Oh, Mother Nature, beat thy breasts and weep
For him thine ardent lover gone to sleep!
Embrace in loving arms
Thy hierophant, the chanter of thy psalms!
He loved thy daedal forests; yes, he felt
That they were thine own temples, so he dwelt
Within them, dwelt with thee.
Great Mother, thou shouldst sing his elegy!
Ye sentinels of earth, ye hills that stand
'Tween earth and sky, like giants that command
The slopes to heaven, weep
For him, our late-voiced brother gone to sleep!
Ye winds, whose strong pulsations filled his rhymes
With varied cadences, that swelled to chimes
Or moved with stately tread
Like armies, wail for him, the harper dead!
In tears, ye Austral mothers, teach his name
And songs to all your little ones; the flame
That burnt within his breast
Should burn in theirs; he loved his country best.
Ye sturdy sons of energy, whose ways
Are cast among the backwoods, in his lays
He sang your hopes, our fears, Your daring deeds;
then weep, he claims your tears.
And thou, sweet Spring, he loved thee, bring soft showers,
And balmy airs, and amaranthine flow'rs,
And bursting blossoms throw
Upon his grave -- there let them ever blew.
Great Mother Nature, beat thy breats and weep
For him, thy lute-voiced lover gone to sleep!
Embrace in loving arms
Thy hierophant, the chanter of thy psalms!
First published in The Bulletin, 26 August 1882
Note: Henry Kendall died on 1st August, 1882, aged 43.
