“Stella Australis”

POEMS

VERSES
—— and ——
PROSE FRAGMENTS

by
E. COUNGEAU

Gordon and Gotch, Queen St., Brisbane,
Printers and Publishers
——
1914.
To Miss F. Vida Lahey, of Brisbane,
this small volume is dedicated.

In East or West though I abide,
By peaceful vale or mountain side,
Thy crystal rills and sunlit sea—
Dear land of beauty—calleth me.

Preface.

THE raison d’être of this small work was suggested to me at the time of the lamented death of King Edward of happy memory. I essayed to mark the date of his decease by writing a few lines in commemoration of the event, and from that time forward I have felt a desire to express my thoughts in verse, with the hope that Queenslanders, no less than others, may see beauty in everything God has made. I am conscious there are many defects, and ask the leniency of my readers.

I would here acknowledge the kindness and courtesy of “The Brisbane Courier” for the production of my efforts in their valuable journal, which encourages me to trust that some little pleasure may be derived from their perusal. Such is the earnest wish of the Authoress.

Contents

Poems and Verses

LE ROI EST MORT.

A nation’s soul had hung with bated breath
Upon two fateful words: ’Twas Life or Death.
The King is dead!

Low lies that royal head; Death’s seal is pressed on that cold marble brow,
Free from all sorrow now. He is at rest:
The King is dead!

And she, whom he adored, is stricken low;
Nor tears, nor loving words, avail him now.
The King is dead!

Swifter than morning lights his soul hath
Winged its flight beyond the stars.
The King is dead!

Earth’s nations bow the head in mutest grief
For this: The Royal dead who sleeps beneath yon pall.
The King is dead!

Life’s pageantry is o’er; nor pomp, nor cavalcades disturb him more.
The King is dead!

Upon that stately bier reposeth now
All that remains so dear, whom millions knew.
The King is dead!

O Angels, waft him home!
O Lord of Life and Death,
Thy will be done!
The King is dead!

And yet, he lives again! his son doth
Him succeed!
God bless his reign!

TO AUSTRALIA.

Stella Australis! who with matchless grace
Riseth like Aphrodité from the ocean’s foam,
With dawn resplendent in thy smiling face
And tresses flung to the wild breezes of thy home.

Brilliant the gems thy bosom fair adorning,
Rich run thy veins with golden treasure down;
Thy girdle formed of pearls fair, as the morning,
The starry Southern Cross thy peerless crown.

The silver rills thy rocky slopes o’erflowing,
The thunders of thy falls go rushing o’er
To join the tree-fringed rivers in their going
Down to the briny deep of Neptune’s floor.

And Kosciusko towers in mighty solitude,
Poising her regal head toward the sky,
And ’mid the vast silence of her altitude
Views undisturbed the storm clouds passing by.

Thy subterranean rivers are unsounded,
The golden corn is quivering on thy plain,
Thy depths are stored with mineral wealth unbounded,
The fame of which hath crossed the sounding main.

And thou dost stand, thine arms outstretched with pleasure,
To greet thy friends from that dear Motherland,
To welcome them and give them of thy treasure,
The wealth of ages which thou can’st command—

Of ages when thy central seas became
Haunts of primeval monsters of the deep;
When thy volcanoes belched their sulphurous flame,
And covered all with an eternal sleep,

But thou art waking now, thou great Australia;
Thou art an empire of thy very self,
A trinity of oceans thee embraces,
And crowns thee Empress of one Commonwealth.

Oh, may our Empire-builders faithful be,
Basing thy pillars’ vast foundations’ might
Firm on the rock of justice, truth, and liberty,
Leading thy people upward to the light.

PEACE.

Would that I had the muse’s lyre,
The poet’s gift, and warm desire
To cleave the heights to glory’s fame;
From mountain pinnacles proclaim—
Peace, universal peace.

I’d string my lute, and make the chords
Echo my heart’s deep burning words;
And bid the nations contemplatively
To vibrate to the grandest harmony—
The song of peace.

For nations rise, and nations fall;
Battles are fought, and over all
Death’s wings, their shadowy darkness spread
With woe and terror, fraught with dread
To all mankind.

Where are the ruins of magnificence
Which the grim demon war has overthrown?
Where are the hanging gardens of Semiramis
When Babylonian maids their glances threw
Upon their bloom?

Egypt and Carthage, Greece and Rome havepassed
In long procession down the stream of Time;
The sands of centuries o’er them are cast.
Gone are those mighty cities at whose shrine
Knelt luxury and vice.

And in their train came war with cruel knife,
Creating widows, pestilence and death;
And man against his brother in the strife
Fell ’neath the devastating monster’s breath,
His blood the price.

Then speed the day when the white dove of peace,
With olive branch extended to the world,
Shall all unite in brotherhood to man,
With flag of universal love unfurled—
And war shall cease.

HOPE.

I walked with joy: the path was smooth
And rose-strewn, for all things to youth
Seem beautiful; and in those childhood’s days
Oft’ would I wander dreaming down the ways
Which led into the grotto in the leafy wood,
Where chestnut trees and tall laburnums stood,
Waving their golden heads; and ’neath my feet
Grew cowslips, anemones, and bluebells sweet;
And past the statue of old “Time,” so scarred,
Who, scythe in hand, in stony silence stared.
And the green sward, like velvet carpet, spread,
With the vast canopy of azure sky o’erhead.
And down the slope where deer with lustrous eye
And schools of rooks would weary homeward fly.
Across the lake the swans would graceful glide,
While we our daisy chain would weave, beside
The bank where lay the water lilies white—
Where in our childish fancy dwelt a sprite.
Ah, me! Those days returning nevermore!
But thoughts remain alone of those sweet days of yore.

I walked with grief. The way was rough and long.
The world was gray and gloomy, and the voice of song
Was hushed. No longer did the silver tones of dear
Home voices with their music greet mine ear;
But sudden memory would sometimes ope a door,
And forms and faces, long since gone before,
Would force the poignant tears of grief to flow—
For those dear vanished friends of long ago.

I walked with Hope, who stretched a tender thread
And led me on and upward, past the dead,
Dark days. Then did my captive spirits find
That disappointments and the years had sunk behind
The grandeur and the majesty sublime
Of higher thoughts, and hidden things divine.
And sweet communion of kindred souls
Without the mortal ban, as free as rolls
The ocean when in placid mood;
Or the pure air, pouring in joyous flood,
Piercing the veil of flesh to see some noble spirit in its purity,
With lofty and exalted mein in calm serenity,
Making the common tasks a noble duty and a prayer,
Ascending to the skies, and placing there
A holy sacrifice—The altar place Heaven’s throne—
Making our Earth an Eden of our own.

TO SELENE.

Pale queen of beauty, in thy cold abode
Lonely thou art, lonely thou e’er wilt be;
No sweet companion ever with thee rode
Along that trackless waste of vast immensity.

Or asked thee what dark secrets thou dost hold
In thy deep jagged craters, now so dead,
Which once with Vulcan’s rage and mutterings bold,
Were filled with Jovian darts and thunders dread.

Thou art a soul-less beauty, yet thy form
Reflects its softly glowing radiance!
And unborn millions yielding to thy charm
Will bask in blissful dreams of dalliance.

How many vows, dear, cold and proud Selene,
Hast thou seen plighted ’neath thy smiling face?
How many broken hearts now rest serene
In their last slumber ’neath thy dwelling place?

We love thee for thy sweet insouciance,
Nor would we care to dwell without thy light.
Thy pallor doth thy loveliness enhance,
Adored and stately Lady of the Night.

IF I MIGHT CHOOSE.

If I might choose the home where I would dwell,
I’d choose to live where the long rolling swell
And murmuring voices of the sun-lit sea
Bring restful dreams and sweet tranquility.

If I might choose the flowers that I love best,
I’d choose the violet and the pansy, pressed
Against my wounded heart to ease its pain,
And stay the bitter tears which fall in vain.

If I might choose the songs which I would sing,
I’d choose the songs which breathe of gentle spring;
With thoughts of love and life, and flowers that bloom,
And scatter fragrance after winter’s gloom.

If I might choose the books o’er which I’d pore,
I’d choose the treasures rare of ancient lore
Where sages told of kingdoms come and gone,
And glorious heroes who had laurels won.

If I might choose the friends whom I could love,
I’d choose the friends who brave and true would prove
In days of sadness and in days of mirth,
Tried like fine tempered steel, strong in its worth.

If I might choose the time when I could live
In happiest mood, I’d choose the early eve
Of life, when feet could rest, and thoughts could flow
Like gentle wavelets, rippling to and fro.

If I might choose the grave where I would lie,
I’d choose the forest depth, where symphony
Of winds would like Æolian harp-strings blend,
And sweetest solace to my spirit send.

QUEENSLAND PIONEERS.

The pens of Austral’s sages shall in the misty future dim
Write a grand record—Australia’s national hymn
Of progress. And on the scroll of ages shall the rhyme
Inscribed and treasured be upon the shelf of Time—
Of pioneers’ illustrious names, who fought so brave
Against barbaric nature, and who found a grave
In the lone bush, and on the burning sand,
Fighting the King of Terrors, with no loving hand
To pillow soft their dying head, or wipe Death’s dew
From their damp forehead ere the tortured spirit grew
Fainter and weaker still, till all was o’er;
And naught but their great names for evermore
Remain. Such heroes hath Australia given to be
The graven basic landmarks of her dynasty,
When mighty cities on her verdant shore shall rise
And teeming millions dwell beneath her skies,
Her starry standard, ever white, unsoiled shall be,
Urging her onward towards her glorious destiny.

IBRAHIM PASHA AT SCUTARI.

The voices of the Heralds, repeated by the echoes
From the mountain-tops to the depths of the
Valleys, are calling all good patriots to arms.
Those heroes so proud and intrepid who will
Never again see their native hearth until covered
With glory, bearing their trophies of victory. They will return or die.

Thus they will assemble around their chiefs;
Their silver-mounted arms, their burnished
Swords flashing resplendent in the sun.
The gun, faithful companion of all Albanians,
Must be placed in the hands of every youth who
Has attained three times the age of five years.

They must, like a furious torrent, rush precipitantly
Towards the danger which menaces them.
Our dear country is in peril. The enemy hides
His designs, and sends ambassadors; but behind
Them are the chains with which they will bind
Us should they attain their desires;
They will make us serfs, slaves, for such is their intention.

And shall we calmly await such dishonor?
What is Death to us? Does not the memory
Of our forefathers rise and reproach us for our
Indolence and lack of courage?
Our dear country is the Mother who nourished
Our children, and who inspires us to loyal and
Pure sentiments, and filial love. Shall we not
Then shed our blood for our country?

Hark! bitter cries are borne on the wings of the
North wind. The dust whirling in nebulous globes
Announces the coming march of an army.
It is the thirty-thousand Albanians of Scutari marching to meet the enemy.
But see! Who is this mounted officer approaching,
Bearing himself with such dignity and repose of
Mien; yet who withal can inspire such terror?
He of colossal stature, with eagle glance, who
With uplifted sword leads on to battle.

This is Ibrahim Pasha, most illustrous of
Warriors, distinguished as much for his virtue as for his courage.
Advance, then, ye Bosnians, ye Roumelians!
Asiatics, all of ye. We fear you not, though
Ye were thrice as numerous. We shall be victorious;
Death to us is nought.

The carnage is terrible, Amhed succumbs,
And there with their great general lie the
Brave dead of the Ottoman Army.
The rage of the combatants ceases suddenly.
A panic seems to have seized them. The
Ottoman troops take flight. They are overcome by fear.

Why do they depart? Rather they should remain
And learn of the valour and prowess of the Albanians.
Their brilliant standards are mingled with
Those of the victors. They are trophies, spoils of
The enemy, abandoned upon the field of battle.

Return we now to the bosom of our families.
Welcome us (youths and husbands) who desire
To rest after the heat of the Battle. And, oh
Faithful wives, we will teach our children to
Follow in our footsteps and imitate our courage.

LOSS OF THE “YONGALA.”

Toll, ocean, toll thy melancholy dirge!
Hard fought that gallant ship with foaming surge;
Ere morning broke, scarce was there left a trace—
Youth, beauty, all clasped in thy cold embrace.
Gone like a dream! dear eyes and gleaming hair,
And Queensland’s noble manhood with a prayer
Laid on their lips, now cold and still, and dumb,
All their last thoughts of God and home, sweet home.
Oh, avalanche of grief! see Austral weep
For those, her sacred dead, who calmly sleep
Inside the Barrier Reef, on coral bed.
* * * * *
Mourn, Austral, mourn! our country’s heart stands still!
E’en though rebellious, kneel we to His will.
Mourn for the beautiful, who, in the bloom
Of life and health, were destined for the tomb!
Roll on, remorseless and resistless waves,
Incline the mourner’s ear to Him who saves,
And at the fiat “Time shall no more be,”
May thou restore our dead to us, O Sea.

“THE KING”

Australia’s flag floats on the breeze,
On this the Coronation day.
From torrid zones to zones that freeze,
Old England still doth wield her sway.

So to our King with loyal hearts
We lift our loving cup and say
“Be as thy sire—a man of parts—
In the great drama thou must play.”

He hath not asked to be a King;
The destinies decreed it so.
Then forth the royal mantle bring,
And press the crown on regal brow!

Australia with her pride of race;
The younger Empire’s daughter fair—
The sea-king’s child of gentle face—
Noble and strong to do and dare.

Whose ties of blood far stronger are
Cementing freedom’s civil rights
Than bands of steel or iron bar—
A constitution strong in might—

Swears her allegiance to thy throne,
And sacred person by the sign
Of her own virtue, fervent grown,
In love of liberty divine.

A race distinctive she hath bred,
Offspring of high unsullied name;
And down the centuries her tread
Shall never bend to servile fame.

Her sons, within her ramparts grim,
Watch in her rocky coat of mail;
Chivalrous, strong and lithe of limb—
Ready, should foe their land assail.

Well doth she know the hour must come,
When boom of cannon, clash of spear,
And martial music, sound of drum,
Announce to all “the foe is near.”

And in her hands she holds the keys;
I hear her footsteps at the gate—
The Eastern Gate—of Eastern Seas,
O’er which shall ride her ships of state.

When Western Empires disappear
As lost Lemuria in the myths
Of ages, Austral still will bear
Her story in her Monoliths.

THE BROTHERHOOD OF MAN.

What, though thou be not rich, or great;
What, if of thy deeds some men shall prate;
What, though thy dearest friends should blame,
Or scandal weave around thy name.
Walk in the light of day; thy steps shall leave
Some traces by the way. Nor do thou grieve
O’er thy past deeds. If thou would’st drain the cup
To its last dregs of happiness, look up
And labour ’gainst despair and doubt
And help thy fellow man. Look up! Look out!
For every noble deed thy heart shall swell
With joy; for thou thyself within the well
Of thine own heart dost hold the keys of Heaven or Hell.
Endowed with knowledge thou must see
His ways; though sometimes veiled they be.
Then do not murmur at thy weary load,
But sow the seeds of patience on thy road,
And in the harvest of the sun and sod
Perchance thou’ll lead a brother up to God.
Be true unto thyself, so that thou can
Seal with love’s seal, the brotherhood of man.

ISODORE.

Once upon a night so dreary
I was seated all alone
In my sanctum sad and weary,
All my heart was turned to stone.

And the rain fell, never ceasing,
While the wind with angry roar
Howled against the leaden casements,
As it n’er had done before.

And my soul was filled with sorrow
For my lost and lonely bride;
I had gained her, but to lose her,
Isodore, my joy and pride.

Ah! I felt so sorely wounded,
I should see her nevermore,
For pale death had swiftly borne her
To that misty, silent shore.

In her bridal robe we laid her
Clasped her gems o’er filmy lace
With her golden tresses streaming
Round about her saintly face.

So my thoughts went ever trending
To my darling’s lonely grave,
While the firelight threw its shadows
And the tears my cheeks did lave.

Sudden, came a thrill of terror—
As a long despairing moan
Smote my ear, from out the casement,
Where the elder tree had grown.

Fearful, oped I wide the window,
Where, with lantern gleaming red,
Stood my dearest Isodora
Or her spirit from the dead.

Then she spoke in voice quite human,
“’Tis your own, your Isodore;”
Quickly I unbarred the portal
As she prone sank to the floor.

’Twas no vision; she was mortal
And her tale she slowly told;
How the wicked sexton robbed her,
As she lay in coffin cold.

He had hacked her slender fingers
To secure the rings so rare;
She, from cataleptic slumber
Woke, and saw his lantern there.

Then the sexton ghastly gazing,
Dropped his booty there and fled,
Little thinking, he, in robbing,
Gave me back my precious dead.

Happy years have we together
Spent, my Isodore and I;
And no more I pensive ponder,
Lonely when the night winds sigh.

CLEVELAND, Q.

She hath no strands of coral, rimmed with gold,
Or mermaids, in green dells of ancient story;
But rippling, laughing waves her feet enfold,
And land and seascape gleam with glittering glory.

Clad in her verdant raiment, in the crystal dawning
While golden wings of beauty o’er her rest,
Its passion, dimming the pale star of morning,
The Sun god’s kiss upon her face is pressed.

And ’neath the ti-tree’s shade, and spreading fig trees,
The meek kine, lowing, wander at their will;
While, borne upon the fragrant evening breeze,
The mopoke’s notes are heard from “copse” and hill.

And lo! When Luna’s orb in splendour lies
O’er Stradbrooke’s purple hill, and gem-set isles,
She gazes o’er the Point ’neath opal skies
To Cotton’s mountain wreathed in vernal smiles.

The red land waits for man to till the sod
With plough-share and with courage, heart and will—
To sow the seed where lies the barren clod,
Turning the grist to gold, with Nature’s mill.

THE HAUNTED CHAIR.

One of a large house party, on a frosty Christmas Eve,
The conversation led to ghosts in which some folks believe.
“I wish this house were haunted,” cried a lady young and gay;
“I’d shut myself within its gloom, and none should say me nay.”
Our host informed us gravely that up the broad oak stair,
Was a sealed and disused chamber, which owned a haunted chair.
His grandfather long years before was missing from his bed;
They searched and found him sitting within the arm-chair—dead.
His wealth had been proverbial, but no one found a will;
And though in manner sometimes strange, no one had wished him ill.
“The secret never had been solved,” our host said, “nor a trace
Of ought remained, except the land, and this ancestral place.”
“’Tis done,” the lady said; “to-night I sleep in that arm-chair.
“And if his ghost appears to me, I’ll never show my fear.”
That night the lady went and sat within the chamber dim;
She drew the curtain, chose a book, and read a Christmas hymn.
And then a fear possessed her, she grasped the huge arm-chair,
For in the shadows she could see a man with whitened hair.
His hands were clasped above him in suppliant attitude.
And tears were streaming down like rain, while words in torrent flowed:
“I had a brother once, a boy. I loved him as my life,
But he destroyed my happiness, he stole my promised wife.
We parted, he to Austral’s land, I for long years to mourn,
Until his widow sought me out to aid her infant son.
We married, and I brought him up, but he my wealth desired;
I hid it here, for of this youth with fear was I inspired.
Who’er shall find this secret, as my will doth so declare,
Shall take the half, and all the rest the poor shall have a share;
And Christ reward the hand that finds, and does this Christian deed,
For He hath said unto His flock, “See that my lambs ye feed.”
She rose with awe, he beckoned her, the chair began to creak;
He pressed two large brass nails which lay beneath the leather back.
And there inside the haunted chair were heaps and heaps of gold.
And papers tied with tapes, and strings, and dusty parchments old.
Her dream she told that Christmas morn, the haunted chair was brought—
A fearful weight it was to move, ’twas well and truly wrought—
At length with pressure brought to bear the nails began to move.
When there disclosed to light of day, lay the old man’s treasure-trove.
The lady won’t believe in ghosts, but she believes in dreams,
And also that this lovely world is better than it seems.
To-day we are the owners of the ancient haunted chair—
And clasping Christmas presents my wife is seated there.

A LONELY GRAVE.

Somewhere it lies near the gleaming bay,
On the Redland road with its winding way
Through the bush—where a fence in a lonely spot
Surrounds a grave in its hallowed plot.

List in nights so lonely
Zephyrs sigh only
A requiem.

Through the scorching heat of the bush fire’s breath,
Which hath spent its rage near this place of death,
Unscathed it remains—with the tree which grows
At the foot of this grave, which nobody knows—
Where in night so lonely
The winds breathe only
A requiem.

Somebody knew; but now nobody knows
Of the poor lone corse which in deep repose
Lies in earth’s embrace—till the sleeper awakes
In the glorious dawn, when God’s morning breaks,
And no more so lonely
The winds sigh only
A requiem.

Is it the grave of a father old
Who had toiled too hard for the red, red gold?
Or a brother, a sister, a mother, or son
Or a lover adored by a trusting one,
Who, through long years,
Shed bitter tears—
Her requiem?

Then peace to this grave, of whom nobody knows,
Right close to the track, where the sunset glows
Through the network and woof of the whispering leaves—
One spirit at least for thy loneliness grieves—
Where in nights so lonely,
The winds chant only
Thy requiem.

THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN.

A baby softly nestling
’Mid clouds of fluffy white,
In nurse’s arms, with pinken charms
Quite hidden out of sight.
Or next, displayed on cushion fine,
For visitors to see,
This precious mite is brought to light
For compliments—at tea.

A lovely girl, with angel face,
And hair like molten gold,
Whose violet eyes, in sweet surprise,
’Neath ivory lids unfold
Their meeting charm, with eyebrows arched
And forehead broad and low;
And scarlet lips, where Cupid sips
The honey from its bow.

Behold, her schooldays almost o’er,
Slight, pretty and precise,
A favourite at all the sports—
And voted “very nice,”
At tennis, and at golfing, or at swimming
Quite au fait;
And all the rage upon the stage
Of amateurs at play.

At length the happy day arrives;
She at the altar stands,
Declaring that she will obey
Her dear liege lord’s commands.
The vows are said, and she is wed,
Queen of his heart she’ll reign,
And never, never make him wish
To be unwed again.

A few years flown, a little dent
Appears between her eyes;
When vexed, she murmurs, “I’m not sure
That I was very wise
To marry young, with nerves unstrung;
For me there is no mirth;
Of course, I would not change my “hub”
For anyone on earth.”

At forty, she is young again,
The children growing up,
And, what with theatres, and trips
To see the Melbourne Cup,
Pandora-like, she clings to hope
As long as it will last—
If only Time will stay his hand,
Nor sow crow’s feet so fast.

At fifty-five, too tired to walk,
And only taking drives,
The doctor says she is too plump,
Still, to look young she strives.
And well she may; why should she not?
She’s just the age she looks;
And man is just the age he feels,
Least, so it says in books.

THE LOSS OF THE TITANIC.

T The wild winds moan a requiem for the dead
H Hard by Newfoundland. In an icy bed
E England’s, America’s, illustrous men

L Lie side by side, vanished from mortal ken.
O Oh! Earth is plunged in grief: brothers are we;
S Souls cry to souls across that cold grey sea.
S So late she sped along that gleaming track,

O Oh! could unnumbered tears but call her back.
F Forth to her doom with twice seven hundred breasts

T Throbbing with pulsing life, that floating palace rests.
H Howl loud ye winds! Ye cruel ice-floes weep!
E E’en though thy victims, yet they calmly sleep,

T Thou canst not harm them more. The human tears
I In memory’s casket down the future years
T Their grief will take; recount the awful fate.
A Alas! Those calls for aid which came too late
N Nought could avail. The mammoth vessel dashed
I In sudden thundering, while her timbers crashed.
C Caught in the vortex ’neath the deafening boom;

I Instant the shock which hurled her to her doom.
N No fond adieu; gone beyond time and sense,

M Mourn for the sudden call of those departed hence.
E E’en though their burial place, the lonely deep,
M Mutely we plead with Him their souls to keep.
O On their dear forms no more, or their sweet eyes
R Resting on beauty’s lines n’er may they rise.
I In their dark home they lie while billows surge
A Around that sunken ship, and chant a dirge
M Mournful for they who sleep beneath the surge.

A SONG OF AUSTRALIA.

Sing, sing of Australia whose golden clime
Hath the Eucalyptus and odorous Lime,
The emblem of freedom for chaplet fair,
And pearls and opals to bind her hair,
Lo! softly Aurora her beams hath shed
In crimson shafts o’er her ocean bed.
Daughter of Helios, whose azure eyes
Reflect the rays of the Southern skies.

Sing the feathery Palm, her fan so gay,
While jewell’d isles with her fingers play;
Sing her flocks and herds of the glowing West,
And the olives and vines of her hills’ green crest,
Sing her silver rivers and yellow gold,
And the glorious Wattle whose buds unfold
A wealth of beauty ’neath sun and shower,
Fit for a queen in royal bower.

Sing her flashing falls, and her rillets flow,
As in the ages long, long ago,
When in embryo she stately lay
Waiting the dawn of her natal day.
Sing of her morn which hath come at last
Though perchance she will shiver before the blast;
But the storm must come and the clarion call
Will resound from her Eastern to Western wall.

Sing of her peerless youth so free
As she beareth the lamp of Liberty
With a proud high look, and a sensitive ear
Fill’d with expectant hope and fear.
Sing of her prestige exalted and pure
In the hearts of her patriots ever secure,
The Midas of Empires, resplendent and brave
In magnificence reigns, the queen of the wave.

TO A CHILD.

I will paint thee as thou art;
Summers two have left their trace
On thy features, and thy heart
Hath its reflex in thy face.

Hair of gold thy brow doth crown;
Eyes like sparkling jewels two,
For no evil yet hath thrown
Shadows o’er those wells of blue.

Little hands our face caress,
Tiny pinken earshells two,
Sweetest smiling lips that press
Drops of limpid fairy dew.

When in slumber thou dost lie,
Even in thy baby dreams,
Angels weave a lullaby
To the murmur of the streams.

I will paint thee as I muse
On thy journey up Life’s hill;
Courage for thy guerdon choose;
Work with heart, and brain, and will.

I would paint thee, if I might,
Tender, patient, doing good,
In thy coming years so bright—
Patriot, Statesman, if I could.

THE GLASSHOUSE MOUNTAINS, QUEENSLAND.

T Thou mighty Monoliths of Nature’s mould,
H Horologes of time and seasons which have rolled
E Ere mortals’ drama on life’s stage begun.

G Gray ocean hid thee in oblivion.
L Lo! in the archaic rocks thy feet were laid,
A And Saurian monsters once around thee played,
S Sun, moon and stars alone thy forms had viewed,
S Standing in weird mysterious solitude.
H Heaving and shuddering with internal wrath
O Out from thy vitals Jovian bolts came forth:
U Unchained thy fury and malignant ire,
S Spirits of Vulcan poured their liquid fire,
E Epochs rolled on. The waves retreating fled.

M Moribund thou, thy craters cold and dead,
O O’er thy scarred summits lurid flames no more
U Unsheathed their molten tongues—thy life was o’er.
N Now, man upon thy rugged shoulders stands
T Turning expectant eyes o’er dunes and strands;
A Amethyst islands in enchanting beauty lie
I In Moreton’s waters ’neath the sapphire sky.
N Nature hath carved thy frames inscrutable:—
S Stupendous mounds of God immutable.

Q Quelled is thy passion! In the glowing dawn
U Under a misty veil thy mitred heads forlorn,
E Ever in solemn beauty mid the silence stand,
E Eternal sentinels of Time’s stern hand.
N ’Neath thy vast shadows browse the goat and steer,
S Sphinx-like thy gaze thou canst not see or hear,
L Lovely in death, though slow be thy decay,
A All things created change and pass away.
N Nor, though man would thy secret learn in vain,
D Doth thou confess: Ye watch towers of the plain.

AUSTRALIA’S DESTINY.

I see Australia’s footprints marking out her destiny,
No castles proud or battlements proclaim her ancestry:
But the Empire Mother’s children are strong and lithe and free,
And they bravely bear their starry flag; true knights of chivalry.
Beneath the glittering Southern Cross where the red hibiscus’ flame,
Where set in a sea of silver lie the thousand isles of fame,
Is the Barrier Reef—the rampart—whence with hundred eyes of hate
The shrapnel shell may sound the knell of the foe at the Eastern Gate.
And the lineal sons of Norsemen with the lightning of their glance
Will ready be for the enemy with rapier and with lance.
Her ships may scour the ocean but the nation holds the key
Of future power, who, with aerial fleet, can claim supremacy.
The shadow of the hand is there which presages a power
When, with alliance severed in some unguarded hour,
Heedless of signs portentous we see no clouds of war,
With pomp and pride through portals wide the alien hordes may pour.
Then let us fill Australia with our kin, there’s room for all,
For see the fingers writing still the message on the wall;
And listen with our pride of race we children of the dawn,
To the warning voice of nations while yet it is the morn.
And like true soldier citizens, who armed, may keep the peace,
’Twill lead the way unto the day when the demon war shall cease.

EVOLUTION.

A child of the Sun I am ages old,
I live on the past, and its wisdom unfold;
A handmaid of nature my dwelling unseen,
I’m integrally part of whatever has been.
Like a meteor I sprang from the womb of the sky,
For of sun dust and star dust an atom am I;
Whatever my place in cosmogonic laws,
I belong to the great and invisible cause.
Incorporate yet with the corporate mind
I resolve myself, evolve, and govern mankind.
I was nursed in oblivion, with silence was reared,
Controlling man’s destiny, ever unheard;
I press through the centuries slowly, but sure,
And I never may rest until time be no more.
An atom of mighty centrifugal force,
No power can destroy or can alter my course:
Though earth and her satellite fall like a star,
I still will rejoice on some planet afar.
A mentor I am if man will but read,
For cause and effect are God’s agents indeed.
Though I ever despoil, yet I ever renew,
And I silently work where no mortal may view:
I move on the mountains, I move in the deep,
I never am still, yet eternally sleep;
Like the dew of the morning refreshing the ground
I bless and am blended with all things around.
From the steps of the past to the future I climb,
For from Heaven I am sent with a message sublime:
On the rocks—nature’s book—my traces I leave,
That in me—Evolution—you all may believe.

LOVE’S REVERIE.

I sang a song one glorious eve
Meant for your ears alone,
I may not sing that song again
For years since then have flown;
But I remember that the dew
Lay glistening in your eyes so blue.

I sang to you one summer day
All through the golden hours
As down a mossy dell we strayed
And plucked the scented flowers;
And as I sang love’s sweet refrain
Your eyes were dim with tears again.

I sang when night in splendour fell
Where southern stars look down
And they and you alone could tell
How deep my love had grown,
And when I saw your eyes ashine
It seemed to make my love divine.

Dear heart, I sang to you alone
My song with trembling voice,
Which told how love could make our lives
A holy sacrifice.
Then tenderly, with quivering breath
You gave yourself to me till death.

TO THE ROSE.

Goddess of beauty: at thy magic breath
My spirit turneth from the gate of death,
And in thy deep red heart would find repose
And dreams of Arcady: thou queenly rose.

This morn I deemed that happiness had flown,
For all the world to me had colder grown.
But lo! The angel of the flowers hath kissed
Thy petals with the dew of morning mist.

The fragrant violet, in its mossy shrine,
Hath not the blushing loveliness of thine;
And though within thy silky stem a dart
Doth lurk, pray do not pierce my heart.

In all my garden, in its beauty set,
With waxen lilies and with mignonette,
And pansies purple with sweet amber eyes—
The charm of Flora’s glory with thee lies.

IN MEMORIAM.
CAPTAIN SCOTT AND COMRADES WHO PERISHED IN ANTARCTICA.

Not in mausoleum built of carven stone
Sleep Britain’s heroes, but they lie alone
In temple grand as human heart could crave
Scott and his comrades in their mighty grave.
The ice their couch, with pure white snow for shroud.
Oh! Avalanche of woe: earth weeps aloud:
The star-fringed sky their pall. No mournful bell,
Or loving voice to breathe farewell: farewell.
No muffled drum, nor flag to drape their bier;
No shot was heard, nor fell one human tear.
But where dark Erebus her vigil lone doth keep,
Our heroes sleep serene their long last sleep.
Their names are written in the Terrene sod:
Their spirits are immortal with their God.

AUSTRAL’S HEROES.

We praise the deeds of ancient heroes bred
Beneath Olympus’ venerable head,
Or proud Parnassus’ patriarchal crown
And victors’ wreaths which sons of Hellas won.
Of Solon, whose impassioned lips once poured
From the great Pynx his eloquence of word;
And mighty Hector, and Astyanax, his boy,
At once the idol and the pride of Troy.
These vanished heroes, and the temples of the plain
Though voiceless, ever deathless will remain;
For though her brilliant Sun has long since set
The spell of Hellas lingers o’er us yet.
But we, as thus we sing of Greece and Rome,
Have heroes such as they, and nearer home;
The sons of sires who through the ages fought
Like Trojans, fired with all the deeds they wrought;
Our pioneers who delved the virgin soil
In this new land with patient endless toil;
In the primeval forest with companions few
The more they toiled, their minds the greater grew.
For they through long and dreary, lonely hours
Wrestled with all the dim remorseless powers
Of doubt, distress, and solitude and fear,
While grim despair stood ever hovering near.
Yet they with ever glowing fierce desire
Of a consuming, and a never dying fire,
Which latent in the human breast doth ever lie,
Potent in hidden power and vast immensity
Pressed bravely onward while they hewed the track,
From death and danger never turning back;
But through the bush bizarre and gorge they strode
Their watchword ringing “On and clear the road.”
And lo! Upon the pathless waste of desert plain
Stood hunger, thirst, disease, and all their train,
Marshalled like hosts of old to smite and slay
The unhappy victims as they fainting lay:

But like the Greeks they fought, and would not yield
Until their bones lay stretched upon the field.
While Drought the King, as Agamemnon great,
Stretched forth his Sceptre o’er his mighty State.
Then Oh! Forget not, we who live in ease to-day,
That great Australian heroes paved the way
To present greatness; noble souls as these
Of this reincarnated Greece of Southern seas:
And Austral’s Sons, should swords they ever wield,
Must die like heroes, or return with shield
Emblazoned with the motto, “Macte Animo,”
With ideals high, and breasts with love aglow
For God and duty: thus each name a gem
Shall gleam in Austral’s peerless diadem.

LIFE’S DUTY.

Go thou, when sorrow’s night thy soul hath torn,
And turn thine eyes expectant to the dawn,
And view the sunlight o’er the distant hills
Until its rays with peace thy spirit fills;
Then brave thyself unto the daily strife—
The world demands thou make the best of life.
Go forth to duty, girt with golden chain
Of courage, born of weakness, not in vain.
Tho’ weak, thou’lt find thy greatest strength will lie
In steadfast purpose with unfaltering eye
Fixed on thy goal. Oh! Be thou valiant men,
And point the higher path, for little do we ken
Of they who labour in Life’s noonday sun.
Go thou, when heat of toil hath left thy brow,
Commune with Nature, and thy soul shall know
The why and wherefore of the chastening rod
Imposed on thy sad spirit by thy God,
Hear how the breakers of the ocean moan,
The thousand voices of the forest lone.
The trees and flowers, the sigh of whispering winds—
All speak of beauty, and the power that binds
Man to his Maker. Then take heart of grace,
And meet the world with ever-smiling face.
It hath enough of grief; go hide thy care,
And scatter joy, tho’ blent with tears thy share.

THE TEMPLE OF THE YEARS.

I opened wide the Portal of the Temple of the Years,
And passed adown the vista of the aisle of buried tears,
Which once my feet had trodden in their deeply furrowed way,
The via dolorosa of all we of earthly clay.
I sought the aisle of Memories, where in niches finely wrought
Were long, long rolls of archives of good and evil thought;
I took a scroll, and while I read, the scalding tears would flow,
When I saw inscribed the errors of the days of long ago.
And then I saw my mother as in the years of old,
And all the beauty of her mind she did to me unfold,
And spoke to me as erstwhile in her sweet, glowing voice,
And told me that each good deed made Angels in Heaven rejoice.
Oh, she above, long, long has lived, but still I feel quite sure
Her spirit watches over me just as in the days of yore,
And when I leave Earth’s twilight, and part from all I love,
From the Temple of the Years I’ll go to join her there above.

THE WEAVERS.

Each day we weave, unseen, the web of Fate
With threads of tenderest love or threads of hate;
The strands are slender when they are unfurled,
Yet strong to reach some soul across the world.

With Beauty’s shuttle weave we dews which prism sweet
The morning air before the noonday heat,
Or web of roses’ attar redolent,
Bedewed with silver mist of memories blent.

Oh! Fragrant memory, with its vibrant power,
Weaving in daylight, or in evening hour
Some poet’s lay to touch the human heart
With golden music of the minstrel’s art.

The Past and Gone are woven, and the Present now
Is in the web, with cruel, thorny bough,
For some frail mortals; but the Angel Sleep
Weaves ever future joys for those who weep.

The wind within the trees doth weave a melody,
The bright-winged birds weave dulcet harmony
With their alluring notes, and wood nymphs hear
And weave a sonnet for their lover’s ear.

Whether we in seclusion weave where none intrude
On mountain steep or in deep solitude
Of the dense bush, or mossy fen, or glade,
We weave our bed with web which we have made.

Then let us dream, and weave that no remorse
With silent shadow clouds our future course,
With love to guide, whose eyes wax never dim,
While weaving make some lives one long sweet hymn.

THE JACARANDA.

Once in a garden, Oh! So fair!
Was a leafy path, and I tell not where,
But it led to an arbor beneath the shade
Of a jacaranda, where sunlight played
And flickered and flashed through the tasselled leaves
In the crimson flush of long summer eves,
And in web and woof of the trellised roof
From sweet birds’ throats fell golden notes.

Once lovers murmured within that bower
Where grew the gracefullest purple flower,
And a trembling maiden’s soft answer stole
Through somebody’s ear and thrilled his soul,
And then with her dark eyes growing dim
She solemnly plighted her troth with him,
In the hush of night while the pale moonlight
Shed a silver shower o’er this lovers’ bower.

Once it fell on a summer day
This handsome lover sailed away,
And he had vowed he would faithful be
To the maiden he loved when o’er the sea,
So each day in the leafy arbor dim
The maiden waited and dreamed of him,
But no missive came, and she breathed his name
In stress and tears for three long years.

Once, in the witching gloaming hour,
Soft murmurs were heard within that bower,
For the lover, a knight, had come to take
The lady who waited for his dear sake,
And he told his tale, while her starry eyes
Tenderly glowed with sweet surprise,
And these lovers twain, reunited again,
Loved each other more than in days of yore.

And now, in that beautiful garden old,
Where the jacaranda its buds unfold,
They wander adown the paths so green,
Where once as lovers they talked unseen,
And the gracefullest flower that bloometh there
Is somebody’s darling with golden hair,
And still in the woof of the trellised roof,
From sweet birds’ throats fall liquid notes.

WHERE ALL IS UNDERSTOOD.

Divinity of heavenly breath which we call life;
Which makes us sentient beings ’mid the strife
Of earthly years: Oh! make us wise and good,
E’en tho’ misunderstood; misunderstood.

Divinity of fate; at thy cold, stern decree,
Potent in power, cradled in mystery,
Dauntless in courage, and with spirit set,
We will not fret; we will not fret.

Divinity of faith; there is one creed,
To suffer and be strong; ’tis all we need,
Then strengthen us to cling to thee, though should
We be misunderstood; misunderstood.

Divinity of love; oh! may we ever be
All that thou art in angel purity,
And make our lives—forgive the unbidden tear—
The endless song which only thou canst hear.

Divinity of death; though cold, thou press
The heavy eyelids with thy damp caress,
Thy pinions bear us to the golden flood
Of perfect life, where all is understood.

REMEMBER.

Remember when the velvet robe of night
Falls softly, or when Luna’s mystic light
Earth veils in dim, delusive beauty cold,
And all her myriad secrets doth unfold.

Remember when in rosy dawn or dewy eve
Some vagrant thought a tender trace may leave
Upon thy chastened spirit of a golden hour
Which cast its spell with all its magic power.

Remember when the vows so fondly made
’Neath oleanders in the web of sun and shade,
That to our throbbing souls with love’s eyes clear
It seemed that Paradise to us was near.

Remember when in noontide’s languid heat,
’Mid haunts of men, or mart, or busy street,
Or in sweet sleep’s embrace when dreams are bright,
My spirit watches in the solemn hush of night.

Remember when ’neath cypress tree I rest
With calmly folded hands across my breast,
And nought but sacred dust at last remain,
It may be that I had not lived in vain.

THE QUEST.

Lo! I have sought thee, Happiness,
Beneath the sun,
Whose golden core doth Earth caress
Till day is done.
Where scintillating stars appear,
Breathing of thee,
As quivering in the vault of air
They seem to see.
And where pearl-girdled proud Selene,
With queenly grace,
Climbeth the stairs of Heaven, serene
With smiling face.
And where in grove and woodland dell,
So sweetly meek,
Shy, drooping dew-crowned violets dwell
Did I seek.
There at length I thee have found
In solitude,
Where but echoes soft resound,
Zephyr wooed.
And with books of hero lore
There thou art,
And the chaplets which they bore,
And my heart.
Happiness, I would not lose
Thee so dear;
All may find thee if they choose,
Ever near.

THE MUSE.

When great Apollon woke his lyre
With breath of the celestial fire,
To mortals he bequeathed the skill
To invoke the goddess at their will,
That when with melancholy bound
Sweet solace with the Muse was found.
Oh! soft the melting strains sublime
Which echoed once in Grecia’s clime
When pæans of the Homeric bard
In marble palaces were heard.
And love-lorn Lesbia’s Sappho sung
The while her heart with grief was wrung,
Who vainly sought with burning words
And sweet seductive trembling chords
Her Phidias’ love to win, nor more
She tuned her lyre on Egea’s shore,
Or bent with futile tears to weep,
But threw herself from Leucan steep,
And still ’tis said from ocean cave
At eve is heard beneath the wave
Her lute by unseen spirits played
Where died the glorious lyric maid,
And since, in every sacred shrine,
Music’s sweet symphonies divine,
On golden wings in darkest hour
Float with a deep and vibrant power.
The Muse but lifts her magic wand—
We view empyreal heights beyond—
Seraphic sounds caress the ear
The Poet Wind breathes on the air.
Imagination! List! ’tis thine—
A pastoral scene. The meek-eyed kine
Knee-deep in herbage gently low,
As loitering to their haunts they go;
The velvet turf, the silver stream,
The tranquil beauty of the theme;
The dark-haired Rosalind in white,
Like Neptune’s nymph, sweet Amphytrite.
Then sudden stillness; over all
The rustling leaves the raindrops fall;
Darkness, with thunder pealing loud;
The golden light behind the cloud;
The storm is o’er, birds trill their lays,
Soft-throated rhapsodies of praise—
Thus doth the Muse o’er mortals vain
Cast her sweet spell in hours of pain,
Exalting souls to high desire,
Apollon of the Golden Lyre.

IN MEMORIAM.
BISHOP WEBBER.

In dreams he saw that stately pile appear
In matchless beauty of proportion clear
On rocky eminence, the city ’neath its feet
And winding river, and the vision sweet
Which his soul cherished was not all in vain.
Behold the vast Cathedral with its lofty fane!
For which he toiled and prayed, but Heaven decreed
He should not see fruition of the seed.
And now within those hallowed walls at rest
He lies with meek hands folded o’er his breast
Beneath the altar fair he is assigned
A fitting resting place for his great mind.
Though he be dead, his works will follow him
And stones shall speak in that great minster dim,
Of strength and majesty so truly wrought—
A temple beautiful for heavenly thought;
Each arch in its magnificence alone
Reveals a poem writ with pen of stone.
Perchance when the sweet sound of vesper bell
And trembling notes of the grand organ swell,
Reverberating, or with cadence soft and clear,
His listening spirit may be hovering near.
When holy chant floats down that stately aisle
And angel voice of choristers beguile
The soul in rapturous awe from mundane things
Will soar aloft on Adoration’s wings!
And may each human pillar moulded be
By master minds of eloquence and oratory;
And down the centuries the founder’s name shall shine
With his successors in God’s House Divine,
While “Glorio in Excelsis Deo” rise
In grandest anthem to the lofty skies.

AT EVENTIDE.

With trembling limbs and side by side
Two old folks walk at eventide,
Two dear old wrinkled faces bow,
Two pairs of feet are weary now,
At eventide.

Hush! Now they reach the old house door,
Where, more than fifty years before,
The bride came on her wedding morn,
And true love waited for his dawn,
Ere eventide.

They gaze with tender age-dimmed eyes
Around the hearth while memories
Surge backward down the vanished years,
Fraught with their sweetness, blent with tears,
This eventide.

They talk of loved ones long since gone,
And one whom they in silence mourn,
The erring one, and thus they stay
With bended heads for him to pray,
At eventide.

And he, with sudden, deep remorse
Resolves to change his evil course,
And plead forgiveness ere too late,
So softly opes the old green gate,
One eventide.

The cottage door is open wide,
He sweeps a vagrant tear aside,
Sees empty dear familiar chairs,
Then gently mounts the oaken stairs
At eventide.

Ah! Yes! it is their eventide,
For see! He finds them side by side,
Wrapped in magnificent repose,
Beyond the golden light that glows
At eventide.

AUTUMN.

Lo! Sad-eyed Autumn walks o’er all the land,
Tenderly touching with caressing hand,
Each quivering leaflet, hung from parent stem,
Bearing a radiant dew-kissed diadem;
And tasselled ruddy gold and variant shade
Droop o’er Psyche as in Arcadian glade
She doth recline, and Autumn’s lover—Wind—
Chants solemn dirge for Summer, left behind
To music of dead leaves, with tears of rain,
While whispering, “Summer cometh yet again,
And Autumn lingereth but a little while,
With glance compassionate on flowers that smile
In winsome beauty ere their blooms decay
And change when Winter cometh cold and grey.”
See! Satin-winged sweet butterflies have flown
Like fairy sprites, to choose a graceful throne
On crimson rose or soft hydrangea blue,
Emblems of the transition we must view.
These tender spirits through the fleeting hours
Cull the sweet essence from the glorious flowers,
And the short seasons pass and may not stay—
Ephemeral pleasures, too, must pass away.
So, did not Autumn Winter meet, and Winter Spring,
Dear Summer’s charms would vanish nor hope bring
Then melancholy Autumn with her Wind may sigh,
For Spring, her smiling sister, cometh by-and-bye.

TO SLEEP.

Sweet seraph! Borne upon the wings of love,
Softly thou cometh from the realms above,
With kiss as light as air, and gentler breath,
More beauteous thou than thy pale brother Death,
Yet not so calm as he, though both bestow
A wondrous loveliness o’er cheek and brow;
He with a regal majesty so marble cold
In immobility of matchless grace doth mould
Each feature with the waxen beauty of the tomb,
While thou dost lend the blush of living bloom,
And the soft dew of Heaven doth linger there,
And lovely Peace imprints her image fair.
When eve in crimson splendour of delight
Falleth, thou Spirit of the starry night,
And they, all million-eyed in radiance shine,
Like scattered silver seeds o’er fields divine,
Thou to dear children giveth dreamless rest,
Softly embraced upon thy tender breast,
While care-worn sufferers on the tideless sea
Of blissful dreams forget their misery,
And bask in visions of the verdurous hills
Of some enchanted isle where flashing rills,
Gushing sweet music, to the green vales flow,
Where cool, slim palms their graceful shadows throw—
Angel of love, by dear Compassion led,
To fold in deep repose each weary head.
Nature’s sweet nurse, oh ever near us stay
Till, life’s dreams o’er, “the shadows flee away.”

WHAT IS MAN?

Monarch of all the animals is man, but what his goal?
Being material, yet endowed with an immortal soul,
Whence comes he? Hath he lived before? He knoweth not,
But if he be immortal, must be Heaven-begot.
To live for naught in the great cosmic plan
Would prove him lesser than his claim as man.
Alone he stands amid his empire, clothed with speech,
And attributes of reason and intelligence to reach
The heights sublime, for he alone surveys
The skies or lifts his eyes to mark the boundless ways
Of the vast galaxy of the celestial star-strewn plains,
He of the mighty animal kingdom o’er which he reigns,
He who is but the veriest echo of the Almighty sound,
A faint reflection of his Maker, but who yet is bound
By ties unbreakable, for doth he not receive
The realm of thought from Him, the air to breathe?
The glorious constellations move in their appointed place
To the deep throbbing heart-beats of the universe.
The planets, trembling arteries of the spacious whole,
With each frail mortal the molecule called soul,
And he in turn respondeth to the Almighty thought,
Each entity distinct, yet like the other wrought;
Creature of elements mysterious, half divine!
Emotional, fearful, yet vibrating to the electric line
Of the invisible, which holds him startled at the flight
And magnitude of thought soaring beyond the night
Of mundane things; then asks himself—as thousands more—
If death the end of all created beings is, wherefore
All the ennobling longings in the human mind innate
And love of nature and which all things beautiful elate,
This spark of immortality flaming with fitful gleams
Of vague remembrance of a pre-existence, seems
To shape itself into a dream which comes and goes.
And when the influence of the Almighty over spirit throws
The searching rays of the great Omnipresent power
In Whom we live, to Whom we kneel in sorrow’s hour,
Who bids the ministers of all the Heavenly Argosies
Of Faith, and Hope, and Mercy, on the ethereal spheres
Enthroned with Justice, Truth and Liberty,
To teach man that, though mortal, immortality
Is his, Oh not, for nought, the powers of death and life,
Oh not, for nought, it is the everlasting strife
’Twixt mind and matter, if we be—as some would deem—
Nought but the moving shadows of a melting dream,
Why live, why love, why breathe the unconscious prayer?
Because, deep down in the human heart, we feel God there;
And dare the shadow of his Maker,—man—profess
That he can build this empire without him to bless.

THE BLUE MOUNTAINS, NEW SOUTH WALES.

Imperial battlements, whose frowning brows
Look ever into space and watch the dawn
In roseate loveliness above the snows
Of feathery cloudlets which thy breasts adorn.

Ye regal forms! Whose jagged chasms bear
The scars of ages, scored by tempests’ rage
When cataclysms thundering rent the air—
Thou mammoth ruins of a bygone age.

And hoary Kosciusko in dim distance gleams,
So not alone in thy most awful pride
Art thou great Austral Alps, whose purling streams
Gush from the fissures in thy wounded side.

What buried secrets doth thy caverns hold
Of aeons marked by time’s unerring hand?
What mystic rites were held by warriors bold,
The dusky children of an almost vanished band?

Perchance they crept within thy strongholds grim,
Hiding, as erst cave dwellers once had done
In old Europa—fearful lest limb from limb
They should be torn by some great mastodon.

Mayhap from giddy height they gazed with awe
Upon thy ever-changing billowy cloud,
Deeming the “Eagle Rock” and “Bear” they saw
Gods to which they in adoration bowed.

Oh! lo we bend to Him who fashioned thee
From chaos at His own almighty word—
Creation’s wonderland of moving mystery,
When seas and winds alone His voice had heard.

So wildly beautiful art thou, the spirit fails
To utterly describe thy variant mood.
The mantled velvet of thy mossy, vernal vales
And magic falls, which flash in foaming flood;

Ye tree-crowned hills! With leafy branches spread,
Ye scented pines! Whose odorous breath is flung,
Wafted from “Govett’s Leap” and fen and glade,
From aerial censer by wood-spirits swung.

And when the orb of day in splendour dies,
And trailing flambent clouds thy peaks enlace,
The opalescent tints of western skies
Reveal the enchantments of thy dwelling-place.

Or when our lady of the night, so fair,
Silvers thy forests in translucent showers,
Deftly the sylvan poet thrills the air
With murmuring symphony from wind-wooed bowers.

Gorges and canyon, clefts and ravines deep,
And fairy grotts with starry flowerets set,
Where water-lilies pale on green pool sleep;
Lo! Nature’s masterpiece, her grand magnificat.

Ye massive pillars! Which have viewed the spray
Far, far away upon the impulsive tide
For countless years—ye too must pass away.
For at His fiat who shall then abide?

And He who changeth not, He who hath made
All things of earth we love to change and die,
Hath made thee beautiful, that ’neath thy shade
Vain man may muse upon his immortality.

THE POET LAUREATE.
ALFRED AUSTIN.

The lyre is mute, the strings unstrung,
The muse hath left the song unsung;
He weareth on his poet’s brow
A fairer wreath than men bestow
Or fame may give.
As leaves are scattered o’er the mould,
Unheeded by the world so cold,
Yet, traced indelibly on stone,
Their shapes remain through ages flown,
So sweet words live.

His pleasure was a healthy mind,
Teaching man’s duty to mankind;
No thought of glory or of gain
Centred within that brilliant brain
But love to men.
Oh, life! Oh, death! Thou hast no sting!
Swiftly upon thy glorious wing,
Trembling, within the golden maze,
He passed to pour his sweetest lays
Beyond our ken.

His ivory casket lies at rest
In that dear island of the west;
His song hath ceased, his rest is won,
And peace is his at set of sun,
For he hath led
Some weary mortals to the spheres
Of fancy, far from pensive tears,
Where, in imagination’s bliss,
They hung upon a poet’s kiss.
Oh, happy dead!

And Britain mourns him not alone,
And not because of sculptured stone,
Or tributes great, or elegy,
Will her laureate remembered be,
But in her heart.
Though rugged be the path to fame,
Yet history hath writ his name
A star of magnitude that shines;
For fame, whose lustre few entwines,
Hath crowned his art.

MOUNT TAMBOURINE, QUEENSLAND.

How shall I paint in words thine image fair,
Set in a background of red-winged light,
Glinting through portieres of soft foliage there,
Gold-flecked ere fading into deepening night?
List to the music of cascades which pour
Their liquid silver tribute down the steep
To moss-clad boulders, where it bubbles o’er,
And fronded ferns in verdurous beauty peep.
Breathless—I wait near thy pellucid stream
To view some woodland nymph with flashing feet
And brow, flower-bound for this alluring dream—
A witching Flora in this cool retreat.
Pensive I grow until the bell-bird’s note—
Organ-like, pealing in its grand solemnity—
Brings haunting memories, as the deep tones float,
Of vanished hours—lost chords of melody.
Crowned in magnificence is thy majestic head,
Queenly thy royal robe of purple grace,
With tender nuances o’er dewy verdure spread,
Where the Pacific’s jasper waves embrace.
Whether in winnowed raiment of the crystal dawn,
Or golden mantle of the sun’s rich ore,
Or jewelled scarf star studded round thee worn,
Thy smiles or tears but charm me more and more.
Farewell, thy stately beauty! Stay—a thought
Hath touched the deep recesses of my soul—
Thou standest, thou Colossus, tempest-wrought,
A Beacon on Time’s sea to mark a shoal!

DREAMS.

I dream of thee when morn is nigh
And Eos, incense laden,
Through rosy portals of the sky,
Chaseth the white mist maiden.

I dream when falls the tender night,
And walks the pale queen moon,
And peeping stars with eyes so bright
Whisper “She cometh soon.”

I watch them in the fragrant gloom
Hanging so pure and high,
For they are woven in my dream,
And gleam all silently.

Beloved! As a budding rose
With petals just unfolding,
My passion would thy heart unclose
A flower of love’s own moulding.

And oft in slumber wrapped profound
I see thy lashes wet,
And know thy thoughts with mine are bound,
And thou dost not forget.

My dreams I cherish, and thou must
By this, my only token,
Know that my love, till I am dust,
Shall e’er remain unbroken.

And when that “Light that never was”
On earth or sky or sea
Shall break o’er me, ’twill be because
God led me up through thee.

AUSTRALIA TO THE EMPIRE MOTHER.

Peace to thee, Mother of Empires: Austral, thy younger child
Far removed from thy steadfast hand across the ocean wild,
Sees not thy mighty cities, nor the pleasurance of thy mead,
Nor the glory of thy landscapes where tender flocklets feed.
Nor the ancient feudal castles flanked with turrets and with moats,
The fane of great Westminster, nor hath heard Big Ben’s deep notes.
Thy palaces and heirlooms with proud earls and ladies fair,
Of noble blood and long descent, and costly jewels rare.
Thy wondrous wealth and poverty with streets one shining blaze,
Where tiny children clad in rags are driven within the maze
Or labyrinth of alleys, just to sell God’s gift—the flowers,
With little bodies blue with cold to pass the mid-night hours.
Oh, Britain! Thy great heart doth swell with passionate regret
That thou hast so many mouths to fill; then thou must not forget
That far away ’neath Southern Cross thy child doth bless thy name,
For she hath written in her heart the story of thy fame.
Thy battles fought, thy hopes for peace on that expectant day
When the crimson tides of human blood for aye shall fade away.
And see! Thy royal daughter waits to plead with Britain’s race,
To send her vessels filled with kin, to choose a dwelling-place
Beneath the soft and balmy skies where giant forests gleam,
And the yellow ribboned wattle grows beside the silver stream;
Where golden sands of islets float beyond the purple rim
Of sapphire seas, and lofty palms wave languourously and slim
Where the vine and fig tree flourish within the rich, red soil,
And poverty is never known save to those who will not toil.
Oh, not with tones of other climes thy daughter Austral sings;
Not as the birds of other lands their note’s wild echo rings,
The cadence of the bell-bird’s call, the curlew’s haunting cry,
The green and scarlet plumage gay which sweep across the sky,
The ’possum and the mopoke, and the soft-eyed kangaroo,
Nature in all her curious shapes, with flowers of gorgeous hue.
In solitary splendour Austral waits within her walls
Of rocky sea-girt armoury and for population calls;
Her empty Northern Territory hath smiling emerald plains,
Her pasture land is waiting for the men who have the brains.
Oh! Mother of ours, thy children in thine island of the west
Will find a home through Britain’s shore in where their hearts may rest.
We know the name of Austral shines upon thy royal crown
And that with thine own glorious seal her deeds are written down;
And that Austral’s heart is loyal and is ever beating true,
And the women of her nation are not dreamers, but they do.
And their ever-marching army with intelligence will prove
That Australia is advancing in her work of peace and love.
Oh! Empire Mother, whom we love, we know thy greatest need
Is to teach thy sons to follow—where a little child may lead—

YOUTH AND AGE.

Though lovely youth seems far apart to lie
It treadeth ever on the heels of age;
A few delicious years of transient joy
Then turns the fly-leaf of life’s solemn page.

Some duties stern blent with the lessons meet
From nature’s wondrous garden of delight;
Fair meadows, where the gold-eyed marguerite
’Opes to the sun and prays, as we, at night.

Then comes a page of slowly dawning thought,
The alley-ways where wrong in painted guise
Rose-coloured, glows in filmy beauty wrought,
“’Tis then that calm reflection makes us wise.”

Again a leaf, and then life’s real intent,
Forceful with all its earnestness and pain,
Presents itself—but useless to lament
Past idle hours—Oh! waste them not again.

Youth and old age, twin destinies which sway
The human leaves; youth feeleth not the blast
But age though withered knoweth well that May
Must pass December’s threshold at the last.

We turn the leaf of this the longer page
By some as yet unfinished—let it stand
A volume of our hearts, while hoping age
Will lead us gently to the shadow land.