Beyond Kerguelen

   Down in the South, by the waste without sail on it,
    Far from the zone of the blossom and tree,
   Lieth, with winter and whirlwind and wail on it,
    Ghost of a land by the ghost of a sea.
   Weird is the mist from the summit to base of it;
    Sun of its heaven is wizened and grey;
   Phantom of life is the light on the face of it—
    Never is night on it, never is day!
   Here is the shore without flower or bird on it;
    Here is no litany sweet of the springs—
   Only the haughty, harsh thunder is heard on it,
    Only the storm, with the roar in its wings!

   Shadow of moon is the moon in the sky of it—
    Wan as the face of a wizard, and far!
   Never there shines from the firmament high of it
    Grace of the planet or glory of star.
   All the year round, in the place of white days on it—
    All the year round where there never is night—
   Lies a great sinister, bitter, blind haze on it:
    Growth that is neither of darkness nor light!
   Wild is the cry of the sea in the caves by it—
    Sea that is smitten by spears of the snow;
   Desolate songs are the songs of the waves by it—
    Down in the south, where the ships never go.

   Storm from the Pole is the singer that sings to it
    Hymns of the land at the planet's grey verge.
   Thunder discloses dark, wonderful things to it—
    Thunder and rain, and the dolorous surge.
   Hills with no hope of a wing or a leaf on them,
    Scarred with the chronicles written by flame,
   Stare, through the gloom of inscrutable grief on them,
    Down on the horns of the gulfs without name.
   Cliffs, with the records of fierce flying fires on them—
    Loom over perilous pits of eclipse;
   Alps, with anathema stamped in the spires on them—
    Out by the wave with a curse on its lips.

   Never is sign of soft, beautiful green on it—
    Never the colour, the glory of rose!
   Neither the fountain nor river is seen on it,
    Naked its crags are, and barren its snows!
   Blue as the face of the drowned is the shore of it—
    Shore, with the capes of indefinite cave.
   Strange is the voice of its wind, and the roar of it
    Startles the mountain and hushes the wave.
   Out to the south and away to the north of it,
    Spectral and sad are the spaces untold!
   All the year round a great cry goeth forth of it—
    Sob of this leper of lands in the cold.

   No man hath stood, all its bleak, bitter years on it—
    Fall of a foot on its wastes is unknown:
   Only the sound of the hurricane's spears on it
    Breaks with the shout from the uttermost zone.
   Blind are its bays with the shadow of bale on them;
    Storms of the nadir their rocks have uphurled;
   Earthquake hath registered deeply its tale on them—
    Tale of distress from the dawn of the world!
   There are the gaps, with the surges that seethe in them—
    Gaps in whose jaws is a menace that glares!
   There the wan reefs, with the merciless teeth in them,
    Gleam on a chaos that startles and scares!

   Back in the dawn of this beautiful sphere, on it—
    Land of the dolorous, desolate face—
   Beamed the blue day; and the bountiful year on it
    Fostered the leaf and the blossom of grace.
   Grand were the lights of its midsummer noon on it—
    Mornings of majesty shone on its seas;
   Glitter of star and the glory of moon on it
    Fell, in the march of the musical breeze.
   Valleys and hills, with the whisper of wing in them,
    Dells of the daffodil—spaces impearled,
   Flowered and flashed with the splendour of Spring in them—
    Back in the morn of this wonderful world.

   Soft were the words that the thunder then said to it—
    Said to this lustre of emerald plain;
   Sun brought the yellow, the green, and the red to it—
    Sweet were the songs of its silvery rain.
   Voices of water and wind in the bays of it
    Lingered, and lulled like the psalm of a dream.
   Fair were the nights and effulgent the days of it—
    Moon was in shadow and shade in the beam.
   Summer's chief throne was the marvellous coast of it,
    Home of the Spring was its luminous lea:
   Garden of glitter!  But only the ghost of it
    Moans in the south by the ghost of a sea.

Black Lizzie

   The gloved and jewelled bards who sing
    Of Pippa, Maud, and Dorothea,
   Have hardly done the handsome thing
    For you, my inky Cytherea.

   Flower of a land whose sunny skies
    Are like the dome of Dante's clime,
   They might have praised your lips, your eyes,
    And, eke, your ankles in their rhyme!

   But let them pass!  To right your wrong,
    Aspasia of the ardent South,
   Your poet means to sing a song
    With some prolixity of mouth.

   I'll even sketch you as you are
    In Herrick's style of carelessness,
   Not overstocked with things that bar
    An ample view—to wit, with dress.

   You have your blanket, it is true;
    But then, if I am right at all,
   What best would suit a dame like you
    Was worn by Eve before the Fall.

   Indeed, the "fashion" is a thing
    That never cramped your cornless toes:
   Your single jewel is a ring
    Slung in your penetrated nose.

   I can't detect the flowing lines
    Of Grecian features in your face,
   Nor are there patent any signs
    That link you with the Roman race.

   In short, I do not think your mould
    Resembles, with its knobs of bone,
   The fair Hellenic shapes of old
    Whose perfect forms survive in stone.

   Still, if the charm called Beauty lies
    In ampleness of ear and lip,
   And nostrils of exceeding size,
    You are a gem, my ladyship!

   Here, squatting by the doubtful flame
    Of three poor sticks, without a roof
   Above your head, impassive dame
    You live on—somewhat hunger-proof.

   The current scandals of the day
    Don't trouble you—you seem to take
   Things in the coolest sort of way—
    And wisest—for you have no ache.

   You smoke a pipe—of course, you do!
    About an inch in length or less,
   Which, from a sexual point of view,
    Mars somehow your attractiveness.

   But, rather than resign the weed,
    You'd shock us, whites, by chewing it;
   For etiquette is not indeed
    A thing that bothers you a bit.

   Your people—take them as a whole—
    Are careless on the score of grace;
   And hence you needn't comb your poll
    Or decorate your unctuous face.

   Still, seeing that a little soap
    Would soften an excess of tint,
   You'll pardon my advance, I hope,
    In giving you a gentle hint.

   You have your lovers—dusky beaux
    Not made of the poetic stuff
   That sports an Apollonian nose,
    And wears a sleek Byronic cuff.

   But rather of a rougher clay
    Unmixed with overmuch romance,
   Far better at the wildwood fray
    Than spinning in a ballroom dance.

   These scarcely are the sonneteers
    That sing their loves in faultless clothes:
   Your friends have more decided ears
    And more capaciousness of nose.

   No doubt they suit you best—although
    They woo you roughly it is said:
   Their way of courtship is a blow
    Struck with a nullah on the head.

   It doesn't hurt you much—the thing
    Is hardly novel to your life;
   And, sans the feast and marriage ring,
    You make a good impromptu wife.

   This hasty sort of wedding might,
    In other cases, bring distress;
   But then, your draper's bills are light—
    You're frugal in regard to dress.

   You have no passion for the play,
    Or park, or other showy scenes;
   And, hence, you have no scores to pay,
    And live within your husband's means.

   Of course, his income isn't large,—
    And not too certain—still you thrive
   By steering well inside the marge,
    And keep your little ones alive.

   In short, in some respects you set
    A fine example; and a few
   Of those white matrons I have met
    Would show some sense by copying you.

   Here let us part!  I will not say,
    O lady free from scents and starch,
   That you are like, in any way,
    The authoress of "Middlemarch".

   One cannot match her perfect phrase
    With commonplaces from your lip;
   And yet there are some sexual traits
    That show your dim relationship.

   Indeed, in spite of all the mists
    That grow from social codes, I see
   The liberal likeness which exists
    Throughout our whole humanity.

   And though I've laughed at your expense,
    O Dryad of the dusky race,
   No man who has a heart and sense
    Would bring displeasure to your face.

Hy-Brasil

   "Daughter," said the ancient father, pausing by the evening sea,
   "Turn thy face towards the sunset—turn thy face and kneel with me!
   Prayer and praise and holy fasting, lips of love and life of light,
   These and these have made thee perfect—shining saint with seraph's sight!
   Look towards that flaming crescent—look beyond that glowing space—
   Tell me, sister of the angels, what is beaming in thy face?"
   And the daughter, who had fasted, who had spent her days in prayer,
   Till the glory of the Saviour touched her head and rested there,
   Turned her eyes towards the sea-line—saw beyond the fiery crest,
   Floating over waves of jasper, far Hy-Brasil in the west.

   All the calmness and the colour—all the splendour and repose,
   Flowing where the sunset flowered, like a silver-hearted rose!
   There indeed was singing Eden, where the great gold river runs
   Past the porch and gates of crystal, ringed by strong and shining ones!
   There indeed was God's own garden, sailing down the sapphire sea—
   Lawny dells and slopes of summer, dazzling stream and radiant tree!
   Out against the hushed horizon—out beneath the reverent day,
   Flamed the Wonder on the waters—flamed and flashed and passed away.
   And the maiden who had seen it felt a hand within her own,
   And an angel that we know not led her to the lands unknown.

   Never since hath eye beheld it—never since hath mortal, dazed
   By its strange, unearthly splendour, on the floating Eden gazed!
   Only once since Eve went weeping through a throng of glittering wings,
   Hath the holy seen Hy-Brasil where the great gold river sings!
   Only once by quiet waters, under still, resplendent skies,
   Did the sister of the seraphs kneel in sight of Paradise!
   She, the pure, the perfect woman, sanctified by patient prayer,
   Had the eyes of saints of Heaven, all their glory in her hair:
   Therefore God the Father whispered to a radiant spirit near—
   "Show Our daughter fair Hy-Brasil—show her this, and lead her here."

   But beyond the halls of sunset, but within the wondrous west,
   On the rose-red seas of evening, sails the Garden of the Blest.
   Still the gates of glassy beauty, still the walls of glowing light,
   Shine on waves that no man knows of, out of sound and out of sight.
   Yet the slopes and lawns of lustre, yet the dells of sparkling streams,
   Dip to tranquil shores of jasper, where the watching angel beams.
   But, behold, our eyes are human, and our way is paved with pain,
   We can never find Hy-Brasil, never see its hills again;
   Never look on bays of crystal, never bend the reverent knee
   In the sight of Eden floating—floating on the sapphire sea!

Jim the Splitter

   The bard who is singing of Wollombi Jim
   Is hardly just now in the requisite trim
       To sit on his Pegasus fairly;
   Besides, he is bluntly informed by the Muse
   That Jim is a subject no singer should choose;
       For Jim is poetical rarely.

   But being full up of the myths that are Greek—
   Of the classic, and noble, and nude, and antique,
       Which means not a rag but the pelt on;
   This poet intends to give Daphne the slip,
   For the sake of a hero in moleskin and kip,
       With a jumper and snake-buckle belt on.

   No party is Jim of the Pericles type—
   He is modern right up from the toe to the pipe;
       And being no reader or roamer,
   He hasn't Euripides much in the head;
   And let it be carefully, tenderly said,
       He never has analysed Homer.

   He can roar out a song of the twopenny kind;
   But, knowing the beggar so well, I'm inclined
       To believe that a "par" about Kelly,
   The rascal who skulked under shadow of curse,
   Is more in his line than the happiest verse
       On the glittering pages of Shelley.

   You mustn't, however, adjudge him in haste,
   Because a red robber is more to his taste
       Than Ruskin, Rossetti, or Dante!
   You see, he was bred in a bangalow wood,
   And bangalow pith was the principal food
       His mother served out in her shanty.

   His knowledge is this—he can tell in the dark
   What timber will split by the feel of the bark;
       And rough as his manner of speech is,
   His wits to the fore he can readily bring
   In passing off ash as the genuine thing
       When scarce in the forest the beech is.

   In girthing a tree that he sells in the round,
   He assumes, as a rule, that the body is sound,
       And measures, forgetting to bark it!
   He may be a ninny, but still the old dog
   Can plug to perfection the pipe of a log
       And palm it away on the market.

   He splits a fair shingle, but holds to the rule
   Of his father's, and, haply, his grandfather's school;
       Which means that he never has blundered,
   When tying his shingles, by slinging in more
   Than the recognized number of ninety and four
       To the bundle he sells for a hundred!

   When asked by the market for ironbark red,
   It always occurs to the Wollombi head
       To do a "mahogany" swindle.
   In forests where never the ironbark grew,
   When Jim is at work, it would flabbergast you
       To see how the ironbarks dwindle.

   He can stick to the saddle, can Wollombi Jim,
   And when a buckjumper dispenses with him,
       The leather goes off with the rider.
   And, as to a team, over gully and hill
   He can travel with twelve on the breadth of a quill
       And boss the unlucky offsider.

   He shines at his best at the tiller of saw,
   On the top of the pit, where his whisper is law
       To the gentleman working below him.
   When the pair of them pause in a circle of dust,
   Like a monarch he poses—exalted, august—
       There's nothing this planet can show him!

   For a man is a man who can sharpen and set,
   And he is the only thing masculine yet
       According to sawyer and splitter—
   Or rather according to Wollombi Jim;
   And nothing will tempt me to differ from him,
       For Jim is a bit of a hitter.

   But, being full up, we'll allow him to rip,
   Along with his lingo, his saw, and his whip—
       He isn't the classical notion.
   And, after a night in his humpy, you see,
   A person of orthodox habits would be
       Refreshed by a dip in the ocean.

   To tot him right up from the heel to the head,
   He isn't the Grecian of whom we have read—
       His face is a trifle too shady.
   The nymph in green valleys of Thessaly dim
   Would never "jack up" her old lover for him,
       For she has the tastes of a lady.

   So much for our hero!  A statuesque foot
   Would suffer by wearing that heavy-nailed boot—
       Its owner is hardly Achilles.
   However, he's happy!  He cuts a great "fig"
   In the land where a coat is no part of the rig—
       In the country of damper and billies.

Mooni

   (Written in the shadow of 1872.)

       Ah, to be by Mooni now,
   Where the great dark hills of wonder,
   Scarred with storm and cleft asunder
   By the strong sword of the thunder,
       Make a night on morning's brow!
   Just to stand where Nature's face is
   Flushed with power in forest places—
   Where of God authentic trace is—
       Ah, to be by Mooni now!

       Just to be by Mooni's springs!
   There to stand, the shining sharer
   Of that larger life, and rarer
   Beauty caught from beauty fairer
       Than the human face of things!
   Soul of mine from sin abhorrent
   Fain would hide by flashing current,
   Like a sister of the torrent,
       Far away by Mooni's springs.

       He that is by Mooni now
   Sees the water-sapphires gleaming
   Where the River Spirit, dreaming,
   Sleeps by fall and fountain streaming
       Under lute of leaf and bough—
   Hears, where stamp of storm with stress is,
   Psalms from unseen wildernesses
   Deep amongst far hill-recesses—
       He that is by Mooni now.

       Yea, for him by Mooni's marge
   Sings the yellow-haired September,
   With the face the gods remember
   When the ridge is burnt to ember,
       And the dumb sea chains the barge!
   Where the mount like molten brass is,
   Down beneath fern-feathered passes,
   Noonday dew in cool green grasses
       Gleams on him by Mooni's marge.

       Who that dwells by Mooni yet,
   Feels, in flowerful forest arches,
   Smiting wings and breath that parches
   Where strong Summer's path of march is,
       And the suns in thunder set?
   Housed beneath the gracious kirtle
   Of the shadowy water myrtle,
   Winds may hiss with heat, and hurtle—
       He is safe by Mooni yet!

       Days there were when he who sings
   (Dumb so long through passion's losses)
   Stood where Mooni's water crosses
   Shining tracts of green-haired mosses,
       Like a soul with radiant wings;
   Then the psalm the wind rehearses—
   Then the song the stream disperses
   Lent a beauty to his verses,
       Who to-night of Mooni sings.

       Ah, the theme—the sad, grey theme!
   Certain days are not above me,
   Certain hearts have ceased to love me,
   Certain fancies fail to move me
       Like the affluent morning dream.
   Head whereon the white is stealing,
   Heart whose hurts are past all healing,
   Where is now the first pure feeling?
       Ah, the theme—the sad, grey theme!

       Sin and shame have left their trace!
   He who mocks the mighty, gracious
   Love of Christ, with eyes audacious,
   Hunting after fires fallacious,
       Wears the issue in his face.
   Soul that flouted gift and Giver,
   Like the broken Persian river,
   Thou hast lost thy strength for ever!
       Sin and shame have left their trace.

       In the years that used to be,
   When the large, supreme occasion
   Brought the life of inspiration,
   Like a god's transfiguration
       Was the shining change in me.
   Then, where Mooni's glory glances,
   Clear, diviner countenances
   Beamed on me like blessed chances,
       In the years that used to be.

       Ah, the beauty of old ways!
   Then the man who so resembled
   Lords of light unstained, unhumbled,
   Touched the skirts of Christ, nor trembled
       At the grand benignant gaze!
   Now he shrinks before the splendid
   Face of Deity offended,
   All the loveliness is ended!
       All the beauty of old ways!

       Still to be by Mooni cool—
   Where the water-blossoms glister,
   And, by gleaming vale and vista,
   Sits the English April's sister
       Soft and sweet and wonderful.
   Just to rest beyond the burning
   Outer world—its sneers and spurning—
   Ah! my heart—my heart is yearning
       Still to be by Mooni cool!

       Now, by Mooni's fair hill heads,
   Lo, the gold green lights are glowing,
   Where, because no wind is blowing,
   Fancy hears the flowers growing
       In the herby watersheds!
   Faint it is—the sound of thunder
   From the torrents far thereunder,
   Where the meeting mountains ponder—
       Now, by Mooni's fair hill heads.

       Just to be where Mooni is,
   Even where the fierce fall races
   Down august, unfathomed places,
   Where of sun or moon no trace is,
       And the streams of shadows hiss!
   Have I not an ample reason
   So to long for—sick of treason—
   Something of the grand old season,
       Just to be where Mooni is?