthology of Australian Verse Part 28

The Old Whim Horse

He's an old grey horse, with his head bowed sadly, And with dim old eyes and a queer roll aft, With the off-fore sprung and the hind screwed badly, And he bears all over the brands of graft; And he lifts his head from the gra.s.s to wonder Why by night and day the whim is still, Why the silence is, and the stampers' thunder Sounds forth no more from the shattered mill.

In that whim he worked when the night winds bellowed On the riven summit of Giant's Hand, And by day when prodigal Spring had yellowed All the wide, long sweep of enchanted land; And he knew his shift, and the whistle's warning, And he knew the calls of the boys below; Through the years, unbidden, at night or morning, He had taken his stand by the old whim bow.

But the whim stands still, and the wheeling swallow In the silent shaft hangs her home of clay, And the lizards flirt and the swift snakes follow O'er the gra.s.s-grown brace in the summer day; And the corn springs high in the cracks and corners Of the forge, and down where the timber lies; And the crows are perched like a band of mourners On the broken hut on the Hermit's Rise.

All the hands have gone, for the rich reef paid out, And the company waits till the calls come in; But the old grey horse, like the claim, is played out, And no market's near for his bones and skin.

So they let him live, and they left him grazing By the creek, and oft in the evening dim I have seen him stand on the rises, gazing At the ruined brace and the rotting whim.

The floods rush high in the gully under, And the lightnings lash at the shrinking trees, Or the cattle down from the ranges blunder As the fires drive by on the summer breeze.

Still the feeble horse at the right hour wanders To the lonely ring, though the whistle's dumb, And with hanging head by the bow he ponders Where the whim boy's gone -- why the shifts don't come.

But there comes a night when he sees lights glowing In the roofless huts and the ravaged mill, When he hears again all the stampers going -- Though the huts are dark and the stampers still: When he sees the steam to the black roof clinging As its shadows roll on the silver sands, And he knows the voice of his driver singing, And the knocker's clang where the braceman stands.

See the old horse take, like a creature dreaming, On the ring once more his accustomed place; But the moonbeams full on the ruins streaming Show the scattered timbers and gra.s.s-grown brace.

Yet HE hears the sled in the smithy falling, And the empty truck as it rattles back, And the boy who stands by the anvil, calling; And he turns and backs, and he "takes up slack".

While the old drum creaks, and the shadows shiver As the wind sweeps by, and the hut doors close, And the bats dip down in the shaft or quiver In the ghostly light, round the grey horse goes; And he feels the strain on his untouched shoulder, Hears again the voice that was dear to him, Sees the form he knew -- and his heart grows bolder As he works his shift by the broken whim.

He hears in the sluices the water rushing As the buckets drain and the doors fall back; When the early dawn in the east is blushing, He is limping still round the old, old track.

Now he p.r.i.c.ks his ears, with a neigh replying To a call unspoken, with eyes aglow, And he sways and sinks in the circle, dying; From the ring no more will the grey horse go.

In a gully green, where a dam lies gleaming, And the bush creeps back on a worked-out claim, And the sleepy crows in the sun sit dreaming On the timbers grey and a charred hut frame, Where the legs slant down, and the hare is squatting In the high rank gra.s.s by the dried-up course, Nigh a shattered drum and a king-post rotting Are the bleaching bones of the old grey horse.

Dowell O'Reilly.

The Sea-Maiden

Like summer waves on sands of snow, Soft ringlets clasp her neck and brow, And wandering breezes kiss away A threaded light of glimmering spray, That drifts and floats and softly flies In a golden mist about her eyes.

Her laugh is fresh as foam that springs Through tumbling sh.e.l.ls and shining things, And where the gleaming margin dries Is heard the music of her sighs.

Her gentle bosom ebbs and swells With the tide of life that deeply wells From a throbbing heart that loves to break In the tempest of love for love's sweet sake.

O, the fragrance of earth, and the song of the sea, And the light of the heavens, are only three Of the thousand glories that Love can trace, In her life, and her soul, and her beautiful face.

This tangled weed of poesy, Torn from the heart of a stormy sea, I fling upon the love divine Of her, who fills this heart of mine.

David MacDonald Ross.

Love's Treasure House

I went to Love's old treasure house last night, Alone, when all the world was still -- asleep, And saw the miser Memory, grown gray With years of jealous counting of his gems, There seated. Keen was his eye, his hand Firm as when first his h.o.a.rding he began Of precious things of Love, long years ago.

"And this," he said, "is gold from out her hair, And this the moonlight that she wandered in, With here a rose, enamelled by her breath, That bloomed in glory 'tween her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and here The br.i.m.m.i.n.g sun-cup that she quaffed at noon, And here the star that cheered her in the night; In this great chest, see curiously wrought, Are purest of Love's gems." A ruby key, Enclasped upon a golden ring, he took, With care, from out some secret hiding-place, And delicately touched the lock, whereat I staggered, blinded by the light of things More luminous than stars, and questioned thus -- "What are these treasures, miser Memory?"

And slowly bending his gray head, he spoke: "These are the mult.i.tudes of kisses sweet Love gave so gladly, and I treasure here."

The Sea to the Sh.e.l.l

The sea, my mother, is singing to me, She is singing the old refrain, Of pa.s.sion, of love, and of mystery, And her world-old song of pain; Of the mirk midnight and the dazzling day, That trail their robes o'er the wet sea-way.

The sea, my mother, is singing to me With the white foam caught in her hair, With the seaweed swinging its long arms free, To grapple the blown sea air: The sea, my mother, with billowy swell, Is telling her tale to the wave-washed sh.e.l.l.

The sea, my mother, is singing to me, With the starry gleam in her wave, A dirge of the dead, of the sad, sad sea, A requiem song of the brave; Tenderly, sadly, the surges tell Their tale of death to the wave-washed sh.e.l.l.

The sea, my mother, confides to me, As she turns to the soft, round moon, The secrets that lie where the spirits be, That hide from the garish noon: The sea, my mother, who loves me well, Is telling their woe to the wave-washed sh.e.l.l.

O mother o' mine, with the foam-flecked hair, O mother, I love and know The heart that is sad and the soul that is bare To your daughter of ebb and flow; And I hold your whispers of Heaven and h.e.l.l In the loving heart of a wave-washed sh.e.l.l.

The Silent Tide

I heard Old Ocean raise her voice and cry, In that still hour between the night and day; I saw the answering tides, green robed and gray, Turn to her with a low contented sigh; Marching with silent feet they pa.s.sed me by, For the white moon had taught them to obey, And scarce a wavelet broke in fretful spray, As they went forth to kiss the stooping sky.

So, to my heart, when the last sunray sleeps, And the wan night, impatient for the moon, Throws her gray mantle over land and sea, There comes a call from out Life's nether deeps, And tides, like some old ocean in a swoon, Flow out, in soundless majesty, to thee.

The Watch on Deck

Becalmed upon the equatorial seas, A ship of gold lay on a sea of fire; Each sail and rope and spar, as in desire, Mutely besought the kisses of a breeze; Low laughter told the mariners at ease; Sweet sea-songs hymned the red sun's fun'ral pyre: Yet One, with eyes that never seemed to tire, Watched for the storm, nursed on the thunder's knees.

Thou watcher of the spirit's inner keep, Scanning Death's lone, illimitable deep, Spread outward to the far immortal sh.o.r.e!

While the vault sleeps, from the upheaving deck, Thou see'st the adamantine reefs that wreck, And Life's low shoals, where l.u.s.ting billows roar.

Autumn