Sonnets on the Discovery of Botany Bay by Captain Cook

     I

   The First Attempt to Reach the Shore

   Where is the painter who shall paint for you,
   My Austral brothers, with a pencil steeped
   In hues of Truth, the weather-smitten crew
   Who gazed on unknown shores—a thoughtful few—
   What time the heart of their great Leader leaped
   Till he was faint with pain of longing?  New
   And wondrous sights on each and every hand,
   Like strange supernal visions, grew and grew
   Until the rocks and trees, and sea and sand,
   Danced madly in the tear-bewildered view!
   And from the surf a fierce, fantastic band
   Of startled wild men to the hills withdrew
   With yells of fear!  Who'll paint thy face, O Cook!
   Turned seaward, "after many a wistful look!"

     II

   The Second Attempt, Opposed by Two of the Natives

   "There were but two, and we were forty!  Yet,"
   The Captain wrote, "that dauntless couple throve,
   And faced our wildering faces; and I said
   'Lie to awhile!'  I did not choose to let
   A strife go on of little worth to us.
   And so unequal!  But the dying tread
   Of flying kinsmen moved them not:  for wet
   With surf and wild with streaks of white and black
   The pair remained."—O stout Caractacus!
   'Twas thus you stood when Caesar's legions strove
   To beat their few, fantastic foemen back—
   Your patriots with their savage stripes of red!
   To drench the stormy cliff and moaning cove
   With faithful blood, as pure as any ever shed.

     III

   The Spot Where Cook Landed

   Chaotic crags are huddled east and west—
   Dark, heavy crags, against a straitened sea
   That cometh, like a troubled soul in quest
   Of voiceless rest where never dwelleth rest,
   With noise "like thunder everlasting."
   But here, behold a silent space of sand!—
   Oh, pilgrim, halt!—it even seems to be
   Asleep in other years.  How still!  How grand!
   How awful in its wild solemnity!
   This is the spot on which the Chief did land,
   And there, perchance, he stood what time a band
   Of yelling strangers scoured the savage lea.
   Dear friend, with thoughtful eyes look slowly round—
   By all the sacred Past 'tis sacred ground.

     IV

   Sutherland's Grave

   'Tis holy ground!  The silent silver lights
   And darks undreamed of, falling year by year
   Upon his sleep, in soft Australian nights,
   Are joys enough for him who lieth here
   So sanctified with Rest.  We need not rear
   The storied monument o'er such a spot!
   That soul, the first for whom the Christian tear
   Was shed on Austral soil, hath heritage
   Most ample!  Let the ages wane with age,
   The grass which clothes this grave shall wither not.
   See yonder quiet lily!  Have the blights
   Of many winters left it on a faded tomb?*
   Oh, peace!  Its fellows, glad with green delights,
   Shall gather round it deep eternal bloom!

   * A wild lily grows on the spot supposed to be Sutherland's grave.—H.K.

To Henry Halloran

   You know I left my forest home full loth,
   And those weird ways I knew so well and long,
   Dishevelled with their sloping sidelong growth
   Of twisted thorn and kurrajong.

   It seems to me, my friend (and this wild thought
   Of all wild thoughts, doth chiefly make me bleed),
   That in those hills and valleys wonder-fraught,
   I loved and lost a noble creed.

   A splendid creed!  But let me even turn
   And hide myself from what I've seen, and try
   To fathom certain truths you know, and learn
   The Beauty shining in your sky:

   Remembering you in ardent autumn nights,
   And Stenhouse near you, like a fine stray guest
   Of other days, with all his lore of lights
   So manifold and manifest!

   Then hold me firm.  I cannot choose but long
   For that which lies and burns beyond my reach,
   Suggested in your steadfast, subtle song
   And his most marvellous speech!

   For now my soul goes drifting back again,
   Ay, drifting, drifting, like the silent snow
   While scattered sheddings, in a fall of rain,
   Revive the dear lost Long Ago!

   The time I, loitering by untrodden fens,
   Intent upon low-hanging lustrous skies,
   Heard mellowed psalms from sounding southern glens—
   Euroma, dear to dreaming eyes!

   And caught seductive tokens of a voice
   Half maddened with the dim, delirious themes
   Of perfect Love, and the immortal choice
   Of starry faces—Astral dreams!

   That last was yours!  And if you sometimes find
   An alien darkness on the front of things,
   Sing none the less for Life, nor fall behind,
   Like me, with trailing, tired wings!

   Yea, though the heavy Earth wears sackcloth now
   Because she hath the great prophetic grief
   Which makes me set my face one way, and bow
   And falter for a far belief,

   Be faithful yet for all, my brave bright peer,
   In that rare light you hold so true and good;
   And find me something clearer than the clear
   White spaces of Infinitude.

Lost in the Flood

   When God drave the ruthless waters
    From our cornfields to the sea,
   Came she where our wives and daughters
    Sobbed their thanks on bended knee.
   Hidden faces! there ye found her
    Mute as death, and staring wild
   At the shadow waxing round her
    Like the presence of her child—
      Of her drenched and drowning child!

   Dark thoughts live when tears won't gather;
    Who can tell us what she felt?
   It was human, O my Father,
    If she blamed Thee while she knelt!
   Ever, as a benediction
    Fell like balm on all and each,
   Rose a young face whose affliction
    Choked and stayed the founts of speech—
     Stayed and shut the founts of speech!

   Often doth she sit and ponder
    Over gleams of happy hair!
   How her white hands used to wander,
    Like a flood of moonlight there!
   Lord—our Lord! Thou know'st her weakness:
    Give her faith that she may pray;
   And the subtle strength of meekness,
    Lest she falter by the way—
     Falter, fainting, by the way!

   "Darling!" saith she, wildly moaning
    Where the grass-grown silence lies,
   "Is there rest from sobs and groaning—
    Rest with you beyond the skies?
   Child of mine, so far above me!
    Late it waxeth—dark and late;
   Will the love with which I love thee,
    Lift me where you sit and wait—
     Darling! where you sit and wait?"

Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Four

   I hear no footfall beating through the dark,
    A lonely gust is loitering at the pane;
   There is no sound within these forests stark
    Beyond a splash or two of sullen rain;

   But you are with us! and our patient land
    Is filled with long-expected change at last,
   Though we have scarce the heart to lift a hand
    Of welcome, after all the yearning past!

   Ah! marvel not; the days and nights were long
    And cold and dull and dashed with many tears;
   And lately there hath been a doleful song,
    Of "Mene, Mene," in our restless ears!

   Indeed, we've said, "The royal son of Time,
    Whose feet will shortly cross our threshold floor,
   May lead us to those outer heights sublime
    Our Sires have sold their lives to see before!

   We'll follow him!  Beyond the waves and wrecks
    Of years fulfilled, some fine results must lie;
   We'll pass the last of all wild things that vex
    The pale, sad face of our Humanity!"

   But now our fainting feet are loth to stray
    From trodden paths; our eyes with pain are blind!
   We've lost fair treasures by the weary way;
    We cry, like children, to be left behind.

   Our human speech is dim.  Yet, latest born
    Of God's Eternity, there came to me,
   In saddened streets last week, from lips forlorn
    A sound more solemn than the sleepless sea!

   O, Rachael! Rachael!  We have heard the cries
    In Rama, stranger, o'er our darling dead;
   And seen our mothers with the heavy eyes,
    Who would not hearken to be comforted!

   Then lead us gently!  It must come to pass
    That some of us shall halt and faint and fall;
   For we are looking through a darkened glass,
    And Heaven seems far, and faith grows cold and pale.

   I know, for one, I need a subtle strength
    I have not yet to hold me from a fall;
   What time I cry to God within the length
    Of weary hours; my face against the wall!

   My mourning brothers! in the long, still nights,
    When sleep is wilful, and the lone moon shines,
   Bethink you of the silent, silver lights,
    And darks with Death amongst the moody pines!

   Then, though you cannot shut a stricken face
    Away from you, this hope will come about
   That Christ hath sent again throughout the place
    Some signs of Love to worst and weaken doubt.

   So you may find in every afterthought
    A peace beyond your best expression dear;
   And haply hearken to the Voice which wrought
    Such strength in Peter on the seas of fear!

To——

   Ah, often do I wait and watch,
    And look up, straining through the Real
   With longing eyes, my friend, to catch
    Faint glimpses of your white Ideal.

   I know she loved to rest her feet
    By slumbrous seas and hidden strand;
   But mostly hints of her I meet
    On moony spots of mountain land.

   I've never reached her shining place,
    And only cross at times a gleam;
   As one might pass a fleeting face
    Just on the outside of a Dream.

   But you may climb, her happy Choice!
    She knows your step, the maiden true,
   And ever when she hears your voice,
    She turns and sits and waits for you.

   How sweet to rest on breezy crest
    With such a Love, what time the Morn
   Looks from his halls of rosy rest,
    Across green miles of gleaming corn!

   How sweet to find a leafy nook,
    When bees are out, and Day burns mute,
   Where you may hear a passion'd brook
    Play past you, like a mellow flute!

   Or, turning from the sunken sun,
    On fields of dim delight to lie—
   To close your eyes and muse upon
    The twilight's strange divinity!

   Or through the Night's mysterious noon,
    While Sound lies hushed among the trees,
   To sit and watch a mirror'd moon
    Float over silver-sleeping seas!

   Oh, vain regret! why should I stay
    To think and dream of joys unknown?
   You walk with her from day to day,
    I faint afar off—and alone.

At Long Bay

   Five years ago! you cannot choose
    But know the face of change,
   Though July sleeps and Spring renews
    The gloss in gorge and range.

   Five years ago! I hardly know
    How they have slipped away,
   Since here we watched at ebb and flow
    The waters of the Bay;

   And saw, with eyes of little faith,
    From cumbered summits fade
   The rainbow and the rainbow wraith,
    That shadow of a shade.

   For Love and Youth were vext with doubt,
    Like ships on driving seas,
   And in those days the heart gave out
    Unthankful similes.

   But let it be!  I've often said
    His lot was hardly cast
   Who never turned a happy head
    To an unhappy Past—

   Who never turned a face of light
    To cares beyond recall:
   He only fares in sorer plight
    Who hath no Past at all!

   So take my faith, and let it stand
    Between us for a sign
   That five bright years have known the land
    Since yonder tumbled line

   Of seacliff took our troubled talk—
    The words at random thrown,
   And Echo lived about this walk
    Of gap and slimy stone.

   Here first we learned the Love which leaves
    No lack or loss behind,
   The dark, sweet Love which woos the eves
    And haunts the morning wind.

   And roves with runnels in the dell,
    And houses by the wave
   What time the storm hath struck the fell
    And Terror fills the cave—

   A Love, you know, that lives and lies
    For moments past control,
   And mellows through the Poet's eyes
    And sweetens in his soul.

   Here first we faced a briny breeze,
    What time the middle gale
   Went shrilling over whitened seas
    With flying towers of sail.

   And here we heard the plovers call
    As shattered pauses came,
   When Heaven showed a fiery wall
    With sheets of wasted flame.

   Here grebe and gull and heavy glede
    Passed eastward far away,
   The while the wind, with slackened speed,
    Drooped with the dying Day.

   And here our friendship, like a tree,
    Perennial grew and grew,
   Till you were glad to live for me,
    And I to live for you.

For Ever

   Out of the body for ever,
    Wearily sobbing, "Oh, whither?"
   A Soul that hath wasted its chances
    Floats on the limitless ether.

   Lost in dim, horrible blankness;
    Drifting like wind on a sea,
   Untraversed and vacant and moaning,
    Nor shallow nor shore on the lee!

   Helpless, unfriended, forsaken;
    Haunted and tracked by the Past,
   With fragments of pitiless voices,
    And desolate faces aghast!

   One saith—"It is well that he goeth
    Naked and fainting with cold,
   Who worshipped his sweet-smelling garments,
    Arrayed with the cunning of old!

   "Hark! how he crieth, my brothers,
    With pain for the glittering things
   He saw on the shoulders of Rulers,
    And the might in the mouths of the Kings!

   "This Soul hath been one of the idlers
    Who wait with still hands, when they lack
   For Fortune, like Joseph, to throw them
    The cup thrust in Benjamin's sack.

   "Now, had he been faithful in striving,
    And warring with Wrong to the sword,
   He must have passed over these spaces
    Caught up in the arms of the Lord."

   A second:  "Lo, Passion was wilful;
    And, glad with voluptuous sighs,
   He held it luxurious trouble
    To ache for luxurious eyes!

   "She bound him, the woman resplendent;
    She withered his strength with her stare;
   And Faith hath been twisted and strangled
    With folds of her luminous hair!

   "Was it well, O you wandering wailer,
    Abandoned in terrible space,
   To halt on the highway to Heaven
    Because of a glittering face?"

   And another:  "Behold, he was careful:
    He faltered to think of his Youth,
   Dejected and weary and footsore,
    Alone on the dim road to Truth.

   "If the way had been shorter and greener
    And brighter, he might have been brave;
   But the goal was too far and he fainted,
    Like Peter with Christ on the wave!"

   Beyond the wild haunts of the mockers—
    Far in the distance and gray,
   Floateth that sorrowful spirit
    Away, and away, and away.

   Pale phantoms fly past it, like shadows:
    Dim eyes that are blinded with tears;
   Old faces all white with affliction—
    The ghosts of the wasted dead years!

   "Soul that hath ruined us, shiver
    And moan when you know us," they cry—
   "Behold, I was part of thy substance!"—
    "And I"—saith another—"and I!"

   Drifting from starless abysses
    Into the ether sublime,
   Where is no upward nor downward,
    Nor region nor record of Time!

   Out of the Body for ever
    No refuge—no succour nor stay—
   Floated that sorrowful Spirit
    Away, and away, and away.

Sonnets

     To N. D. Stenhouse, Esq.

   Dark days have passed, but you who taught me then
   To look upon the world with trustful eyes,
   Are not forgotten!  Quick to sympathise
   With noble thoughts, I've dreamt of moments when
   Your low voice filled with strains of fairer skies!
   Stray breaths of Grecian song that went and came,
   Like floating fragrance from some quiet glen
   In those far hills which shine with classic fame
   Of passioned nymphs and grand-browed god-like men!
   I sometimes fear my heart hath lost the same
   Sweet sense of harmony; but this I know
   That Beauty waits on you where'er you go,
   Because she loveth child-like Faith!  Her bowers
   Are rich for it with glad perennial flowers.

     Elizabeth Barrett Browning

   A lofty Type of all her sex, I ween,
   My English brothers, though your wayward race
   Now slight the Soul that never wore a screen,
   And loved too well to keep her noble place!
   Ah, bravest Woman that our World hath seen
   (A light in spaces wild and tempest-tost),
   In every verse of thine, behold, we trace
   The full reflection of an earnest face
   And hear the scrawling of an eager pen!
   O sisters! knowing what you've loved and lost,
   I ask where shall we find its like, and when?
   That dear heart with its passion sorrow-crost,
   And pathos rippling, like a brook in June
   Amongst the roses of a windless noon.

     Sir Walter Scott

   The Bard of ancient lore!  Like one forlorn,
   He turned, enamoured, to the silent Past;
   And searching down its mazes gray and vast,
   As you might find the blossom by the thorn,
   He found fair things in barren places cast
   And brought them up into the light of morn.
   Lo! Truth, resplendent, as a tropic dawn,
   Shines always through his wond'rous pictures!  Hence
   The many quick emotions which are born
   Of an Imagination so intense!
   The chargers' hoofs come tearing up the sward—
   The claymores rattle in the restless sheath;
   You close his page, and almost look abroad
   For Highland glens and windy leagues of heath.

   Let me here endeavour to draw the fair distinctions between the great writers,
   or some of the great writers, of Scott's day; borrowing at the same time
   a later name.  I shall start with that strange figure, Percy Bysshe Shelley.
   He was too subjective to be merely a descriptive poet,
   too metaphysical to be vague, and too imaginative to be didactic.
   As Scott was the most dramatic, Wordsworth the most profound,
   Byron the most passionate, so Shelley was the most spiritual writer
   of his time.  Scott's poetry was the result of vivid emotion,
   Wordsworth's of quiet observation, Byron's of passion,
   and Shelley's of passion and reflection.  Scott races like a torrent,
   Byron rolls like a sea, Wordsworth ripples into a lake,
   Tennyson flows like a river, and Shelley gushes like a fountain.
   As Tennyson is the most harmonious, so Shelley is the most musical
   of modern bards.  I fear to touch upon that grand old man, Coleridge;
   he appears to me so utterly apart from his contemporaries.  He stands,
   like Teneriffe, alone.  Can I liken him to a magnificent thunder-scorched crag
   with its summits eternally veiled in vapour?—H.K.