After Many Years

   The song that once I dreamed about,
    The tender, touching thing,
   As radiant as the rose without—
    The love of wind and wing—
   The perfect verses, to the tune
    Of woodland music set,
   As beautiful as afternoon,
    Remain unwritten yet.

   It is too late to write them now—
    The ancient fire is cold;
   No ardent lights illume the brow,
    As in the days of old.
   I cannot dream the dream again;
    But when the happy birds
   Are singing in the sunny rain,
    I think I hear its words.

   I think I hear the echo still
    Of long-forgotten tones,
   When evening winds are on the hill
    And sunset fires the cones;
   But only in the hours supreme,
    With songs of land and sea,
   The lyrics of the leaf and stream,
    This echo comes to me.

   No longer doth the earth reveal
    Her gracious green and gold;
   I sit where youth was once, and feel
    That I am growing old.
   The lustre from the face of things
    Is wearing all away;
   Like one who halts with tired wings,
    I rest and muse to-day.

   There is a river in the range
    I love to think about;
   Perhaps the searching feet of change
    Have never found it out.
   Ah! oftentimes I used to look
    Upon its banks, and long
   To steal the beauty of that brook
    And put it in a song.

   I wonder if the slopes of moss,
    In dreams so dear to me—
   The falls of flower, and flower-like floss—
    Are as they used to be!
   I wonder if the waterfalls,
    The singers far and fair,
   That gleamed between the wet, green walls,
    Are still the marvels there!

   Ah! let me hope that in that place
    The old familiar things
   To which I turn a wistful face
    Have never taken wings.
   Let me retain the fancy still
    That, past the lordly range,
   There always shines, in folds of hill,
    One spot secure from change!

   I trust that yet the tender screen
    That shades a certain nook,
   Remains, with all its gold and green,
    The glory of the brook.
   It hides a secret to the birds
    And waters only known:
   The letters of two lovely words—
    A poem on a stone.

   Perhaps the lady of the past
    Upon these lines may light,
   The purest verses, and the last
    That I may ever write.
   She need not fear a word of blame—
    Her tale the flowers keep—
   The wind that heard me breathe her name
    Has been for years asleep.

   But in the night, and when the rain
    The troubled torrent fills,
   I often think I see again
    The river in the hills;
   And when the day is very near,
    And birds are on the wing,
   My spirit fancies it can hear
    The song I cannot sing.

[End of Songs from the Mountains.]

EARLY POEMS, 1859-70

   (With a few exceptions, these are now printed
   for the first time in book form).

The Merchant Ship

   The sun o'er the waters was throwing
    In the freshness of morning its beams;
   And the breast of the ocean seemed glowing
    With glittering silvery streams:
   A bark in the distance was bounding
    Away for the land on her lee;
   And the boatswain's shrill whistle resounding
    Came over and over the sea.
   The breezes blew fair and were guiding
    Her swiftly along on her track,
   And the billows successively passing,
    Were lost in the distance aback.
   The sailors seemed busy preparing
    For anchor to drop ere the night;
   The red rusted cables in fathoms
    Were haul'd from their prisons to light.
   Each rope and each brace was attended
    By stout-hearted sons of the main,
   Whose voices, in unison blended,
    Sang many a merry-toned strain.

   Forgotten their care and their sorrow,
    If of such they had ever known aught,
   Each soul was wrapped up in the morrow—
    The morrow which greeted them not;
   A sunshiny hope was inspiring
    And filling their hearts with a glow
   Like that on the billows around them,
    Like the silvery ocean below.
   As they looked on the haven before them,
    Already high looming and near,
   What else but a joy could invade them,
    Or what could they feel but a cheer?

       .   .   .   .   .

   The eve on the waters was clouded,
    And gloomy and dark grew the sky;
   The ocean in blackness was shrouded,
    And wails of a tempest flew by;
   The bark o'er the billows high surging
    'Mid showers of the foam-crested spray,
   Now sinking, now slowly emerging,
    Held onward her dangerous way.
   The gale in the distance was veering
    To a point that would drift her on land,
   And fearfully he that was steering
    Look'd round on the cliff-girdled strand.
   He thought of the home now before him
    And muttered sincerely a prayer
   That morning might safely restore him
    To friends and to kind faces there.
   He knew that if once at the mercy
    Of the winds and those mountain-like waves
   The sun would rise over the waters—
    The day would return on their graves.

       .   .   .   .   .

   Still blacker the heavens were scowling,
    Still nearer the rock-skirted shore;
   Yet fiercer the tempest was howling
    And louder the wild waters roar.
   The cold rain in torrents came pouring
    On deck thro' the rigging and shrouds,
   And the deep, pitchy dark was illumined
    Each moment with gleams from the clouds
   Of forky-shap'd lightning as, darting,
    It made a wide pathway on high,
   And the sound of the thunder incessant
    Re-echoed the breadth of the sky.
   The light-hearted tars of the morning
    Now gloomily watching the storm
   Were silent, the glare from the flashes
    Revealing each weather-beat form,
   Their airy-built castles all vanished
    When they heard the wild conflict ahead;
   Their hopes of the morning were banished,
    And terror seemed ruling instead.
   They gazed on the heavens above them
    And then on the waters beneath,
   And shrunk as foreboding those billows
    Might shroud them ere morrow in death.

       .   .   .   .   .

   Hark!  A voice o'er the tempest came ringing,
    A wild cry of bitter despair
   Re-echoed by all in the vessel,
    And filling the wind-ridden air.
   The breakers and rocks were before them
    Discovered too plain to their eyes,
   And the heart-bursting shrieks of the hopeless
    Ascending were lost in the skies.
   Then a crash, then a moan from the dying
    Went on, on the wings of the gale,
   Soon hush'd in the roar of the waters
    And the tempest's continuing wail.
   The "Storm Power" loudly was sounding
    Their funeral dirge as they passed,
   And the white-crested waters around them
    Re-echoed the voice of the blast.
   The surges will show to the morrow
    A fearful and heartrending sight,
   And bereaved ones will weep in their sorrow
    When they think of that terrible night.

       .   .   .   .   .

   The day on the ocean returning
    Saw still'd to a slumber the deep—
   Not a zephyr disturbing its bosom,
    The winds and the breezes asleep.
   Again the warm sunshine was gleaming
    Refulgently fringing the sea,
   Its rays to the horizon beaming
    And clothing the land on the lee.
   The billows were silently gliding
    O'er the graves of the sailors beneath,
   The waves round the vessel yet pointing
    The scene of their anguish and death.
   They seemed to the fancy bewailing
    The sudden and terrible doom
   Of those who were yesterday singing
    And laughing in sight of their tomb.

       .   .   .   .   .

   'Tis thus on the sea of existence—
    The morning begins without care,
   Hope cheerfully points to the distance,
    The Future beams sunny and fair;
   And we—as the bark o'er the billows,
    Admiring the beauty of day,
   With Fortune all smiling around us—
    Glide onward our silvery way.
   We know not nor fear for a sorrow
    Ever crossing our pathway in life;
   We judge from to-day the to-morrow
    And dream not of meeting with strife.
   This world seems to us as an Eden
    And we wonder when hearing around
   The cries of stern pain and affliction
    How such an existence is found.
   But we find to our cost when misfortune
    Comes mantling our sun in its night,
   That the Earth was not made to be Heaven,
    Not always our life can be bright.
   In turn we see each of our day-dreams
    Dissolve into air and decay,
   And learn that the hopes that are brightest
    Fade soonest—far soonest away.

   These lines were written in 1857, and were suggested by the wreck
   of the Dunbar, but the writer did not confine himself in particular
   to a description of that disaster, as may be seen from perusal.—H.K.

Oh, Tell Me, Ye Breezes

   Oh, tell me, ye breezes that spring from the west,
    Oh, tell me, ere passing away,
   If Leichhardt's bold spirit has fled to its rest?
    Where moulders the traveller's clay?

   Perchance as ye flitted on heedlessly by
    The long lost was yielding his breath;
   Perchance ye have borne on your wings the last sigh
    That 'scap'd from the lone one in death.

   Tell me, ye breezes, ye've traversed the wild,
    And passed o'er the desolate spot,
   Where reposeth in silence sweet Nature's own child,
    Where slumbers one nearly forgot?

   Ye answer me not but are passing away—
    Ye breezes that spring from the west,
   Unhallow'd still moulders the traveller's clay,
    For unknown is the place of his rest.

The Far Future

   Australia, advancing with rapid winged stride,
   Shall plant among nations her banners in pride,
   The yoke of dependence aside she will cast,
   And build on the ruins and wrecks of the Past.
   Her flag on the tempest will wave to proclaim
   'Mong kingdoms and empires her national name;
   The Future shall see it, asleep or unfurl'd,
   The shelter of Freedom and boast of the world.

   Australia, advancing like day on the sky,
   Has glimmer'd thro' darkness, will blazon on high,
   A Gem in its glitter has yet to be seen,
   When Progress has placed her where England has been;
   When bursting those limits above she will soar,
   Outstretching all rivals who've mounted before,
   And, resting, will blaze with her glories unfurl'd,
   The empire of empires and boast of the world.

   Australia, advancing with Power, will entwine
   With Honour and Justice a Mercy divine;
   No Despot shall trample—no slave shall be bound—
   Oppression must totter and fall to the ground.
   The stain of all ages, tyrannical sway,
   Will pass like a flash or a shadow away,
   And shrink to nothing 'neath thunderbolts hurl'd
   From the hand of the terror—the boast of the world.

   Australia, advancing with rapid wing'd stride,
   Shall plant among nations her banners in pride;
   The yoke of dependence aside she will cast,
   And build on the ruins and wrecks of the Past.
   Her flag in the tempest will wave to proclaim,
   'Mong kingdoms and empires her national name,
   And Ages shall see it, asleep or unfurl'd
   The shelter of Freedom and boast of the world.

   I hope the above will not be considered disloyal.  It is but reasonable
   to imagine that Australia will in the far future become
   an independent nation—that imagination springing as it does
   from a native-born Australian brain.—H.K.

Silent Tears

   What bitter sorrow courses down
    Yon mourner's faded cheek?
   Those scalding drops betray a grief
    Within, too full to speak.
   Outspoken words cannot express
    The pangs, the pains of years;
   They're ne'er so deep or eloquent
    As are those silent tears.

   Here is a wound that in the breast
    Must canker, hid'n from sight;
   Though all without seems sunny day,
    Within 'tis ever night.
   Yet sometimes from this secret source
    The gloomy truth appears;
   The wind's dark dungeon must have vent
    If but in silent tears.

   The world may deem from outward looks
    That heart is hard and cold;
   But oh! could they the mantle lift
    What sorrows would be told!
   Then, only then, the truth would show
    Which most the bosom sears:
   The pain portrayed by burning words
    Or that by—silent tears.

Extempore Lines

  —
   *  Suggested by one of John Bright's speeches on Electoral Reform.
  —

   A morning crowns the Western hill,
    A day begins to reign,
   A sun awakes o'er distant seas—
    Shall never sleep again.
   The world is growing old,
    And men are waxing wise;
   A mist has cleared—a something falls
    Like scales from off their eyes.

   Too long the "Dark of Ignorance"
    Has brooded on their way;
   Too long Oppression 's stood before,
    Excluding light of day.
   But now they've found the track
    And now they've seen the dawn,
   A "beacon lamp" is pointing on,
    Where stronger glows the morn.

   Since Adam lived, the mighty ones
    Have ever ruled the weak;
   Since Noah's flood, the fettered slave
    Has seldom dared to speak.
   'Tis time a voice was heard,
    'Tis time a voice was spoken
   So in the chain of tyranny
    A link or two be broken.

   A tiny rill will swell a stream,
    A spark will cause a flame,
   And one man's burning eloquence
    Has help'd to do the same.
   And he will persevere,
    And soon that blaze must spread,
   Till to the corners of the earth
    Reflecting beams are shed.

   The "few" will try to beat it down,
    But can they stop the flood—
   Bind up the pinions of the light,
    Or check the will of God?
   And is it not His will
    That deeply injured Right
   Should overthrow the iron rule
    And reign instead of Might?

The Old Year

   It passed like the breath of the night-wind away,
   It fled like a mist at the dawn of the day;
   It lasted its moment, then backward was hurled,
   Another increase to the age of the world.

   It passed with its shadows, its smiles and its tears,
   It passed as a stream to the ocean of years;
   Years that were coming—were here—and are o'er,
   The ages departed to visit no more.

   It passed, but the bark on its billowy track
   Leaves an impression on waters aback:
   The glow of the gloaming remains on the sky,
   Unwilling to leave us—unwilling to die.

   It fled; but away and away in its wake
   There lingers a something that time cannot break.
   The past and the future are joined by a chain,
   And memories live that must ever remain.

Tanna

   (The Kanaka's Death-Song over his Chieftain.)

   Shades of my father, the hour is approaching.
    Prepare ye the 'cava' for 'Yona' on high;
   Make ready the welcome, ye souls of Arrochin.
    The Death God of Tanna speaks—Yona must die.

   No more will he traverse the flame sheeted mountain,
    To lead forth his brothers to hunting and war;
   No more will he drink from the time honoured fountain,
    Nor rise in the councils of Uking-a-shaa.

   His voice in the battle, loud thunder resembling,
    Has died like a zephyr o'errunning the plain;
   His whoop like the tempest thro' forest trees trembling,
    Shall never strike foemen with terror again.

   The 'muska' hung up on the cocoa is sleeping,
    And Attanam's spirits have gathered a-nigh
   To see their destroyer; and, wailing and weeping,
    Roll past on the night-breathing winds of the sky.

   The lines are suspended, the 'muttow' is broken,
    The canoe's far away from the water-wash'd shore,
   Mourn, mourn, ye 'whyeenas', the word has been spoken,
    The chieftain can bring ye the 'weepan' no more.

   Ye cloud-seated visions, ye shades of my fathers,
    Awake from your slumbers, the trumpet blast blow;
   The moments are flying, the mountain mist gathers,
    And Yona is leaving his camp fire below.

       .   .   .   .   .

   The struggles are over, the cords are asunder,
    Ye Phantoms hold forward your heavenly light,
   Speak on the wings of the sky-shaking thunder,
    And fill him with joy on the path of his flight.

   Come downwards a space thro' the fogs till ye meet him,
    Throw open the doors of Arrochin awide,
   And stand on the thresholds, ye Shadows to greet him—
    The glory of Tanna, the Uking'shaa's pride.

   Thanks, spirits departed!—heard I not your voices
    Faint rolling along on the breath of the gale?
   Thanks, spirits departed!  Le-en-na rejoices:
    Ye've answered the mourner—ye've silenced the wail.

   The midnight is clearing; the Death-song is ended.
    The Chieftain has gone, but ye've called him away;
   For he smiled as he listened, obedient ascended,
    The voice in his ear, and the torch on his way.

   Tanna is one of the largest islands in the group known as the New Hebrides.
   The natives of it, in common with all their South Sea brethren,
   are generally titled by the whites "Kanakas".  They are of the negro family,
   resembling in feature, very closely, the Feejee tribes.  It is said that
   they believe in the existence of a Superior Being, whose earthly dwelling
   they fancy is in the burning volcanoes for which the island is remarkable.
   They believe in a future happy state, and call their heaven "Arrochin".
   They are divided into small tribes or clans; the largest of these
   are the Ukingh-a-shaa and Attanam families.  A spirit of rivalry
   between these two last-mentioned often causes long and bloody wars
   all over the island.

   Tanna, besides the never-sleeping volcano, has its other objects of interest
   in the many boiling springs that surround the base of the burning mountain.
   Some of these are held as holy, and none but chiefs are permitted
   to taste their waters.  Such restriction, however, does not extend over all.

   When any of their great warriors die, the aborigines believe that
   the spirits of Arrochin prepare a great feast there for their coming guest,
   and for fear he should lose himself on the road thither they (the spirits)
   call to him and blow trumpets, sending some one at the same time with torches
   to meet him and guide him on his way to those blessed regions.

     Explanation of Native Words:

   "Arrochin"—Heaven.  "Cava"—a drink extracted from a root.
   (The natives believe it is made and drunk in Arrochin where it grows
   as in Tanna).  "Muska" (corruption of the English term, musket)—
   of late their chief weapon in war.  "Muttow"—a fishing-hook.
   "Whyeena"—woman (this is not the original native appellation;
   that I could never ascertain).  "Weepan"—Fish (their principal food).
   "Leenna" and "Yona"—native names.—H.K.