Song of the Cattle-Hunters

   While the morning light beams on the fern-matted streams,
    And the water-pools flash in its glow,
   Down the ridges we fly, with a loud ringing cry—
    Down the ridges and gullies we go!
   And the cattle we hunt—they are racing in front,
    With a roar like the thunder of waves,
   As the beat and the beat of our swift horses' feet
    Start the echoes away from their caves!
         As the beat and the beat
         Of our swift horses' feet
    Start the echoes away from their caves!

   Like a wintry shore that the waters ride o'er,
    All the lowlands are filling with sound;
   For swiftly we gain where the herds on the plain,
    Like a tempest, are tearing the ground!
   And we'll follow them hard to the rails of the yard,
    O'er the gulches and mountain-tops grey,
   Where the beat and the beat of our swift horses' feet
    Will die with the echoes away!
         Where the beat and the beat
         Of our swift horses' feet
    Will die with the echoes away!

Footfalls

   The embers were blinking and clinking away,
    The casement half open was thrown;
   There was nothing but cloud on the skirts of the Day,
    And I sat on the threshold alone!

   And said to the river which flowed by my door
    With its beautiful face to the hill,
   "I have waited and waited, all wearied and sore,
    But my love is a wanderer still!"

   And said to the wind, as it paused in its flight
    To look through the shivering pane,
   "There are memories moaning and homeless to-night
    That can never be tranquil again!"

   And said to the woods, as their burdens were borne
    With a flutter and sigh to the eaves,
   "They are wrinkled and wasted, and tattered and torn,
    And we too have our withering leaves."

   Did I hear a low echo of footfalls about,
    Whilst watching those forest trees stark?
   Or was it a dream that I hurried without
    To clutch at and grapple the dark?

   In the shadow I stood for a moment and spake—
    "Bright thing that was loved in the past,
   Oh! am I asleep—or abroad and awake?
    And are you so near me at last?

   "Oh, roamer from lands where the vanished years go,
    Oh, waif from those mystical zones,
   Come here where I long for you, broken and low,
    On the mosses and watery stones!

   "Come out of your silence and tell me if Life
    Is so fair in that world as they say;
   Was it worth all this yearning, and weeping, and strife
    When you left it behind you to-day?

   "Will it end all this watching, and doubting, and dread?
    Do these sorrows die out with our breath?
   Will they pass from our souls like a nightmare," I said,
    "While we glide through the mazes of Death?

   "Come out of that darkness and teach me the lore
    You have learned since I looked on your face;
   By the summers that blossomed and faded of yore—
    By the lights which have fled to that place!

   "You answer me not when I know that you could—
   When I know that you could and you should;
    Though the storms be abroad on the wave;
   Though the rain droppeth down with a wail to the wood,
    And my heart is as cold as your grave!"

God Help Our Men at Sea

   The wild night comes like an owl to its lair,
    The black clouds follow fast,
   And the sun-gleams die, and the lightnings glare,
    And the ships go heaving past, past, past—
    The ships go heaving past!
       Bar the doors, and higher, higher
       Pile the faggots on the fire:
       Now abroad, by many a light,
       Empty seats there are to-night—
       Empty seats that none may fill,
       For the storm grows louder still:
   How it surges and swells through the gorges and dells,
    Under the ledges and over the lea,
   Where a watery sound goeth moaning around—
       God help our men at sea!

   Oh! never a tempest blew on the shore
    But that some heart did moan
   For a darling voice it would hear no more
    And a face that had left it lone, lone, lone—
    A face that had left it lone!
       I am watching by a pane
       Darkened with the gusty rain,
       Watching, through a mist of tears,
       Sad with thoughts of other years,
       For a brother I did miss
       In a stormy time like this.
   Ah! the torrent howls past, like a fiend on the blast,
    Under the ledges and over the lea;
   And the pent waters gleam, and the wild surges scream—
       God help our men at sea!

   Ah, Lord! they may grope through the dark to find
    Thy hand within the gale;
   And cries may rise on the wings of the wind
    From mariners weary and pale, pale, pale—
    From mariners weary and pale!
       'Tis a fearful thing to know,
       While the storm-winds loudly blow,
       That a man can sometimes come
       Too near to his father's home;
       So that he shall kneel and say,
       "Lord, I would be far away!"
   Ho! the hurricanes roar round a dangerous shore,
    Under the ledges and over the lea;
   And there twinkles a light on the billows so white—
       God help our men at sea!

Sitting by the Fire

   Barren Age and withered World!
   Oh! the dying leaves,
   Like a drizzling rain,
   Falling round the roof—
   Pattering on the pane!
   Frosty Age and cold, cold World!
   Ghosts of other days,
   Trooping past the faded fire,
   Flit before the gaze.
   Now the wind goes soughing wild
   O'er the whistling Earth;
   And we front a feeble flame,
   Sitting round the hearth!
   Sitting by the fire,
   Watching in its glow,
   Ghosts of other days
   Trooping to and fro.

       .   .   .   .   .

   Oh, the nights—the nights we've spent,
   Sitting by the fire,
   Cheerful in its glow;
   Twenty summers back—
   Twenty years ago!
   If the days were days of toil
   Wherefore should we mourn;
   There were shadows near the shine,
   Flowers with the thorn?
   And we still can recollect
   Evenings spent in mirth—
   Fragments of a broken life,
   Sitting round the hearth:
   Sitting by the fire,
   Cheerful in its glow,
   Twenty summers back—
   Twenty years ago.

   Beauty stooped to bless us once,
   Sitting by the fire,
   Happy in its glow;
   Forty summers back—
   Forty years ago.
   Words of love were interchanged,
   Maiden hearts we stole;
   And the light affection throws
   Slept on every soul.
   Oh, the hours went flying past—
   Hours of priceless worth;
   But we took no note of Time,
   Sitting round the hearth:
   Sitting by the fire,
   Happy in its glow,
   Forty summers back—
   Forty years ago.

   Gleesome children were we not?
   Sitting by the fire,
   Ruddy in its glow,
   Sixty summers back—
   Sixty years ago.
   Laughing voices filled the room;
   Oh, the songs we sung,
   When the evenings hurried by—
   When our hearts were young!
   Pleasant faces watched the flame—
   Eyes illumed with mirth—
   And we told some merry tales,
   Sitting round the hearth:
   Sitting by the fire,
   Ruddy in its glow,
   Sixty summers back—
   Sixty years ago.

       .   .   .   .   .

   Barren Age and withered World!
   Oh, the dying leaves,
   Like a drizzling rain,
   Falling round the roof—
   Pattering on the pane!
   Frosty Age and cold, cold World!
   Ghosts of other days,
   Trooping past the faded fire,
   Flit before the gaze.
   Now the wind goes soughing wild
   O'er the whistling Earth;
   And we front a feeble flame,
   Sitting round the hearth:
   Sitting by the fire,
   Watching, in its glow,
   Ghosts of other days
   Trooping to and fro!

Bellambi's Maid

   Amongst the thunder-splintered caves
    On Ocean's long and windy shore,
   I catch the voice of dying waves
    Below the ridges old and hoar;
   The spray descends in silver showers,
    And lovely whispers come and go,
   Like echoes from the happy hours
    I never more may hope to know!
   The low mimosa droops with locks
    Of yellow hair, in dewy glade,
   While far above the caverned rocks
    I hear the dark Bellambi's Maid!

   The moonlight dreams upon the sail
    That drives the restless ship to sea;
   The clouds troop past the mountain vale,
    And sink like spirits down the lee;
   The foggy peak of Corrimal,
    Uplifted, bears the pallid glow
   That streams from yonder airy hall
    And robes the sleeping hills below;
   The wandering meteors of the sky
    Beneath the distant waters wade,
   While mystic music hurries by—
    The songs of dark Bellambi's Maid!

   Why comes your voice, you lonely One,
    Along the wild harp's wailing strings?
   Have not our hours of meeting gone,
    Like fading dreams on phantom wings?
   Are not the grasses round your grave
    Yet springing green and fresh to view?
   And does the gleam on Ocean's wave
    Tide gladness now to me and you?
   Oh! cold and cheerless falls the night
    On withered hearts and hopes decayed:
   And I have seen but little light
    Since died the dark Bellambi's Maid!

The Curlew Song

   The viewless blast flies moaning past,
    Away to the forest trees,
   Where giant pines and leafless vines
    Bend 'neath the wandering breeze!
   From ferny streams, unearthly screams
    Are heard in the midnight blue;
   As afar they roam to the shepherd's home,
    The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
       As afar they roam
       To the shepherd's home,
    The shrieks of the wild Curlew!

   The mists are curled o'er a dark-faced world,
    And the shadows sleep around,
   Where the clear lagoon reflects the moon
    In her hazy glory crowned;
   While dingoes howl, and wake the growl
    Of the watchdog brave and true;
   Whose loud, rough bark shoots up in the dark,
    With the song of the lone Curlew!
       Whose loud, rough bark
       Shoots up in the dark,
    With the song of the lone Curlew!

   Near herby banks the dark green ranks
    Of the rushes stoop to drink;
   And the ripples chime, in a measured time,
    On the smooth and mossy brink;
   As wind-breaths sigh, and pass, and die,
    To start from the swamps anew,
   And join again o'er ridge and plain
    With the wails of the sad Curlew!
       And join again
       O'er ridge and plain
    With the wails of the sad Curlew!

   The clouds are thrown around the cone
    Of the mountain bare and high,
   (Whose craggy peak uprears to the cheek—
    To the face of the sombre sky)
   When down beneath the foggy wreath,
    Full many a gully through,
   They rend the air, like cries of despair,
    The screams of the wild Curlew!
       They rend the air,
       Like cries of despair,
    The screams of the wild Curlew!

   The viewless blast flies moaning past,
    Away to the forest trees;
   Where giant pines and leafless vines
    Bend 'neath the wandering breeze!
   From ferny streams, unearthly screams
    Are heard in the midnight blue;
   As afar they roam to the shepherd's home,
    The shrieks of the wild Curlew!
       As afar they roam
       To the shepherd's home,
    The shrieks of the wild Curlew!

The Ballad of Tanna

   She knelt by the dead, in her passionate grief,
    Beneath a weird forest of Tanna;
   She kissed the stern brow of her father and chief,
    And cursed the dark race of Alkanna.
   With faces as wild as the clouds in the rain,
   The sons of Kerrara came down to the plain,
   And spoke to the mourner and buried the slain.
           Oh, the glory that died with Deloya!

   "Wahina," they whispered, "Alkanna lies low,
    And the ghost of thy sire hath been gladdened,
   For the men of his people have fought with the foe
    Till the rivers of Warra are reddened!"
   She lifted her eyes to the glimmering hill,
   Then spoke, with a voice like a musical rill,
   "The time is too short; can I sojourn here still?"
           Oh, the Youth that was sad for Deloya!

   "Wahina, why linger," Annatanam said,
    "When the tent of a chieftain is lonely?
   There are others who grieve for the light that has fled,
    And one who waits here for you only!"
   "Go—leave me!" she cried.  "I would fain be alone;
   I must stay where the trees and the wild waters moan;
   For my heart is as cold as a wave-beaten stone."
           Oh, the Beauty that was broke for Deloya!

   "Wahina, why weep o'er a handful of dust,
    When the souls of the brave are approaching?
   Oh, look to the fires that are lit for the just,
    And the mighty who sleep in Arrochin!"
   But she turned from the glare of the flame-smitten sea,
   And a cry, like a whirlwind, came over the lea—
   "Away to the mountains and leave her with me!"
           Oh, the heart that was broke for Deloya!

The Rain Comes Sobbing to the Door

   The night grows dark, and weird, and cold; and thick drops patter on the pane;
   There comes a wailing from the sea; the wind is weary of the rain.
   The red coals click beneath the flame, and see, with slow and silent feet
   The hooded shadows cross the woods to where the twilight waters beat!
   Now, fan-wise from the ruddy fire, a brilliance sweeps athwart the floor;
   As, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door:
       As, streaming down the lattices,
       The rain comes sobbing to the door.

   Dull echoes round the casement fall, and through the empty chambers go,
   Like forms unseen whom we can hear on tip-toe stealing to and fro.
   But fill your glasses to the brims, and, through a mist of smiles and tears,
   Our eyes shall tell how much we love to toast the shades of other years!
   And hither they will flock again, the ghosts of things that are no more,
   While, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door:
       While, streaming down the lattices,
       The rain comes sobbing to the door.

   The tempest-trodden wastelands moan—the trees are threshing at the blast;
   And now they come, the pallid shapes of Dreams that perished in the past;
   And, when we lift the windows up, a smothered whisper round us strays,
   Like some lone wandering voice from graves
     that hold the wrecks of bygone days.
   I tell ye that I love the storm, for think we not of thoughts of yore,
   When, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door?
       When, streaming down the lattices,
       The rain comes sobbing to the door?

   We'll drink to those we sadly miss, and sing some mournful song we know,
   Since they may chance to hear it all, and muse on friends they've left below.
   Who knows—if souls in bliss can leave the borders of their Eden-home—
   But that some loving one may now about the ancient threshold roam?
   Oh, like an exile, he would hail a glimpse of the familiar floor,
   Though, streaming down the lattices, the rain comes sobbing to the door!
       Though, streaming down the lattices,
       The rain comes sobbing to the door!

Urara

  —
   * Another spelling of Orara, a tributary of the river Clarence.
  —

   Euroka, go over the tops of the hill,
    For the Death-clouds have passed us to-day,
   And we'll cry in the dark for the foot-falls still,
    And the tracks which are fading away!
   Let them yell to their lubras, the Bulginbah dogs,
    And say how our brothers were slain,
   We shall wipe out our grief in the blood of their chief,
    And twenty more dead on the plain—
    On the blood-spattered spurs of the plain!
           But the low winds sigh,
           And the dead leaves fly,
           Where our warriors lie,
    In the dingoes' den—in the white-cedar glen
    On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
           Urara!  Urara!
    On the banks of the gloomy Urara!

   The Wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass,
    And crawl to their coverts for fear;
   But we'll sit in the ashes and let them pass
    Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear!
   Oh! our hearts will be lonely and low to-night
    When we think of the hunts of yore;
   And the foes that we sought, and the fights which we fought,
    With those who will battle no more—
    Who will go to the battle no more!
           For the dull winds sigh,
           And the dead leaves fly,
           Where our warriors lie,
    In the dingoes' den—in the white-cedar glen
    On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
           Urara!  Urara!
    On the banks of the gloomy Urara!

   Oh! the gorges and gullies are black with crows,
    And they feast on the flesh of the brave;
   But the forest is loud with the howls of our foes
    For those whom they never can save!
   Let us crouch with our faces down to our knees,
    And hide in the dark of our hair;
   For we will not return where the camp-fires burn,
    And see what is smouldering there—
    What is smouldering, mouldering there!
           Where the sad winds sigh—
           The dead leaves fly,
           And our warriors lie;
    In the dingoes' den—in the white-cedar glen
    On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
           Urara!  Urara!
    On the banks of the gloomy Urara!

Evening Hymn

   The crag-pent breezes sob and moan where hidden waters glide;
   And twilight wanders round the earth with slow and shadowy stride.
   The gleaming clouds, above the brows of western steeps uphurled,
   Look like the spires of some fair town that bounds a brighter world.
   Lo, from the depths of yonder wood, where many a blind creek strays,
   The pure Australian moon comes forth, enwreathed with silver haze.
   The rainy mists are trooping down the folding hills behind,
   And distant torrent-voices rise like bells upon the wind.
   The echeu's* songs are dying, with the flute-bird's mellow tone,
   And night recalls the gloomy owl to rove the wilds alone;
   Night, holy night, in robes of blue, with golden stars encrowned,
   Ascending mountains like to walls that hem an Eden round.

  —
   * The rufous-breasted thickhead.
  —

   Oh, lovely moon! oh, holy night! how good your God must be,
   When, through the glories of your light, He stoops to look at me!
   Oh, glittering clouds and silvery shapes, that vanish one by one!
   Is not the kindness of our Lord too great to think upon?
   If human song could flow as free as His created breeze,
   When, sloping from some hoary height, it sweeps the vacant seas,
   Then should my voice to heaven ascend, my tuneful lyre be strung,
   And music sweeter than the winds should roam these glens among.
   Go by, ye golden-footed hours, to your mysterious bourne,
   And hide the sins ye bear from hence, so that they ne'er return.
   Teach me, ye beauteous stars, to kiss kind Mercy's chastening rod,
   And, looking up from Nature's face, to worship Nature's God.