Stanzas

   The sunsets fall and the sunsets fade,
    But still I walk this shadowy land;
   And grapple the dark and only the dark
    In my search for a loving hand.

   For it's here a still, deep woodland lies,
    With spurs of pine and sheaves of fern;
   But I wander wild, and wail like a child
    For a face that will never return!

   And it's here a mighty water flows,
    With drifts of wind and wimpled waves;
   But the darling head of a dear one dead
    Is hidden beneath its caves.

The Wail in the Native Oak

   Where the lone creek, chafing nightly in the cold and sad moonshine,
   Beats beneath the twisted fern-roots and the drenched and dripping vine;
   Where the gum trees, ringed and ragged, from the mazy margins rise,
   Staring out against the heavens with their languid gaping eyes;
   There I listened—there I heard it!  Oh, that melancholy sound,
   Wandering like a ghostly whisper, through the dreaming darkness round!
   Wandering, like a fearful warning, where the withered twilight broke
   Through a mass of mournful tresses, drooping down the Native Oak.

   And I caught a glimpse of sunset fading from a far-off wild,
   As I sat me down to fancy, like a thoughtful, wistful child—
   Sat me down to fancy what might mean those hollow, hopeless tones,
   Sooming round the swooning silence, dying out in smothered moans!
   What might mean that muffled sobbing?  Did a lonely phantom wail,
   Pent amongst those tangled branches barring out the moonlight pale?
   Wept it for that gleam of glory wasting from the forest aisles;
   For that fainting gleam of glory sad with flickering, sickly smiles?

   In these woodlands I was restless!  I had seen a light depart,
   And an ache for something vanished filled and chilled my longing heart,
   And I linked my thoughts together—"All seemed still and dull to-day,
   But a painful symbol groweth from the shine that pales away!
   This may not be idle dreaming; if the spirit roams," I said,
   "This is surely one, a wanderer from the ages which have fled!
   Who can look beyond the darkness; who can see so he may tell
   Where the sunsets all have gone to; where the souls that leave us dwell?

   "This might be a loving exile, full with faded thoughts returned,
   Seeking for familiar faces, friends for whom he long had yearned.
   Here his fathers must have sojourned—here his people may have died,
   Or, perchance, to distant forests all were scattered far and wide.
   So he moans and so he lingers! weeping o'er the wasted wild;
   Weeping o'er the desolation, like a lost, benighted child!
   So he moans, and so he lingers!  Hence these fitful, fretful sighs,
   Deep within the oak tree solemn!  Hence these weary, weary cries!

   "Or who knows but that some secret lies beneath yon dismal mound?
   Ha! a dreary, dreadful secret must be buried underground!
   Not a ragged blade of verdure—not one root of moss is there;
   Who hath torn the grasses from it—wherefore is that barrow bare?
   Darkness shuts the forest round me.  Here I stand and, O my God!
   This may be some injured spirit raving round and round the sod.
   Hush! the tempest, how it travels!  Blood hath here been surely shed—
   Hush! the thunder, how it mutters!  Oh, the unrequited Dead!"

   Came a footfall past the water—came a wild man through the gloom,
   Down he stooped and faced the current, silent as the silent tomb;
   Down he stooped and lapped the ripples:  not a single word he spoke,
   But I whispered, "He can tell me of the Secret in the Oak?
   Very thoughtful seems that forehead; many legends he may know;
   Many tales and old traditions linked to what is here below!
   I must ask him—rest I cannot—though my life upon it hung—
   Though these wails are waxing louder, I must give my thoughts a tongue.

   "Shake that silence from you, wild man!  I have looked into your face,
   Hoping I should learn the story there about this fearful place.
   Slake your thirst, but stay and tell me:  did your heart with terror beat,
   When you stepped across the bare and blasted hillock at your feet?
   Hearken to these croons so wretched deep within the dusk boughs pent!
   Hold you not some strange tradition coupled with this strange lament?
   When your tribe about their camp-fires hear that hollow, broken cry,
   Do they hint of deeds mysterious, hidden in the days gone by?"

   But he rose like one bewildered, shook his head and glided past;
   Huddling whispers hurried after, hissing in the howling blast!
   Now a sheet of lurid splendour swept athwart the mountain spire,
   And a midnight squall came trumping down on zigzag paths of fire!
   Through the tumult dashed a torrent flanking out in foaming streams,
   Whilst the woodlands groaned and muttered like a monster vexed with dreams.
   Then I swooned away in horror.  Oh! that shriek which rent the air,
   Like the voice of some fell demon harrowed by a mad despair.

Harps We Love

   The harp we love hath a royal burst!
    Its strings are mighty forest trees;
   And branches, swaying to and fro,
    Are fingers sounding symphonies.

   The harp we love hath a solemn sound!
    And rocks amongst the shallow seas
   Are strings from which the rolling waves
    Draw forth their stirring harmonies.

   The harp we love hath a low sweet voice!
    Its strings are in the bosom deep,
   And Love will press those hidden chords
    When all the baser passions sleep.

Waiting and Wishing

   I loiter by this surging sea,
   Here, by this surging, sooming sea,
   Here, by this wailing, wild-faced sea,
   Dreaming through the dreamy night;
   Yearning for a strange delight!
   Will it ever, ever, ever fly to me,
       By this surging sea,
       By this surging, sooming sea,
       By this wailing, wild-faced sea?

   I know some gentle spirit lives,
   Some loving, lonely spirit lives,
   Some melancholy spirit lives,
   Walking o'er the earth for me,
   Searching round the world for me!
   Will she ever, ever, ever hither come?
       Where the waters roam,
       Where the sobbing waters roam!
       Where the raving waters roam!

   All worn and wasted by the storms,
   All gapped and fractured by the storms,
   All split and splintered by the storms,
   Overhead the caverns groan,
   Gloomy, ghastly caverns groan!—
   Will she ever, ever, ever fill this heart?
       Peace, O longing heart!
       Peace, O longing, beating heart!
       Peace, O beating, weary heart!

The Wild Kangaroo

   The rain-clouds have gone to the deep—
    The East like a furnace doth glow;
   And the day-spring is flooding the steep,
    And sheening the landscape below.
   Oh, ye who are gifted with souls
    That delight in the music of birds,
   Come forth where the scattered mist rolls,
    And listen to eloquent words!
   Oh, ye who are fond of the sport,
    And would travel yon wilderness through,
   Gather—each to his place—for a life-stirring chase,
    In the wake of the wild Kangaroo!
       Gather—each to his place—
       For a life-stirring chase
    In the wake of the wild Kangaroo!

   Beyond the wide rents of the fog,
    The trees are illumined with gold;
   And the bark of the shepherd's brave dog
    Shoots away from the sheltering fold.
   Down the depths of yon rock-border'd glade,
    A torrent goes foaming along;
   And the blind-owls retire into shade,
    And the bell-bird beginneth its song.
   By the side of that yawning abyss,
    Where the vapours are hurrying to,
   We will merrily pass, looking down to the grass
    For the tracks of the wild Kangaroo!
       We will merrily pass,
       Looking down to the grass
    For the tracks of the wild Kangaroo.

   Ho, brothers, away to the woods;
    Euroka hath clambered the hill;
   But the morning there seldom intrudes,
    Where the night-shadows slumber on still.
   We will roam o'er these forest-lands wild,
    And thread the dark masses of vines,
   Where the winds, like the voice of a child,
    Are singing aloft in the pines.
   We must keep down the glee of our hounds;
    We must steal through the glittering dew;
   And the breezes shall sleep as we cautiously creep
    To the haunts of the wild Kangaroo.
       And the breezes shall sleep,
       As we cautiously creep
    To the haunts of the wild Kangaroo.

   When we pass through a stillness like death
    The swamp fowl and timorous quail,
   Like the leaves in a hurricane's breath,
    Will start from their nests in the vale;
   And the forester,*  snuffing the air,
    Will bound from his covert so dark,
   While we follow along in the rear,
    As arrows speed on to their mark!
   Then the swift hounds shall bring him to bay,
    And we'll send forth a hearty halloo,
   As we gather them all to be in at the fall—
    At the death of the wild Kangaroo!
       As we gather them all
       To be in at the fall—
    At the death of the wild Kangaroo!

  —
   * The Kangaroo.
  —

Clari

   Too cold, O my brother, too cold for my wife
    Is the Beauty you showed me this morning:
   Nor yet have I found the sweet dream of my life,
    And good-bye to the sneering and scorning.
   Would you have me cast down in the dark of her frown,
    Like others who bend at her shrine;
   And would barter their souls for a statue-like face,
    And a heart that can never be mine?
       That can never be theirs nor mine.

   Go after her, look at her, kneel at her feet,
    And mimic the lover romantic;
   I have hated deceit, and she misses the treat
    Of driving me hopelessly frantic!
   Now watch her, as deep in her carriage she lies,
    And love her, my friend, if you dare!
   She would wither your life with her beautiful eyes,
    And strangle your soul with her hair!
       With a mesh of her splendid hair.

Wollongong

   Let me talk of years evanished, let me harp upon the time
   When we trod these sands together, in our boyhood's golden prime;
   Let me lift again the curtain, while I gaze upon the past,
   As the sailor glances homewards, watching from the topmost mast.
   Here we rested on the grasses, in the glorious summer hours,
   When the waters hurried seaward, fringed with ferns and forest flowers;
   When our youthful eyes, rejoicing, saw the sunlight round the spray
   In a rainbow-wreath of splendour, glittering underneath the day;
   Sunlight flashing past the billows, falling cliffs and crags among,
   Clothing hopeful friendship basking on the shores of Wollongong.

   Echoes of departed voices, whispers from forgotten dreams,
   Come across my spirit, like the murmurs of melodious streams.
   Here we both have wandered nightly, when the moonshine cold and pale
   Shimmer'd on the cone of Keira, sloping down the sleeping vale;
   When the mournful waves came sobbing, sobbing on the furrowed shore,
   Like to lone hearts weeping over loved ones they shall see no more;
   While the silver ripples, stealing past the shells and slimy stones,
   Broke beneath the caverns, dying, one by one, in muffled moans;
   As the fragrant wood-winds roaming, with a fitful cadence sung
   'Mid the ghostly branches belting round the shores of Wollongong.

   Lovely faces flit before us, friendly forms around us stand;
   Gleams of well-remembered gladness trip along the yellow sand.
   Here the gold-green waters glistened underneath our dreaming gaze,
   As the lights of Heaven slanted down the pallid ether haze;
   Here the mossy rock-pool, like to one that stirs himself in sleep,
   Trembled every moment at the roaring of the restless deep;
   While the stately vessels swooping to the breezes fair and free,
   Passed away like sheeted spectres, fading down the distant sea;
   And our wakened fancies sparkled, and our soul-born thoughts we strung
   Into joyous lyrics, singing with the waves of Wollongong.

   Low-breathed strains of sweetest music float about my raptured ears;
   Angel-eyes are glancing at me hopeful smiles and happy tears.
   Merry feet go scaling up the old and thunder-shattered steeps,
   And the billows clamber after, and the surge to ocean leaps,
   Scattered into fruitless showers, falling where the breakers roll,
   Baffled like the aspirations of a proud ambitious soul.
   Far off sounds of silvery laughter through the hollow caverns ring,
   While my heart leaps up to catch reviving pleasure on the wing;
   And the years come trooping backward, and we both again are young,
   Walking side by side upon the lovely shores of Wollongong.

   Fleeting dreams and idle fancies!  Lo, the gloomy after Age
   Creepeth, like an angry shadow, over life's eventful stage!
   Joy is but a mocking phantom, throwing out its glitter brief—
   Short-lived as the western sunbeam dying from the cedar leaf.
   Here we linger, lonely-hearted, musing over visions fled,
   While the sickly twilight withers from the arches overhead.
   Semblance of a bliss delusive are those dull, receding rays;
   Semblance of the faint reflection left to us of other days;
   Days of vernal hope and gladness, hours when the blossoms sprung
   Round the feet of blithesome ramblers by the shores of Wollongong.

Ella with the Shining Hair

   Through many a fragrant cedar grove
    A darkened water moans;
   And there pale Memory stood with Love
    Amongst the moss-green stones.

   The shimmering sunlight fell and kissed
    The grasstree's golden sheaves;
   But we were troubled with a mist
    Of music in the leaves.

   One passed us, like a sudden gleam;
    Her face was deadly fair.
   "Oh, go," we said, "you homeless Dream
    Of Ella's shining hair!

   "We halt, like one with tired wings,
    And we would fain forget
   That there are tempting, maddening things
    Too high to clutch at yet!

   "Though seven Springs have filled the Wood
    With pleasant hints and signs,
   Since faltering feet went forth and stood
    With Death amongst the pines."

   From point to point unwittingly
    We wish to clamber still,
   Till we have light enough to see
    The summits of the hill.

   "O do not cry, my sister dear,"
    Said beaming Hope to Love,
   "Though we have been so troubled here
    The Land is calm above;

   "Beyond the regions of the storm
    We'll find the golden gates,
   Where, all the day, a radiant Form,
    Our Ella, sits and waits."

   And Memory murmured:  "She was one
    Of God's own darlings lent;
   And Angels wept that she had gone,
    And wondered why she went.

   "I know they came, and talked to her,
    Through every garden breeze,
   About eternal Hills of Myrrh,
    And quiet Jasper Seas.

   "For her the Earth contained no charms;
    All things were strange and wild;
   And I believe a Seraph's arms
    Caught up the sainted Child."

   And Love looked round, and said:  "Oh, you
    That sit by Beulah's streams,
   Shake on this thirsty life the dew
    Which brings immortal dreams!

   "Ah! turn to us, and greet us oft
    With looks of pitying balm,
   And hints of heaven, in whispers soft,
    To make our troubles calm.

   "My Ella with the shining hair,
    Behold, these many years,
   We've held up wearied hands in prayer;
    And groped about in tears."

   But Hope sings on:  "Beyond the storm
    We'll find the golden gates
   Where, all the day, a radiant Form,
    Our Ella, sits and waits."

The Barcoo

   (The Squatters' Song)

   From the runs of the Narran, wide-dotted with sheep,
    And loud with the lowing of cattle,
   We speed for a land where the strange forests sleep
    And the hidden creeks bubble and brattle!
   Now call on the horses, and leave the blind courses
    And sources of rivers that all of us know;
   For, crossing the ridges, and passing the ledges,
   And running up gorges, we'll come to the verges
    Of gullies where waters eternally flow.
   Oh! the herds they will rush down the spurs of the hill
    To feed on the grasses so cool and so sweet;
   And I think that my life with delight will stand still
    When we halt with the pleasant Barcoo at our feet.

   Good-bye to the Barwon, and brigalow scrubs,
    Adieu to the Culgoa ranges,
   But look for the mulga and salt-bitten shrubs,
    Though the face of the forest-land changes.
   The leagues we may travel down beds of hot gravel,
    And clay-crusted reaches where moisture hath been,
   While searching for waters, may vex us and thwart us,
   Yet who would be quailing, or fainting, or failing?
    Not you, who are men of the Narran, I ween!
   When we leave the dry channels away to the south,
    And reach the far plains we are journeying to,
   We will cry, though our lips may be glued with the drouth,
    Hip, hip, and hurrah for the pleasant Barcoo!

Bells Beyond the Forest

   Wild-eyed woodlands, here I rest me, underneath the gaunt and ghastly trees;
   Underneath fantastic-fronted caverns crammed with many a muffled breeze.
   Far away from dusky towns and cities twinkling with the feet of men;
   Listening to a sound of mellow music fleeting down the gusty glen;
   Sitting by a rapid torrent, with the broken sunset in my face;
   By a rapid, roaring torrent, tumbling through a dark and lonely place!
   And I hear the bells beyond the forest, and the voice of distant streams;
   And a flood of swelling singing, wafting round a world of ruined dreams.

   Like to one who watches daylight dying from a lofty mountain spire,
   When the autumn splendour scatters like a gust of faintly-gleaming fire;
   So the silent spirit looketh through a mist of faded smiles and tears,
   While across it stealeth all the sad and sweet divinity of years—
   All the scenes of shine and shadow; light and darkness sleeping side by side
   When my heart was wedded to existence, as a bridegroom to his bride:
   While I travelled gaily onward with the vapours crowding in my wake,
   Deeming that the Present hid the glory where the promised Morn would break.

   Like to one who, by the waters standing, marks the reeling ocean wave
   Moaning, hide his head all torn and shivered underneath his lonely cave,
   So the soul within me glances at the tides of Purpose where they creep,
   Dashed to fragments by the yawning ridges circling Life's tempestuous Deep!
   Oh! the tattered leaves are dropping, dropping round me like a fall of rain;
   While the dust of many a broken aspiration sweeps my troubled brain;
   With the yearnings after Beauty, and the longings to be good and great;
   And the thoughts of catching Fortune, flying on the tardy wings of Fate.

   Bells, beyond the forest chiming, where is all the inspiration now
   That was wont to flush my forehead, and to chase the pallor from my brow?
   Did I not, amongst these thickets, weave my thoughts and passions into rhyme,
   Trusting that the words were golden, hoping for the praise of after-time?
   Where have all those fancies fled to?  Can the fond delusion linger still,
   When the Evening withers o'er me, and the night is creeping up the hill?
   If the years of strength have left me, and my life begins to fail and fade,
   Who will learn my simple ballads; who will stay to sing the songs I've made?

   Bells, beyond the forest ringing, lo, I hasten to the world again;
   For the sun has smote the empty windows, and the day is on the wane!
   Hear I not a dreamy echo, soughing through the rafters of the tree;
   Like a sound of stormy rivers, or the ravings of a restless sea?
   Should I loiter here to listen, while this fitful wind is on the wing?
   No, the heart of Time is sobbing, and my spirit is a withered thing!
   Let the rapid torrents tumble, let the woodlands whistle in the blast;
   Mighty minstrels sing behind me, but the promise of my youth is past.