Lurline

   (Inscribed to Madame Lucy Escott.)

   As you glided and glided before us that time,
    A mystical, magical maiden,
   We fancied we looked on a face from the clime
    Where the poets have builded their Aidenn!
   And oh, the sweet shadows!  And oh, the warm gleams
   Which lay on the land of our beautiful dreams,
   While we walked by the margins of musical streams
    And heard your wild warbling around us!

   We forgot what we were when we stood with the trees
    Near the banks of those silvery waters;
   As ever in fragments they came on the breeze,
    The songs of old Rhine and his daughters!
   And then you would pass with those radiant eyes
   Which flashed like a light in the tropical skies—
   And ah! the bright thoughts that would sparkle and rise
    While we heard your wild warbling around us.

   Will you ever fly back to this city of ours
    With your harp and your voice and your beauty?
   God knows we rejoice when we meet with such flowers
    On the hard road of Life and of Duty!
   Oh! come as you did, with that face and that tone,
   For we wistfully look to the hours which have flown,
   And long for a glimpse of the gladness that shone
    When we heard your wild warbling around us.

Under the Figtree

   Like drifts of balm from cedared glens, those darling memories come,
   With soft low songs, and dear old tales, familiar to our home.
   Then breathe again that faint refrain, so tender, sad, and true,
   My soul turns round with listening eyes unto the harp and you!
   The fragments of a broken Past are floating down the tide,
   And she comes gleaming through the dark, my love, my life, my bride!
   Oh! sit and sing—I know her well, that phantom deadly fair
   With large surprise, and sudden sighs, and streaming midnight hair!
   I know her well, for face to face we stood amongst the sheaves,
   Our voices mingling with a mist of music in the leaves!
   I know her well, for hand in hand we walked beside the sea,
   And heard the huddling waters boom beneath this old Figtree.

   God help the man that goes abroad amongst the windy pines,
   And wanders, like a gloomy bat, where never morning shines!
   That steals about amidst the rout of broken stones and graves,
   When round the cliffs the merry skiffs go scudding through the waves;
   When, down the bay, the children play, and scamper on the sand,
   And Life and Mirth illume the Earth, and Beauty fills the Land!
   God help the man!  He only hears and fears the sleepless cries
   Of smitten Love—of homeless Love and moaning Memories.
   Oh! when a rhyme of olden time is sung by one so dear,
   I feel again the sweetest pain I've known for many a year;
   And from a deep, dull sea of sleep faint fancies come to me,
   And I forget how lone we sit beneath this old Figtree.

Drowned at Sea

   Gloomy cliffs, so worn and wasted with the washing of the waves,
   Are ye not like giant tombstones round those lonely ocean graves?
   Are ye not the sad memorials, telling of a mighty grief—
   Dark with records ground and lettered into caverned rock and reef?
   Oh! ye show them, and I know them, and my thoughts in mourning go
   Down amongst your sunless chasms, deep into the surf below!
   Oh! ye bear them, and declare them, and o'er every cleft and scar,
   I have wept for dear dead brothers perished in the lost Dunbar!
           Ye smitten—ye battered,
           And splintered and shattered
           Cliffs of the Sea!

   Restless waves, so dim with dreams of sudden storms and gusty surge,
   Roaring like a gathered whirlwind reeling round a mountain verge,
   Were ye not like loosened maniacs, in the night when Beauty pale
   Called upon her God, beseeching through the uproar of the gale?
   Were ye not like maddened demons while young children faint with fear
   Cried and cried and cried for succour, and no helping hand was near?
   Oh, the sorrow of the morrow!—lamentations near and far!—
   Oh, the sobs for dear dead sisters perished in the lost Dunbar!—
           Ye ruthless, unsated,
           And hateful, and hated
           Waves of the Sea!

   Ay, we stooped and moaned in darkness—
     eyes might strain and hearts might plead,
   For their darlings crying wildly, they would never rise nor heed!
   Ay, we yearned into their faces looking for the life in vain,
   Wailing like to children blinded with a mist of sudden pain!
   Dear hands clenched, and dear eyes rigid in a stern and stony stare,
   Dear lips white from past affliction, dead to all our mad despair,
   Ah, the groaning and the moaning—ah, the thoughts which rise in tears
   When we turn to all those loved ones, looking backward five long years!
           The fathers and mothers,
           The sisters and brothers
           Drowned at Sea!

Morning in the Bush

   (A Juvenile Fragment.)

   Above the skirts of yellow clouds,
   The god-like Sun, arrayed
   In blinding splendour, swiftly rose,
   And looked athwart the glade;
   The sleepy dingo watched him break
   The bonds that curbed his flight;
   And from his golden tresses shake
   The fading gems of Night!
   And wild goburras laughed aloud
   Their merry morning songs,
   As Echo answered in the depths
   With a thousand thousand tongues;
   The gully-depths where many a vine
   Of ancient growth had crept,
   To cluster round the hoary pine,
   Where scanty mosses wept.

   Huge stones, and damp and broken crags,
   In wild chaotic heap,
   Were lying at the barren base
   Of the ferny hillside steep;
   Between those fragments hollows lay,
   Upfilled with fruitful ground,
   Where many a modest floweret grew,
   To scent the wind-breaths round;
   As fertile patches bloom within
   A dried and worldly heart,
   When some that look can only see
   The cold, the barren part!
   The Miser, full with thoughts of gain,
   The meanest of his race,
   May in his breast some verdure hide,
   Though none that verdure trace.

   Where time-worn cliffs were jutting out,
   With rough and ragged edges,
   The snowy mountain-lily slept
   Behind the earthy ledges;
   Like some sweet Oriental Maid,
   Who blindly deems it duty
   To wear a veil before her face,
   And hide her peerless beauty;
   Or like to Innocence that thrives
   In midst of sin and sorrows,
   Nor from the cheerless scene around
   The least infection borrows,
   But stayeth out her mortal life—
   Though in that lifetime lonely—
   With Virtue's lustre round her heart,
   And Virtue's lustre only.

   A patch of sunshine here and there
   Lay on a leaf-strewn water-pool,
   Whose tribute trickled down the rocks
   In gurgling ripples, clear and cool!
   As iguanas, from the clefts,
   Would steal along with rustling sound,
   To where the restless eddies roamed
   Amongst the arrowy rushes round.
   While, scanning them with angry eyes
   From off a fallen myrtle log
   That branchless bridged the brushy creek,
   There stood and barked, a Shepherd's Dog!
   And underneath a neighbouring mass
   Of wattles intertwining,
   His Master lay—his back against
   The grassy banks reclining.

   Beneath the shade of ironbarks,
   Stretched o'er the valley's sloping bed—
   Half hidden in a tea-tree scrub,
   A flock of dusky sheep were spread;
   And fitful bleating faintly came
   On every joyous breath of wind,
   That up the stony hills would fly,
   And leave the hollows far behind!
   Wild tones of music from the Creek
   Were intermingling with the breeze,
   The loud, rich lays of countless birds
   Perched on the dark mimosa trees;
   Those merry birds, with wings of light
   Which rival every golden ray
   Out-flashing from the lamps of Night,
   Or streaming o'er the brow of Day.

   Amongst the gnarly apple-trees,
   A gorgeous tribe of parrots came;
   And screaming, leapt from bough to bough,
   Like living jets of crimson flame!
   And where the hillside-growing gums
   Their web-like foliage upward threw,
   Old Nature rang with echoes from
   The loud-voiced mountain cockatoo;
   And a thousand nameless twittering things,
   Between the rustling sapling sprays,
   Were flashing through the fragrant leaves,
   And dancing like to fabled fays;
   Rejoicing in the glorious light
   That beauteous Morning had unfurled
   To make the heart of Nature glad,
   And clothe with smiles a weeping World.

The Girl I Left Behind Me

   (New Words to an Old Air.)

   With sweet Regret—(the dearest thing that Yesterday has left us)—
   We often turn our homeless eyes to scenes whence Fate has reft us.
   Here sitting by a fading flame, wild waifs of song remind me
   Of Annie with her gentle ways, the Girl I left behind me.

   I stood beside the surging sea, with lips of silent passion—
   I faced you by the surging sea, O brows of mild repression!
   I never said—"my darling, stay!"—the moments seemed to bind me
   To something stifling all my words for the Girl I left behind me.

   The pathos worn by common things—by every wayside flower,
   Or Autumn leaf on lonely winds, revives the parting hour.
   Ye swooning thoughts without a voice—ye tears which rose to blind me,
   Why did she fade into the Dark, the Girl I left behind me.

   At night they always come to me, the tender and true-hearted;
   And in my dreams we join again the hands which now are parted;
   And, looking through the gates of Sleep, the pleasant Moon doth find me
   For ever wandering with my Love, the Girl I left behind me.

   You know my life is incomplete, O far-off faint Ideal!
   When shall I reach you from a depth of darkness which is real?
   So I may mingle, soul in soul, with her that Heaven assigned me;
   So she may lean upon my love, the Girl I left behind me.

Amongst the Roses

   I walked through a Forest, beneath the hot noon,
   On Etheline calling and calling!
   One said:  "She will hear you and come to you soon,
   When the coolness, my brother, is falling."
   But I whispered:  "O Darling, I falter with pain!"
   And the thirsty leaves rustled, and hissed for the rain,
   Where a wayfarer halted and slept on the plain;
       And dreamt of a garden of Roses!
          Of a cool sweet place,
          And a nestling face
       In a dance and a dazzle of Roses.

   In the drouth of a Desert, outwearied, I wept,
   O Etheline, darkened with dolours!
   But, folded in sunset, how long have you slept
   By the Roses all reeling with colours?
   A tree from its tresses a blossom did shake,
   It fell on her face, and I feared she would wake,
   So I brushed it away for her sweet sake;
       In that garden of beautiful Roses!
          In the dreamy perfumes
          From ripe-red blooms
       In a dance and a dazzle of Roses.

Sunset

   It is better, O day, that you go to your rest,
    For you go like a guest who was loth to remain!
   Swing open, ye gates of the east and the west,
    And let out the wild shadows—the night and the rain.

   Ye winds, ye are dead, with your voices attuned,
    That thrilled the green life in the sweet-scented sheaves,
   When I touched a warm hand which has faded, and swooned
    To a trance of the darkness, and blight on the leaves.

   I had studied the lore in her maiden-like ways,
    And the large-hearted love of my Annie was won,
   'Ere Summer had passed into passionate days,
    Or Autumn made ready her fruits for the Sun.

   So my life was complete, and the hours that went by,
    And the moon and the willow-wooed waters around,
   Might have known that we rested, my Annie and I,
    In happiness calm as the slumber of sound.

   On Sundays we wandered, as glad as a breeze,
    By the rocks and the waves on a glittering beach;
   Or we loitered in gardens melodious with bees,
    And sucked the sweet pulp of the plum and the peach.

   "The Forest will show me the secrets of Fame,"
    I said to myself in the gum-shadowed glen,
   "I will call every blossom and tree by its name,
    And the people shall deem me a man of the men.

   "I will gather Roses of Sharon, my Soul,—
    The Roses of Sharon so cool and so sweet;
   And our brothers shall see me entwining the whole
    For a garland to drop at my dear Annie's feet."

   It is better, O day, that you go to your rest,
    For you go like a guest who was loth to remain!
   Swing open, ye gates of the east and the west,
    And let out the wild shadows—the night and the rain.

Doubting

   A Brother wandered forth with me,
    Beside a barren beach:
   He harped on things beyond the sea,
    And out of reach.

   He hinted once of unknown skies,
    And then I would not hark,
   But turned away from steadfast eyes,
    Into the dark.

   And said—"an ancient faith is dead
    And wonder fills my mind:
   I marvel how the blind have led
    So long the blind.

   "Behold this truth we only know
    That night is on the land!
   And we a weary way must go
    To find God's hand."

   I wept—"Our fathers told us, Lord,
    That Thou wert kind and just,
   But lo! our wailings fly abroad
    For broken trust.

   "How many evil ones are here
    Who mocking go about,
   Because we are too faint with fear
    To wrestle Doubt!

   "Thy riddles are beyond the ken
    Of creatures of the sod:
   Remember that we are but men,
    And Thou art God!

   "O, doting world, methinks your stay
    Is weaker than a reed!
   Our Father turns His face away;
    'Tis dark indeed."

   The evening woods lay huddled there,
    All wrapped in silence strange:
   A sudden wind—and lo! the air
    Was filled with change.

   "Your words are wild," my brother said,
    "For God's voice fills the breeze;
   Go—hide yourself, as Adam did,
    Amongst the trees.

   "I pluck the shoes from off my feet,
    But dare to look around;
   Behold," he said, "my Lord I greet,
    On holy ground!"

   And God spake through the wind to me—
    "Shake off that gloom of Fear,
   You fainting soul who could not see
    That I was near.

   "Why vex me crying day and night?—
    You call on me to hark!
   But when I bless your world with light,
    Who makes it dark?

   "Is there a ravelled riddle left
    That you would have undone?
   What other doubts are there to sift?"
    I answered—"None."

   "My son, look up, if you would see
    The Promise on your way,
   And turn a trustful face to me."
    I whispered—"Yea."

Geraldine

   My head is filled with olden rhymes beside this moaning sea,
   But many and many a day has gone since I was dear to thee!
   I know my passion fades away, and therefore oft regret
   That some who love indeed can part and in the years forget.
   Ah! through the twilights when we stood the wattle trees between,
   We did not dream of such a time as this, fair Geraldine.

   I do not say that all has gone of passion and of pain;
   I yearn for many happy thoughts I shall not think again!
   And often when the wind is up, and wailing round the eaves,
   You sigh for withered Purpose shred and scattered like the leaves,
   The Purpose blooming when we met each other on the green;
   The sunset heavy in your curls, my golden Geraldine.

   I think we lived a loftier life through hours of Long Ago,
   For in the largened evening earth our spirits seemed to grow.
   Well, that has passed, and here I stand, upon a lonely place,
   While Night is stealing round the land, like Time across my face;
   But I can calmly recollect our shadowy parting scene,
   And swooning thoughts that had no voice—no utterance, Geraldine.

Achan

   (From "Jephthah".)

   Hath he not followed a star through the darkness,
   Ye people who sit at the table of Jephthah?
   Oh! turn with the face to a light in the mountains,
   Behold it is further from Achan than ever!

   "I know how it is with my brothers in Mizpeh,"
   Said Achan, the swift-footed runner of Zorah,
   "They look at the wood they have hewn for the altar;
   And think of a shadow in sackcloth and ashes.

   "I know how it is with the daughter of Jephthah,
   (O Ada, my love, and the fairest of women!)
   She wails in the time when her heart is so zealous
   For God who hath stricken the children of Ammon.

   "I said I would bring her the odours of Edom,
   And armfuls of spices to set at the banquet!
   Behold I have fronted the chieftain her father;
   And strong men have wept for the leader of thousands!

   "My love is a rose of the roses of Sharon,
   All lonely and bright as the Moon in the myrtles!
   Her lips, like to honeycombs, fill with the sweetness
   That Achan the thirsty is hindered from drinking.

   "Her women have wept for the love that is wasted
   Like wine, which is spilt when the people are wanting,
   And hot winds have dried all the cisterns of Elim!
   For love that is wasted her women were wailing!

   "The timbrels fall silent!  And dost thou not hear it,
   A voice, like the sound of a lute when we loiter,
   And sit by the pools in the valleys of Arnon,
   And suck the cool grapes that are growing in clusters?

   "She glides, like a myrrh-scented wind, through the willows,
   O Ada! behold it is Achan that speaketh:
   I know thou art near me, but never can see thee,
   Because of the horrible drouth in mine eyelids."

[End of Poems and Songs.]