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Old Melbourne Memories 14 / 14

MORNING

Morn on the waters! the glad bird flings
The diamond spray from his glittering wings.
Old ocean lieth in dreamless sleep,
As the slumber of childhood calmly deep,
Light falls the stroke of the fisher's oar,
As he leaves his cot by the shingly shore;
While the young wife's gaze, half sad, half bright,
Follows the frail bark's flashing flight.
Noon on the waters! O rustling breeze,
Sweet stealer 'mid old forest trees,
Wilt thou not thy sweet whisper keep
Nigh him who journeys the shadeless deep?
The wanderer dreams of the shadowy dell,
And the green-turfed, fairy-haunted well,
While the shafts of the noon-king's merciless might
Mingle day with sorrow, and death with light.
Night on the waters! murmuring hoarse,
The vexed deep threatens the bold bark's course,
The thunder-growl and the tempest moan
Sound like spirits that watch for the dying groan.
The storm-fiend sweeps o'er the starless waste,
And the unchained blasts to the gathering haste;
Man alone, unshaken, his course retains,
While the elements combat and chaos reigns.

WANTED

A young Lady of twenty-three years of age, as a teacher in
a Ladies' School. Satisfactory references required.—
"Times" Advertisement.

Why should I be twenty-three?
What are the virtues they can see
Just about to bloom in me
In the magical year of twenty-three?
Does a maiden, fair and free,
Get prudent just at twenty-three?
Whatever can the reason be
That they want a girl just twenty-three?
Dignified matron, whoever you be,
Would not twenty-two do for thee?
Would twenty-one be shown to the door,
And twenty told to come no more?
Nineteen, perhaps, would hardly be fit,
Eighteen strikes one as rather a chit.
Why must you search o'er land and sea
For the golden age of twenty-three?
Still the years glide on—for you and for me,
We're nearer, or farther from, twenty-three.
Oft, as I sit over my five o'clock tea,
I think, did she get her? age twenty-three!
When friends are cold and unkind to me,
I think there's a refuge when twenty-three.
On my birthday I'll write, unknown friend, to thee,
Exclaiming, "Here, take me, I'm twenty-three!"

PERDITA

She is beautiful yet, with her wondrous hair
And eyes that are stormy with fitful light,
The delicate hues of brow and cheek
Are unmarred all, rose-clear and bright;
That matchless frame yet holds at bay
The crouching bloodhounds, Remorse, Decay.
There is no fear in her great dark eyes—
No hope, no love, no care,
Stately and proud she looks around
With a fierce, defiant stare;
Wild words deform her reckless speech,
Her laugh has a sadness tears never reach.
Whom should she fear on earth? Can fate
One direr torment lend
To her few little years of glitter and gloom
With the sad old story to end,
When the spectres of Loneliness, Want, and Pain
Shall arise one night with Death in their train?
I see in a vision a woman like her
Trip down an orchard slope,
With rosy prattlers that shout a name
In tones of rapture and hope;
While the yeoman, gazing at children and wife,
Thanks God for the pride and joy of his life.
      *         *         *         *         *         *
Whose conscience is heavy with this dark guilt?
Who pays at the final day
For a wasted body, a murdered soul,
And how shall he answer, I say,
For her outlawed years, her early doom,
And despair—despair—beyond the tomb?

"PRIEZ POUR ELLE"

AN INCIDENT OF THE INDIAN MUTINY

In the old tower they stand at bay,
Where the Moslem fought of old;
True to their race, in that sad day
Their lives are dearly sold.
They are but three; a woman fair,
A boy of fearless brow,
He, whom she vowed to love is there—
God help her! then and now.
With fiercer leaguer never did
Those rugged stones resound,
As the swarthy yelling masses swayed
The time-worn keep around.
Our death-doomed brothers fired fast,
Our sister loaded well;
With each rifle-crack a spirit passed;
By scores the rebels fell.
Though corses choke the narrow way,
Still swarms the demon hive;
Like a tolling bell each heart will say
"We ne'er go forth alive!"
Undaunted still—the leaden rain
Slacks not one moment's space—
With a crashing bullet through his brain,
The boy drops on his face!
With outstretched arms, with death-clutched hands,
His mother's darling lies,
No more, till rent the grave's dark bands,
To glad her loving eyes.
Gone the last hope! faint gleam of light—
Death stalks before their eyes—
While yells and screams of wild delight
From the frenzied crowd arise.
O God of mercy! can it be?
It is a hideous dream—
No!—nearer rolls the human sea,
Arms flash, and eyeballs gleam.
He thinks of her, pale, tender, fair—
To nameless tortures given,
Gore-stained and soiled the bright brown hair—
His very soul is riven.
He lifts the weapon. Did he think
Of a happy summer time—
Of the village meadow—river brink,
Of the merry wedding chime?
Little he dreamed of this dreary Now,
Or that ever he should stand
With the pistol-muzzle at her brow,
The trigger in his hand!
They kissed—they clung in a last embrace,
They prayed a last deep prayer—
Then proudly she raised her tearful face,
And——a corse lay shuddering there!
He stooped, his love's soft eyes to close,
He smoothed the bright brown hair,
Smiled on the crowd of baffled foes,
Then, scattered his brains in air.

 

Printed by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.