An Anthology of Australian Verse Part 34

`Oh, if that Rainbow up there!'

Oh, if that rainbow up there, Spanning the sky past the hill, Slenderly, tenderly fair Shining with colours that thrill, Oh, if that rainbow up there, Just for a moment could reach Through the wet slope of the air Here where I stand on the beach!

Here where the waves wash the strand, Swing itself lovingly low, Let me catch fast with one hand, Climb its frail rigging and go.

Climb its frail rigging and go?

Where is its haven of rest?

Out in the gleam and the glow Of the blood-red waves of the West?

Or where the isles of the dawn Lie on an amethyst sea, Does it drift, pale and forlorn, Ghost of the glory I see?

Is there, ah, is there a land Such as the Icelanders say, Or past the West's ruddy strand Or on the edge of the day,

Some undiscovered clime Seen through a cloud's sudden rift, Where all the rainbows of Time Slowly and silently drift?

Some happy port of a sea Never a world's sail has made, Where till the earth shadows flee Never a rainbow may fade.

Oh, if that rainbow up there, Just for a moment would reach, Through the wet slope of the air Here where I stand on the beach.

Here where the waves wash the strand Swing itself lovingly low, Let me catch fast with one hand, Climb its frail rigging and go!

Johannes Carl Andersen.

Soft, Low and Sweet

Soft, low and sweet, the blackbird wakes the day, And clearer pipes, as rosier grows the gray Of the wide sky, far, far into whose deep The rath lark soars, and scatters down the steep His runnel song, that skyey roundelay.

Earth with a sigh awakes; and tremors play, Coy in her leafy trees, and falt'ring creep Across the daisy lawn and whisper, "Well-a-day,"

Soft, low and sweet.

From violet-banks the scent-clouds float away And spread around their fragrance, as of sleep: From ev'ry mossy nook the blossoms peep; From ev'ry blossom comes one little ray That makes the world-wealth one with Spring, alway Soft, low and sweet.

Maui Victor

Unhewn in quarry lay the Parian stone, Ere hands, G.o.d-guided, of Praxiteles Might shape the Cnidian Venus. Long ungrown The ivory was which, chiselled, robbed of ease Pygmalion, sculptor-lover. Now are these, The stone and ivory, immortal made.

The golden apples of Hesperides Shall never, scattered, in blown dust be laid, Till Time, the dragon-guard, has lived his last decade.

The Cnidian Venus, Galatea's shape, A wondering world beheld, as we behold, -- Here, in blest isles beyond the stormy Cape, Where man the new land dowers with the old, Are neither marble shapes nor fruits of gold, Nor white-limbed maidens, queened enchantress-wise; Here, Nature's beauties no vast ruins enfold, No glamour fills her such as 'wildering lies Where Mediterranean waters laugh to Grecian skies.

Acropolis with figure group and frieze, Parthenon, Temple, concepts born divine, Where in these Isles are wonders great as these?

Unquarried lies the stone in teeming mine, Bare is the land of sanctuary and shrine; But though frail hands no G.o.d-like record set Great Nature's powers are lavish, and combine In mountain dome, ice-glancing minaret, Deep fiord, fiery fountain and lake with tree-wove carcanet.

And though the dusky race that to and fro, Like their own shades, pa.s.s by and leave no trace, No age-contemning works from quick brain throw, They still have left what Time shall not efface, -- The legends of an isolated race.

Not vainly Maui strove; no, not in vain He dared the old Mother of Death and her embrace: That mankind might go free, he suffered pain -- And death he boldly dared, eternal life to gain.

Not death but dormancy the old womb has known, New love shall quicken it, new life attain: These legends old in ivory and stone Shall live their recreated life again, -- Shall wake, like Galatea, to joy and pain.

Legends and myths and wonders; what are these But glittering mines that long unworked have lain?

A Homer shall unlock with magic keys Treasure for some antipodean Praxiteles!

Dora Wilc.o.x.

In London

When I look out on London's teeming streets, On grim grey houses, and on leaden skies, My courage fails me, and my heart grows sick, And I remember that fair heritage Barter'd by me for what your London gives.

This is not Nature's city: I am kin To whatsoever is of free and wild, And here I pine between these narrow walls, And London's smoke hides all the stars from me, Light from mine eyes, and Heaven from my heart.

For in an island of those Southern seas That lie behind me, guarded by the Cross That looks all night from out our splendid skies, I know a valley opening to the East.

There, hour by hour, the lazy tide creeps in Upon the sands I shall not pace again -- Save in a dream, -- and, hour by hour, the tide Creeps lazily out, and I behold it not, Nor the young moon slow sinking to her rest Behind the hills; nor yet the dead white trees Glimmering in the starlight: they are ghosts Of what has been, and shall be never more.

No, never more!

Nor shall I hear again The wind that rises at the dead of night Suddenly, and sweeps inward from the sea, Rustling the tussock, nor the wekas' wail Echoing at evening from the tawny hills.

In that deserted garden that I lov'd Day after day, my flowers drop unseen; And as your Summer slips away in tears, Spring wakes our lovely Lady of the Bush, The Kowhai, and she hastes to wrap herself All in a mantle wrought of living gold; Then come the birds, who are her worshippers, To hover round her; tuis swift of wing, And bell-birds flashing sudden in the sun, Carolling: Ah! what English nightingale, Heard in the stillness of a summer eve, From out the shadow of historic elms, Sings sweeter than our Bell-bird of the Bush?

And Spring is here: now the Veronica, Our Koromiko, whitens on the cliff, The honey-sweet Manuka buds, and bursts In bloom, and the divine Convolvulus, Most fair and frail of all our forest flowers, Stars every covert, running riotous.

O quiet valley, opening to the East, How far from this thy peacefulness am I!

Ah me, how far! and far this stream of Life From thy clear creek fast falling to the sea!

Yet let me not lament that these things are In that lov'd country I shall see no more; All that has been is mine inviolate, Lock'd in the secret book of memory.

And though I change, my valley knows no change.

And when I look on London's teeming streets, On grim grey houses, and on leaden skies, When speech seems but the babble of a crowd, And music fails me, and my lamp of life Burns low, and Art, my mistress, turns from me, -- Then do I pa.s.s beyond the Gate of Dreams Into my kingdom, walking unconstrained By ways familiar under Southern skies; Nor unaccompanied; the dear dumb things I lov'd once, have their immortality.

There too is all fulfilment of desire: In this the valley of my Paradise I find again lost ideals, dreams too fair For lasting; there I meet once more mine own Whom Death has stolen, or Life estranged from me, -- And thither, with the coming of the dark, Thou comest, and the night is full of stars.

Ernest Currie.

Laudabunt Alii

There are some that long for a limpid lake by a blue Italian sh.o.r.e, Or a palm-grove out where the rollers break and the coral beaches roar; There are some for the land of the j.a.panee, and the tea-girls' twinkling feet; And some for the isles of the summer sea, afloat in the dancing heat; And others are exiles all their days, midst black or white or brown, Who yearn for the clashing of crowded ways, and the lights of London town.

But always I would wish to be where the seasons gently fall On the Further Isle of the Outer Sea, the last little isle of all, A fair green land of hill and plain, of rivers and water-springs, Where the sun still follows after the rain, and ever the hours have wings, With its bosomed valleys where men may find retreat from the rough world's way ...

Where the sea-wind kisses the mountain-wind between the dark and the day.