Caroline Chisholm

       "A perfect woman, nobly planned,
       To warn, to comfort, and command."

   The Priests and the Levites went forth, to feast at the courts of the Kings;
   They were vain of their greatness and worth,
     and gladdened with glittering things;
   They were fair in the favour of gold, and they walked on, with delicate feet,
   Where, famished and faint with the cold, the women fell down in the street.

   The Priests and the Levites looked round, all vexed and perplexed at the cries
   Of the maiden who crouched to the ground with the madness of want in her eyes;
   And they muttered—"Few praises are earned
     when good hath been wrought in the dark;
   While the backs of the people are turned, we choose not to loiter nor hark."

   Moreover they said—"It is fair that our deeds in the daylight should shine:
   If we feasted you, who would declare that we gave you our honey and wine."
   They gathered up garments of gold, and they stepped with their delicate feet,
   And the women who famished with cold, were left with the snow in the street.

   The winds and the rains were abroad—the homeless looked vainly for alms;
   And they prayed in the dark to the Lord, with agony clenched in their palms,
   "There is none of us left that is whole,"
     they cried, through their faltering breath,
   "We are clothed with a sickness of soul,
     and the shape of the shadow of death."

   He heard them, and turned to the earth!—
     "I am pained," said the Lord, "at the woe
   Of my children so smitten with dearth;
     but the night of their trouble shall go."
   He called on His Chosen to come:  she listened, and hastened to rise;
   And He charged her to build them a home,
     where the tears should be dried from their eyes.

   God's servant came forth from the South:  she told of a plentiful land;
   And wisdom was set in her mouth, and strength in the thews of her hand.
   She lifted them out of their fear, and they thought her their Moses and said:
   "We shall follow you, sister, from here to the country of sunshine and bread."

   She fed them, and led them away, through tempest and tropical heat,
   Till they reached the far regions of day, and sweet-scented spaces of wheat.
   She hath made them a home with her hand,
     and they bloom like the summery vines;
   For they eat of the fat of the land, and drink of its glittering wines.

Mount Erebus

   (A Fragment)

   A mighty theatre of snow and fire,
   Girt with perpetual Winter, and sublime
   By reason of that lordly solitude
   Which dwells for ever at the world's white ends;
   And in that weird-faced wilderness of ice,
   There is no human foot, nor any paw
   Or hoof of beast, but where the shrill winds drive
   The famished birds of storm across the tracts
   Whose centre is the dim mysterious Pole.
   Beyond—yea far beyond the homes of man,
   By water never dark with coming ships,
   Near seas that know not feather, scale, or fin,
   The grand volcano, like a weird Isaiah,
   Set in that utmost region of the Earth,
   Doth thunder forth the awful utterance,
   Whose syllables are flame; and when the fierce
   Antarctic Night doth hold dominionship
   Within her fastnessess, then round the cone
   Of Erebus a crown of tenfold light
   Appears; and shafts of marvellous splendour shoot
   Far out to east and west and south and north,
   Whereat a gorgeous dome of glory roofs
   Wild leagues of mountain and transfigured waves,
   And lends all things a beauty terrible.

   Far-reaching lands, whereon the hand of Change
   Hath never rested since the world began,
   Lie here in fearful fellowship with cold
   And rain and tempest.  Here colossal horns
   Of hill start up and take the polar fogs
   Shot through with flying stars of fire; and here,
   Above the dead-grey crescents topped with spires
   Of thunder-smoke, one half the heaven flames
   With that supremest light whose glittering life
   Is yet a marvel unto all but One—
   The Entity Almighty, whom we feel
   Is nearest us when we are face to face
   With Nature's features aboriginal,
   And in the hearing of her primal speech
   And in the thraldom of her primal power.

   While like the old Chaldean king who waxed
   Insane with pride, we human beings grow
   To think we are the mightiest of the world,
   And lords of all terrestrial things, behold
   The sea rolls in with a superb disdain
   Upon our peopled shores, omnipotent;
   And while we set up things of clay and call
   Our idols gods; and while we boast or fume
   About the petty honours, or the poor,
   Pale disappointments of our meagre lives,
   Lo, changeless as Eternity itself,
   The grand Antarctic mountain looms outside
   All breathing life; and, with its awful speech,
   Is as an emblem of the Power Supreme,
   Whose thunders shake the boundless Universe,
   Whose lightnings make a terror of all Space.

Our Jack

   Twelve years ago our Jack was lost.  All night,
   Twelve years ago, the Spirit of the Storm
   Sobbed round our camp.  A wind of northern hills
   That hold a cold companionship with clouds
   Came down, and wrestled like a giant with
   The iron-featured woods; and fall and ford,
   The night our Jack was lost, sent forth a cry
   Of baffled waters, where the Murray sucked
   The rain-replenished torrents at his source,
   And gathered strength, and started for the sea.

   We took our Jack from Melbourne just two weeks
   Before this day twelve years ago.  He left
   A home where Love upon the threshold paused,
   And wept across the shoulder of the lad,
   And blest us when we said we'd take good care
   To keep the idol of the house from harm.
   We were a band of three.  We started thence
   To look for watered lands and pastures new,
   With faces set towards the down beyond
   Where cool Monaro's topmost mountain breaks
   The wings of many a seaward-going storm,
   And shapes them into wreaths of subtle fire.
   We were, I say, a band of three in all,
   With brother Tom for leader.  Bright-eyed Jack,
   Who thought himself as big a man as Tom,
   Was self-elected second in command,
   And I was cook and groom.  A week slipt by,
   Brimful of life—of health, and happiness;
   For though our progress northward had been slow,
   Because the country on the track was rough,
   No one amongst us let his spirits flag;
   Moreover, being young, and at the stage
   When all things novel wear a fine romance,
   We found in ridge and glen, and wood and rock
   And waterfall, and everything that dwells
   Outside with nature, pleasure of that kind
   Which only lives for those whose hearts are tired
   Of noisy cities, and are fain to feel
   The peace and power of the mighty hills.

   The second week we crossed the upper fork
   Where Murray meets a river from the east;
   And there one evening dark with coming storm,
   We camped a furlong from the bank.  Our Jack,
   The little man that used to sing and shout
   And start the merry echoes of the cliffs,
   And gravely help me to put up the tent,
   And try a thousand tricks and offices,
   That made me scold and laugh by turns—the pet
   Of sisters, and the youngest hope of one
   Who grew years older in a single night—
   Our Jack, I say, strayed off into the dusk,
   Lured by the noises of a waterfall;
   And though we hunted, shouting right and left,
   The whole night long, through wind and rain, and searched
   For five days afterwards, we never saw
   The lad again.

                   I turned to Tom and said,
   That wild fifth evening, "Which of us has heart
   Enough to put the saddle on our swiftest horse,
   And post away to Melbourne, there to meet
   And tell his mother we have lost her son?
   Or which of us can bear to stand and see
   The white affliction of a faded face,
   Made old by you and me?  O, Tom, my boy,
   Her heart will break!"  Tom moaned, but did not speak
   A word.  He saddled horse, and galloped off.
   O, Jack! Jack! Jack!  When bright-haired Benjamin
   Was sent to Egypt with his father's sons,
   Those rough half-brothers took more care of him
   Than we of you!  But shall we never see
   Your happy face, my brave lad, any more?
   Nor hear you whistling in the fields at eve?
   Nor catch you up to mischief with your knife
   Amongst the apple trees?  Nor find you out
   A truant playing on the road to school?
   Nor meet you, boy, in any other guise
   You used to take?  Is this worn cap I hold
   The only thing you've left us of yourself?
   Are we to sit from night to night deceived
   Through rainy seasons by presentiments
   That make us start at shadows on the pane,
   And fancy that we hear you in the dark,
   And wonder that your step has grown so slow,
   And listen for your hand upon the door?

Camped by the Creek

   "All day a strong sun has been drinking
    The ponds in the Wattletree Glen;
   And now as they're puddles, I'm thinking
    We were wise to head hitherwards, men!
   The country is heavy to nor'ard,
    But Lord, how you rattled along!
   Jack's chestnut's best leg was put for'ard,
    And the bay from the start galloped strong;
   But for bottom, I'd stake my existence,
    There's none of the lot like the mare;
   For look! she has come the whole distance
    With never the 'turn of a hair'.

   "But now let us stop, for the 'super'
    Will want us to-morrow by noon;
   And as he can swear like a trooper,
    We can't be a minute too soon.
   Here, Dick, you can hobble the filly
    And chestnut, but don't take a week;
   And, Jack, hurry off with the billy
    And fill it.  We'll camp by the creek."

   So spoke the old stockman, and quickly
    We made ourselves snug for the night;
   The smoke-wreaths above us curled thickly,
    For our pipes were the first thing a-light!
   As we sat round a fire that only
    A well-seasoned bushman can make,
   Far forests grew silent and lonely,
    Though the paw was astir in the brake,
   But not till our supper was ended,
    And not till old Bill was asleep,
   Did wild things by wonder attended
    In shot of our camping-ground creep.
   Scared eyes from thick tuft and tree-hollow
    Gleamed out thro' the forest-boles stark;
   And ever a hurry would follow
    Of fugitive feet in the dark.

   While Dick and I yarned and talked over
    Old times that had gone like the sun,
   The wail of the desolate plover
    Came up from the swamps in the run.
   And sniffing our supper, elated,
    From his den the red dingo crawled out;
   But skulked in the darkness, and waited,
    Like a cunning but cowardly scout.
   Thereafter came sleep that soon falls on
    A man who has ridden all day;
   And when midnight had deepened the palls on
    The hills, we were snoring away.
   But ere we dozed off, the wild noises
    Of forest, of fen, and of stream,
   Grew strange, and were one with the voices
    That died with a sweet semi-dream.
   And the tones of the waterfall, blended
    With the song of the wind on the shore,
   Became a soft psalm that ascended,
    Grew far, and we heard it no more.

Euterpe

  —
   * A cantata, set to music by C. E. Horsley, and sung at the opening
     of the Melbourne Town Hall, 1870.
  —

     Argument.

   Hail to thee, Sound!—The power of Euterpe in all the scenes of life—
   in religion; in works of charity; in soothing troubles by means of music;
   in all humane and high purposes; in war; in grief; in the social circle;
   the children's lullaby; the dance; the ballad; in conviviality;
   when far from home; at evening—the whole ending with an allegorical chorus,
   rejoicing at the building of a mighty hall erected for the recreation
   of a nation destined to take no inconsiderable part in the future history
   of the world.

     Overture

        No. 1   Chorus

   All hail to thee, Sound!  Since the time
    Calliope's son took the lyre,
   And lulled in the heart of their clime
    The demons of darkness and fire;
   Since Eurydice's lover brought tears
    To the eyes of the Princes of Night,
   Thou hast been, through the world's weary years,
    A marvellous source of delight—
    Yea, a marvellous source of delight!

   In the wind, in the wave, in the fall
    Of the water, each note of thine dwells;
   But Euterpe hath gathered from all
    The sweetest to weave into spells.
   She makes a miraculous power
    Of thee with her magical skill;
   And gives us, for bounty or dower,
    The accents that soothe us or thrill!
    Yea, the accents that soothe us or thrill!

   All hail to thee, Sound!  Let us thank
    The great Giver of light and of life
   For the music divine that we've drank,
    In seasons of peace and of strife,
   Let us gratefully think of the balm
    That falls on humanity tired,
   At the tones of the song or the psalm
    From lips and from fingers inspired—
    Yea, from lips and from fingers inspired.

        No. 2   Quartette and Chorus

   When, in her sacred fanes
    God's daughter, sweet Religion, prays,
   Euterpe's holier strains
    Her thoughts from earth to heaven raise.
   The organ notes sublime
    Put every worldly dream to flight;
   They sanctify the time,
    And fill the place with hallowed light.

        No. 3   Soprano Solo

   Yea, and when that meek-eyed maiden
    Men call Charity, comes fain
   To raise up spirits, laden
    With bleak poverty and pain:
   Often, in her cause enlisted,
    Music softens hearts like stones;
   And the fallen are assisted
    Through Euterpe's wondrous tones.

        No. 4   Orchestral Intermezzo

        No. 5   Chorus

   Beautiful is Sound devoted
    To all ends humane and high;
   And its sweetness never floated
    Like a thing unheeded by.
   Power it has on souls encrusted
    With the selfishness of years;
   Yea, and thousands Mammon-rusted,
    Hear it, feel it, leave in tears.

        No. 6   Choral Recitative
        (Men's voices only)

   When on the battlefield, and in the sight
   Of tens of thousands bent to smite and slay
   Their human brothers, how the soldier's heart
   Must leap at sounds of martial music, fired
   With all that spirit that the patriot loves
   Who seeks to win, or nobly fall, for home!

        No. 7   Triumphal March

        No. 8   Funeral Chorus

   Slowly and mournfully moves a procession,
    Wearing the signs
   Of sorrow, through loss, and it halts like a shadow
    Of death in the pines.
   Come from the fane that is filled with God's presence,
    Sad sounds and deep;
   Holy Euterpe, she sings of our brother,
    We listen and weep.
   Death, like the Angel that passed over Egypt,
    Struck at us sore;
   Never again shall we turn at our loved one's
    Step at the door.

        No. 9   Chorus
        (Soprano voices only)

   But, passing from sorrow, the spirit
    Of Music, a glory, doth rove
   Where it lightens the features of beauty,
    And burns through the accents of love—
    The passionate accents of love.

        No. 10   Lullaby Song—Contralto

   The night-shades gather, and the sea
    Sends up a sound, sonorous, deep;
   The plover's wail comes down the lea;
    By slope and vale the vapours weep,
   And dew is on the tree;
   And now where homesteads be,
    The children fall asleep,
       Asleep.

   A low-voiced wind amongst the leaves,
    The sighing leaves that mourn the Spring,
   Like some lone spirit, flits and grieves,
    And grieves and flits on fitful wing.
   But where Song is a guest,
       A lulling dreamy thing,
   The children fall to rest,
       To rest.

        No. 11   Waltz Chorus

   When the summer moon is beaming
   On the stirless waters dreaming,
   And the keen grey summits gleaming,
    Through a silver starry haze;
   In our homes to strains entrancing
   To the steps, the quickly glancing
   Steps of youths and maidens dancing,
    Maidens light of foot as fays.

   Then the waltz, whose rhythmic paces
   Make melodious happy places,
   Brings a brightness to young faces,
    Brings a sweetness to the eyes.
   Sounds that move us like enthralling
   Accents, where the runnel falling,
   Sends out flute-like voices calling,
    Where the sweet wild moss-bed lies.

        No. 12   Ballad—Tenor

   When twilight glides with ghostly tread
    Across the western heights,
   And in the east the hills are red
    With sunset's fading lights;
   Then music floats from cot and hall
    Where social circles met,
   By sweet Euterpe held in thrall—
    Their daily cares forget.

   What joy it is to watch the shine
    That hallows beauty's face
   When woman sings the strains divine,
    Whose passion floods the place!
   Then how the thoughts and feelings rove
    At song's inspiring breath,
   In homes made beautiful by love,
    Or sanctified by death.

   What visions come, what dreams arise,
    What Edens youth will limn,
   When leaning over her whose eyes
    Have sweetened life for him!
   For while she sings and while she plays,
    And while her voice is low,
   His fancy paints diviner days
    Than any we can know.

        No. 13   Drinking Song
        (Men's voices only)

   But, hurrah! for the table that heavily groans
    With the good things that keep in the life:
   When we sing and we dance, and we drink to the tones
    That are masculine, thorough and blithe.

   Good luck to us all!  Over walnuts and wine
    We hear the rare songs that we know
   Are as brimful of mirth as the spring is of shine,
    And as healthy and hearty, we trow.

   Then our glasses we charge to the ring of the stave
    That the flush to our faces doth send;
   For though life is a thing that winds up with the grave,
    We'll be jolly, my boys, to the end.
       Hurrah!  Hurrah!
   Yes, jolly, my boys, to the end!

        No. 14   Recitative—Bass

   When far from friends, and home, and all the things
   That bind a man to life, how dear to him
   Is any old familiar sound that takes
   Him back to spots where Love and Hope
   In past days used to wander hand in hand
   Across high-flowered meadows, and the paths
   Whose borders shared the beauty of the spring,
   And borrowed splendour from autumnal suns.

        No. 15   Chorus
        (The voices accompanied only by the violins playing "Home, Sweet Home".)

   Then at sea, or in wild wood,
    Then ashore or afloat,
   All the scenes of his childhood
    Come back at a note;
   At the turn of a ballad,
    At the tones of a song,
   Cometh Memory, pallid
    And speechless so long;
   And she points with her finger
    To phantom-like years,
   And loveth to linger
    In silence, in tears.

        No. 16   Solo—Bass

   In the yellow flame of evening sounds of music come and go,
   Through the noises of the river, and the drifting of the snow;
   In the yellow flame of evening, at the setting of the day,
   Sounds that lighten, fall, and lighten, flicker, faint, and fade away;
   What they are, behold, we know not, but their honey slakes and slays
   Half the want which whitens manhood in the stress of alien days.
   Even as a wondrous woman, struck with love and great desire,
   Hast thou been to us, EUTERPE, half of tears and half of fire;
   But thy joy is swift and fitful, and a subtle sense of pain
   Sighs through thy melodious breathings, takes the rapture from thy strain.
   In the yellow flame of evening sounds of music come and go.
   Through the noises of the river, and the drifting of the snow.

        No. 17   Recitative—Soprano

   And thus it is that Music manifold,
   In fanes, in Passion's sanctuaries, or where
   The social feast is held, is still the power
   That bindeth heart to heart; and whether Grief,
   Or Love, or Pleasure form the link, we know
   'Tis still a bond that makes Humanity,
   That wearied entity, a single whole,
   And soothes the trouble of the heart bereaved,
   And lulls the beatings in the breast that yearns,
   And gives more gladness to the gladdest things.

        No. 18   Finale—Chorus

   Now a vision comes, O brothers, blended
    With supremest sounds of harmony—
   Comes, and shows a temple, stately, splendid,
    In a radiant city by the sea.
   Founders, fathers of a mighty nation,
    Raised the walls, and built the royal dome,
   Gleaming now from lofty, lordly station,
    Like a dream of Athens, or of Rome!
       And a splendour of sound,
        A thunder of song,
       Rolls sea-like around,
        Comes sea-like along.

   The ringing, and ringing, and ringing,
   Of voices of choristers singing,
    Inspired by a national joy,
   Strike through the marvellous hall,
   Fly by the aisle and the wall,
       While the organ notes roam
       From basement to dome—
       Now low as a wail,
       Now loud as a gale,
   And as grand as the music that builded old Troy.