A blanket low and leaden,
Though rent across the west,
Whose darkness seems to deaden
The brightest and the best;
A sunset white and staring
On cloud-wrecks far away --
And haggard house-walls glaring
A farewell to the day.
A light on tower and steeple,
Where sun no longer shines --
My people, Oh my people!
Rise up and read the signs!
Low looms the nearer high-line
(No sign of star or moon),
The horseman on the skyline
Rode hard this afternoon!
(Is he -- and who shall know it? --
The spectre of a scout?
The spirit of a poet,
Whose truths were met with doubt?
Who sought and who succeeded
In marking danger's track --
Whose warnings were unheeded
Till all the sky was black?)
It is a shameful story
For our young, generous home --
Without the rise and glory
We'd go as Greece and Rome.
Without the sacrifices
That make a nation's name,
The elder nation's vices
And luxuries we claim.
Grown vain without a conquest,
And sure without a fort,
And maddened in the one quest
For pleasure or for sport.
Self-blinded to our starkness
We'd fling the time away
To fight, half-armed, in darkness
Who should be armed to-day.
This song is for the city,
The city in its pride --
The coming time shall pity
And shield the countryside.
Shall we live in the present
Till fearful war-clouds loom,
And till the sullen peasant
Shall leave us to our doom?
Cloud-fortresses titanic
Along the western sky --
The tired, bowed mechanic
And pallid clerk flit by.
Lit by a light unhealthy --
The ghastly after-glare--
The veiled and goggled wealthy
Drive fast -- they know not where.
Night's sullen spirit rouses,
The darkening gables lour
From ugly four-roomed houses
Verandah'd windows glower;
The last long day-stare dies on
The scrub-ridged western side,
And round the near horizon
The spectral horsemen ride.
First published in The Bulletin, 25 October 1906
Though rent across the west,
Whose darkness seems to deaden
The brightest and the best;
A sunset white and staring
On cloud-wrecks far away --
And haggard house-walls glaring
A farewell to the day.
A light on tower and steeple,
Where sun no longer shines --
My people, Oh my people!
Rise up and read the signs!
Low looms the nearer high-line
(No sign of star or moon),
The horseman on the skyline
Rode hard this afternoon!
(Is he -- and who shall know it? --
The spectre of a scout?
The spirit of a poet,
Whose truths were met with doubt?
Who sought and who succeeded
In marking danger's track --
Whose warnings were unheeded
Till all the sky was black?)
It is a shameful story
For our young, generous home --
Without the rise and glory
We'd go as Greece and Rome.
Without the sacrifices
That make a nation's name,
The elder nation's vices
And luxuries we claim.
Grown vain without a conquest,
And sure without a fort,
And maddened in the one quest
For pleasure or for sport.
Self-blinded to our starkness
We'd fling the time away
To fight, half-armed, in darkness
Who should be armed to-day.
This song is for the city,
The city in its pride --
The coming time shall pity
And shield the countryside.
Shall we live in the present
Till fearful war-clouds loom,
And till the sullen peasant
Shall leave us to our doom?
Cloud-fortresses titanic
Along the western sky --
The tired, bowed mechanic
And pallid clerk flit by.
Lit by a light unhealthy --
The ghastly after-glare--
The veiled and goggled wealthy
Drive fast -- they know not where.
Night's sullen spirit rouses,
The darkening gables lour
From ugly four-roomed houses
Verandah'd windows glower;
The last long day-stare dies on
The scrub-ridged western side,
And round the near horizon
The spectral horsemen ride.
First published in The Bulletin, 25 October 1906
