Orara

  —
   * Orara:  A tributary of the river Clarence.
  —

   The strong sob of the chafing stream
    That seaward fights its way
   Down crags of glitter, dells of gleam,
    Is in the hills to-day.

   But far and faint, a grey-winged form
    Hangs where the wild lights wane—
   The phantom of a bygone storm,
    A ghost of wind and rain.

   The soft white feet of afternoon
    Are on the shining meads,
   The breeze is as a pleasant tune
    Amongst the happy reeds.

   The fierce, disastrous, flying fire,
    That made the great caves ring,
   And scarred the slope, and broke the spire,
    Is a forgotten thing.

   The air is full of mellow sounds,
    The wet hill-heads are bright,
   And down the fall of fragrant grounds,
    The deep ways flame with light.

   A rose-red space of stream I see,
    Past banks of tender fern;
   A radiant brook, unknown to me
    Beyond its upper turn.

   The singing, silver life I hear,
    Whose home is in the green,
   Far-folded woods of fountains clear,
    Where I have never been.

   Ah, brook above the upper bend,
    I often long to stand
   Where you in soft, cool shades descend
    From the untrodden land!

   Ah, folded woods, that hide the grace
    Of moss and torrents strong,
   I often wish to know the face
    Of that which sings your song!

   But I may linger, long, and look
    Till night is over all:
   My eyes will never see the brook,
    Or sweet, strange waterfall.

   The world is round me with its heat,
    And toil, and cares that tire;
   I cannot with my feeble feet
    Climb after my desire.

   But, on the lap of lands unseen,
    Within a secret zone,
   There shine diviner gold and green
    Than man has ever known.

   And where the silver waters sing
    Down hushed and holy dells,
   The flower of a celestial Spring—
    A tenfold splendour, dwells.

   Yea, in my dream of fall and brook
    By far sweet forests furled,
   I see that light for which I look
    In vain through all the world—

   The glory of a larger sky
    On slopes of hills sublime,
   That speak with God and morning, high
    Above the ways of Time!

   Ah! haply in this sphere of change
    Where shadows spoil the beam,
   It would not do to climb that range
    And test my radiant Dream.

   The slightest glimpse of yonder place,
    Untrodden and alone,
   Might wholly kill that nameless grace,
    The charm of the unknown.

   And therefore, though I look and long,
    Perhaps the lot is bright
   Which keeps the river of the song
    A beauty out of sight.

The Curse of Mother Flood

   Wizened the wood is, and wan is the way through it;
    White as a corpse is the face of the fen;
   Only blue adders abide in and stray through it—
    Adders and venom and horrors to men.
   Here is the "ghost of a garden" whose minister
    Fosters strange blossoms that startle and scare.
   Red as man's blood is the sun that, with sinister
    Flame, is a menace of hell in the air.
   Wrinkled and haggard the hills are—the jags of them
    Gape like to living and ominous things:
   Storm and dry thunder cry out in the crags of them—
    Fire, and the wind with a woe in its wings.

   Never a moon without clammy-cold shroud on it
    Hitherward comes, or a flower-like star!
   Only the hiss of the tempest is loud on it—
    Hiss, and the moan of a bitter sea bar.
   Here on this waste, and to left and to right of it,
    Never is lisp or the ripple of rain:
   Fierce is the daytime and wild is the night of it,
    Flame without limit and frost without wane!
   Trees half alive, with the sense of a curse on them,
    Shudder and shrink from the black heavy gale;
   Ghastly, with boughs like the plumes of a hearse on them:
    Barren of blossom and blasted with bale.

   Under the cliff that stares down to the south of it—
    Back by the horns of a hazardous hill,
   Dumb is the gorge with a grave in the mouth of it
    Still, as a corpse in a coffin is still.
   Never there hovers a hope of the Spring by it—
    Never a glimmer of yellow and green:
   Only the bat with a whisper of wing by it
    Flits like a life out of flesh and unseen.
   Here are the growths that are livid and glutinous,
    Speckled, and bloated with poisonous blood:
   This is the haunt of the viper-breed mutinous:
    Cursed with the curse of weird Catherine Flood.

   He that hath looked on it—hurried aghast from it,
    Hair of him frozen with horror straightway,
   Chased by a sudden strange pestilent blast from it—
    Where is the speech of him—what can he say?
   Hath he not seen the fierce ghost of a hag in it?
    Heard maledictions that startle the stars?
   Dumb is his mouth as a mouth with a gag in it—
    Mute is his life as a life within bars.
   Just the one glimpse of that grey, shrieking woman there
    Ringed by a circle of furnace and fiend!
   He that went happy and healthy and human there—
    Where shall the white leper fly to be cleaned?

   Here, in a pit with indefinite doom on it,
    Here, in the fumes of a feculent moat,
   Under an alp with inscrutable gloom on it,
    Squats the wild witch with a ghoul at her throat!
   Black execration that cannot be spoken of—
    Speech of red hell that would suffocate Song,
   Starts from this terror with never a token of
    Day and its loveliness all the year long.
   Sin without name to it—man never heard of it—
    Crime that would startle a fiend from his lair,
   Blasted this Glen, and the leaf and the bird of it—
    Where is there hope for it, Father, O where?

   Far in the days of our fathers, the life in it
    Blossomed and beamed in the sight of the sun:
   Yellow and green and the purple were rife in it,
    Singers of morning and waters that run.
   Storm of the equinox shed no distress on it,
    Thunder spoke softly, and summer-time left
   Sunset's forsaken bright beautiful dress on it—
    Blessing that shone half the night in the cleft.
   Hymns of the highlands—hosannas from hills by it,
    Psalms of great forests made holy the spot:
   Cool were the mosses and clear were the rills by it—
    Far in the days when the Horror was not.

   Twenty miles south is the strong, shining Hawkesbury—
    Spacious and splendid, and lordly with blooms.
   There, between mountains magnificent, walks bury
    Miles of their beauty in green myrtle glooms.
   There, in the dell, is the fountain with falls by it—
    Falls, and a torrent of summering stream:
   There is the cave with the hyaline halls by it—
    Haunt of the echo and home of the dream.
   Over the hill, by the marvellous base of it,
    Wanders the wind with a song in its breath
   Out to the sea with the gold on the face of it—
    Twenty miles south of the Valley of Death.

On a Spanish Cathedral

  —
   * Every happy expression in these stanzas may fairly be claimed
     by the Hon. W. B. Dalley (Author's note).
  —

   Deep under the spires of a hill, by the feet of the thunder-cloud trod,
   I pause in a luminous, still, magnificent temple of God!
   At the steps of the altar august—a vision of angels in stone—
   I kneel, with my head to the dust, on the floors by the seraphim known.
   No father in Jesus is near, with the high, the compassionate face;
   But the glory of Godhead is here—its presence transfigures the place!
   Behold in this beautiful fane, with the lights of blue heaven impearled,
   I think of the Elders of Spain, in the deserts—the wilds of the world!

   I think of the wanderers poor who knelt on the flints and the sands,
   When the mighty and merciless Moor was lord of the Lady of Lands.
   Where the African scimitar flamed, with a swift, bitter death in its kiss,
   The fathers, unknown and unnamed, found God in cathedrals like this!
   The glow of His Spirit—the beam of His blessing—made lords of the men
   Whose food was the herb of the stream, whose roof was the dome of the den.
   And, far in the hills by the sea, these awful hierophants prayed
   For Rome and its temples to be—in a temple by Deity made.

   Who knows of their faith—of its power?
     Perhaps, with the light in their eyes,
   They saw, in some wonderful hour, the marvel of centuries rise!
   Perhaps in some moment supreme, when the mountains were holy and still,
   They dreamed the magnificent dream that came to the monks of Seville!
   Surrounded by pillars and spires whose summits shone out in the glare
   Of the high, the omnipotent fires, who knows what was seen by them there?
   Be sure, if they saw, in the noon of their faith, some ineffable fane,
   They looked on the church like a moon dropped down by the Lord into Spain.

   And the Elders who shone in the time when Christ over Christendom beamed
   May have dreamed at their altars sublime
     the dream that their fathers had dreamed,
   By the glory of Italy moved—the majesty shining in Rome—
   They turned to the land that they loved,
     and prayed for a church in their home;
   And a soul of unspeakable fire descended on them, and they fought
   And laboured a life for the spire and tower and dome of their thought!
   These grew under blessing and praise, as morning in summertime grows—
   As Troy in the dawn of the days to the music of Delphicus rose.

   In a land of bewildering light, where the feet of the season are Spring's,
   They worked in the day and the night, surrounded by beautiful things.
   The wonderful blossoms in stone—the flower and leaf of the Moor,
   On column and cupola shone, and gleamed on the glimmering floor.
   In a splendour of colour and form, from the marvellous African's hands
   Yet vivid and shining and warm, they planted the Flower of the Lands.
   Inspired by the patience supreme of the mute, the magnificent past,
   They toiled till the dome of their dream in the firmament blossomed at last!

   Just think of these men—of their time—
     of the days of their deed, and the scene!
   How touching their zeal—how sublime
     their suppression of self must have been!
   In a city yet hacked by the sword and scarred by the flame of the Moor,
   They started the work of their Lord, sad, silent, and solemnly poor.
   These fathers, how little they thought of themselves, and how much of the days
   When the children of men would be brought to pray in their temple, and praise!
   Ah! full of the radiant, still, heroic old life that has flown,
   The merciful monks of Seville toiled on, and died bare and unknown.

   The music, the colour, the gleam of their mighty cathedral will be
   Hereafter a luminous dream of the heaven I never may see;
   To a spirit that suffers and seeks for the calm of a competent creed,
   This temple, whose majesty speaks, becomes a religion indeed;
   The passionate lights—the intense, the ineffable beauty of sound—
   Go straight to the heart through the sense,
     as a song would of seraphim crowned.
   And lo! by these altars august, the life that is highest we live,
   And are filled with the infinite trust
     and the peace that the world cannot give.

   They have passed, have the elders of time—
     they have gone; but the work of their hands,
   Pre-eminent, peerless, sublime, like a type of eternity stands!
   They are mute, are the fathers who made this church in the century dim;
   But the dome with their beauty arrayed remains, a perpetual hymn.
   Their names are unknown; but so long as the humble in spirit and pure
   Are worshipped in speech and in song, our love for these monks will endure;
   And the lesson by sacrifice taught will live in the light of the years
   With a reverence not to be bought, and a tenderness deeper than tears.

Rover

   No classic warrior tempts my pen
    To fill with verse these pages—
   No lordly-hearted man of men
    My Muse's thought engages.

   Let others choose the mighty dead,
    And sing their battles over!
   My champion, too, has fought and bled—
    My theme is one-eyed Rover.

   A grave old dog, with tattered ears
    Too sore to cock up, reader!—
   A four-legged hero, full of years,
    But sturdy as a cedar.

   Still, age is age; and if my rhyme
    Is dashed with words pathetic,
   Don't wonder, friend; I've seen the time
    When Rove was more athletic.

   He lies coiled up before me now,
    A comfortable crescent.
   His night-black nose and grizzled brow
    Fixed in a fashion pleasant.

   But ever and anon he lifts
    The one good eye I mention,
   And tries a thousand doggish shifts
    To rivet my attention.

   Just let me name his name, and up
    You'll see him start and patter
   Towards me, like a six-months' pup
    In point of speed, but fatter.

   He pokes his head upon my lap,
    Nor heeds the whip above him;
   Because he knows, the dear old chap,
    His human friends all love him.

   Our younger dogs cut off from hence
    At sight of lash uplifted;
   But Rove, with grand indifference,
    Remains, and can't be shifted.

   And, ah! the set upon his phiz
    At meals defies expression;
   For I confess that Rover is
    A cadger by profession.

   The lesser favourites of the place
    At dinner keep their distance;
   But by my chair one grizzled face
    Begs on with brave persistence.

   His jaws present a toothless sight,
    But still my hearty hero
   Can satisfy an appetite
    Which brings a bone to zero.

   And while Spot barks and pussy mews,
    To move the cook's compassion,
   He takes his after-dinner snooze
    In genuine biped fashion.

   In fact, in this, our ancient pet
    So hits off human nature,
   That I at times almost forget
    He's but a dog in feature.

   Between his tail and bright old eye
    The swift communications
   Outstrip the messages which fly
    From telegraphic stations.

   And, ah! that tail's rich eloquence
    Conveys too clear a moral,
   For men who have a grain of sense
    About its drift to quarrel.

   At night, his voice is only heard
    When it is wanted badly;
   For Rover is too cute a bird
    To follow shadows madly.

   The pup and Carlo in the dark
    Will start at crickets chirring;
   But when we hear the old dog bark
    We know there's something stirring.

   He knows a gun, does Rover here;
    And if I cock a trigger,
   He makes himself from tail to ear
    An admirable figure.

   For, once the fowling piece is out,
    And game is on the tapis,
   The set upon my hero's snout
    Would make a cockle happy.

   And as for horses, why, betwixt
    Our chestnut mare and Rover
   The mutual friendship is as fixed
    As any love of lover.

   And when his master's hand resigns
    The bridle for the paddle,
   His dogship on the grass reclines,
    And stays and minds the saddle.

   Of other friends he has no lack;
    Grey pussy is his crony,
   And kittens mount upon his back,
    As youngsters mount a pony.

   They talk of man's superior sense,
    And charge the few with treason
   Who think a dog's intelligence
    Is very like our reason.

   But though Philosophy has tried
    A score of definitions,
   'Twixt man and dog it can't decide
    The relative positions.

   And I believe upon the whole
    (Though you my creed deny, sir),
   That Rove's entitled to a soul
    As much as you or I, sir!

   Indeed, I fail to see the force
    Of your derisive laughter
   Because I will not say my horse
    Has not some horse-hereafter.

   A fig for dogmas—let them pass!
    There's much in life to grieve us;
   And what most grieves is this, alas!
    That all our best friends leave us.

   And when I sip my nightly grog,
    And watch old Rover blinking,
   This royal ruin of a dog
    Calls forth some serious thinking.

   For, though he's lightly touched by Fate,
    I cannot help remarking
   The step of age is in his gait,
    Its hoarseness in his barking.

   He still goes on his rounds at night
    To keep off forest prowlers;
   But, ah! he has no teeth to bite
    The cunning-hearted howlers.

   Not like the Rover that, erewhile,
    Gave droves of dingoes battle,
   And dashed through flood and fierce defile—
    The friend, but dread, of cattle.

   Not like to him that, in past years,
    Won fight by fight, and scattered
   Whole tribes of dogs with rags of ears
    And tail-ends torn and tattered.

   But while time tells upon our pet,
    And makes him greyer daily,
   He is a noble fellow yet,
    And wears his old age gaily.

   Still, dogs must die; and in the end,
    When he is past caressing,
   We'll mourn him like some human friend
    Whose presence was a blessing.

   Till then, be bread and peace his lot—
    A life of calm and clover!
   The pup may sleep outside with Spot—
    We'll keep the nook for Rover.

The Melbourne International Exhibition

   [Written for Music.]

     I

   Brothers from far-away lands,
    Sons of the fathers of fame,
   Here are our hearts and our hands—
    This is our song of acclaim.
   Lords from magnificent zones,
    Shores of superlative sway,
   Awful with lustre of thrones,
    This is our greeting to-day.
   Europe and Asia are here—
    Shining they enter our ports!
   She that is half of the sphere
    Beams like a sun in our courts.
   Children of elders whose day
    Shone to the planet's white ends,
   Meet, in the noble old way,
    Sons of your forefather's friends.

     II

   Dressed is the beautiful city—the spires of it
    Burn in the firmament stately and still;
   Forest has vanished—the wood and the lyres of it,
    Lutes of the sea-wind and harps of the hill.
   This is the region, and here is the bay by it,
    Collins, the deathless, beheld in a dream:
   Flinders and Fawkner, our forefathers grey, by it
    Paused in the hush of a season supreme.
   Here, on the waters of majesty near to us,
    Lingered the leaders by towers of flame:
   Elders who turn from the lordly old year to us
    Crowned with the lights of ineffable fame.

     III

   Nine and seventy years ago,
    Up the blaze of yonder bay,
    On a great exalted day,
   Came from seas august with snow—
   Waters where the whirlwinds blow—
    First of England's sons who stood
    By the deep green, bygone wood
   Where the wild song used to flow
   Nine and seventy years ago.

   Five and forty years ago,
    On a grand auspicious morn
    When the South Wind blew his horn,
   Where the splendid mountains glow—
   Peaks that God and Sunrise know—
    Came the fearless, famous band,
    Founders of our radiant land,
   From the lawns where roses grow,
   Five and forty years ago.

     IV

   By gracious slopes of fair green hills,
    In shadows cool and deep,
   Where floats the psalm of many rills,
    The noble elders sleep.
   But while their children's children last,
    While seed from seedling springs,
   The print and perfume of their past
    Will be as deathless things.

   Their voices are with vanished years,
    With other days and hours;
   Their homes are sanctified by tears—
    They sleep amongst the flowers.
   They do not walk by street or stream,
    Or tread by grove or shore,
   But, in the nation's highest dream,
    They shine for evermore.

     V

   By lawny slope and lucent strand
   Are singing flags of every land;
   On streams of splendour—bays impearled—
   The keels are here of all the world.
   With lutes of light and cymbals clear
   We waft goodwill to every sphere.
   The links of love to-day are thrown
   From sea to sea—from zone to zone;
   And, lo! we greet, in glory drest,
   The lords that come from east and west,
   And march like noble children forth
   To meet our fathers from the North!

     VI

   To Thee be the glory, All-Bountiful Giver!
    The song that we sing is an anthem to Thee,
   Whose blessing is shed on Thy people for ever,
    Whose love is like beautiful light on the sea.
   Behold, with high sense of Thy mercy unsleeping,
    We come to Thee, kneel to Thee, praise Thee, and pray,
   O Lord, in whose hand is the strength that is keeping
    The storm from the wave and the night from the day!