July 2012 Archives

To Lucasta, Going to the Warres by Furnley Maurice

| No TrackBacks
Better the end of a thing
   Than the beginning thereof;
Farewell, you and caresses,
   Lavendered manners of love!
I'm for the burdens and stresses:
   Farewell, languid delays,
Pressed mouths pasturing,
   Poems of wondrous praise!

There's no mystery brooding
   Now on your excellent ways:
sunlight has gone from your hair,
   Stars have recalled your gaze.
You, though eternally fair,
   Lie at my heart like a stone,
All your ardor and mooding
   Ranged, exploited and known.

Better the end of a thing
   Than the beginning, my friend.
Better be patient than proud.
   Patience! Accept the end:
Scorn what your passion avowed.
   That was mere clamor and wail:
Pain is our stanchioning.
   Only irresolutes fail.

Not by a God-given light,
   Flaring on fates concealed --
Trial's the magic whereby
   Heights of our fate are revealed.
Stifle your heart should it cry,
   Hold your resentment at bay;
What is the word for to-night?
   Hate, hate and away.

Turn to lost things and forget
   When this spectre of wrong
Storms through a shattered defence,
   Lashes your flesh with a thong.
Moan your lost innocence --
   Love with ambition contending,
Love in its dying set,
   Stars at the highway's ending.

All that is sacred is named,
   Unknown regions are best,
Useless things I adore
   Trouble me, being possessed.
Taunt me with peace no more,
   Weary of home-fires tended,
These have left me ashamed,
   Yearning for ways unwended.

You have become too real,
   Love I so heavily rue.
All that has blossomed must die;
   Only illusion is true.
Uttered thought is a lie,
   Love, acknowledged, a snare;
In this dusk I will steal
   Out to I know not where.

Better the placid sea-love
   Than the cities of haste.
Better revolt than retract.
   Better be blasted than waste;
Better the dream than the fact,
   Illusions can seldom change.
Dreamers in strangeness move
   Knowing nothing is strange.

First published in The Bulletin, 31 July 1924

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Wattle Day Musings by Myra M. Campbell

| No TrackBacks
They say our wealth lies wasted,
   Our weal has ceased to be;
I doubt it much this morning,
   Beneath my Wattle Tree!

Our land has still her sunshine,
   Her blossom-scented breeze,
Her wheatfields and her goldfields,
   Her "Heritage of Trees."

A murmur of contentment,
   Comes from the cooing dove;   
The Wattle-gold's about me,
   And Heaven is still above!  

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 30 July 1932

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

Love of Liberty by Henry Parkes

| No TrackBacks
Earth's guardian minds in every age have hymn'd
Thy praise, O Liberty, in words of fire;
Enkindling, as thy genius will'd desire
Of thine immortal honours all ndimm'd
In their unroused compatriots. Death begrimm'd
By Bigotry's devices, -- living pyre,
Slow waste of life in dungeons, rackings dire,
May crush the goodly-form'd and lusty limb'd,
But touch not love of liberty. So well
Art thou beloved of all who once feel free!
What other cause had nerved the patriot Tell?
Made the three hundred of Thermopylae?
And oh, may love of thee for ever dwell
In the bold Briton's heart, though poorest he!

First published in The Weekly Register of Politics, Facts and General Literature, 29 July 1843;
and later in
The Empire, 12 April 1851; and
Murmurs of the Stream by Henry Parkes, 1857.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

"Son and Heir" by Mary Hannay Foott

| No TrackBacks
"He is like my father," Aunt Madge declared,
   As she bent o'er the baby's face;
"He will be" --- (with the air of a prophetess) ---
   "The flower of a handsome race!"
"He is like my father," said Uncle John;
   "Yes, the youngster has just his head!
Ah, I only wish I'd a five-pound note
   For every book he's read!"
But the baby's mother sat pale and still,
And she thought to herself "He is just like Will."   
"There's a look of my mother, too," said Madge.
   "And of mine, I am sure," said John,
"She sang like a seraph!" -- "So small her shoes
   No one else could have put them on!"   
Thus, branch by branch, through the family tree,
   Went each of the kin who came,   
As they dwelt on the brave and the beautiful,
   On riches, and rank, and fame.
And they "hoped dear Baby" high place might fill,  
Yet nobody seemed to remember Will.

But Nellie delivered her soul at last:
   "I have hopes of our son," said she,   
"Although he should 'take after' never a one   
   Of all you have named to me.
From brass and vellum the tales you bring
   Of the fearless and of the fair,   
But his record who rests in the Austral wilds
   Should be set with the proudest there."
The words were bold, but there ran a thrill
Of pain through her voice-though she named not Will.

"The sun of the South had bronzed his cheek,
   And his hands were chafed with toil --
Yet the spirit of heroes was ever his,
   And his soul was free from soil.
He has given to the wilderness water-springs,
   To the forest dank the day;
And the world is the better for evermore
   For him who has passed away.
And I pray that his son may but fulfil
His duty so!" --- (Could you hear her, Will?)    

First published in The Queenslander, 28 July 1888

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Old Qld Poetry

See also.

July by Zora Cross

| No TrackBacks
July is like a lovely Spanish maid.
   Beneath the lemon-tree I saw her stand,
   Her arched foot poised; within her slender hand
The singing castanets with which she played.
Her grass-brown skirt was full, and, as she stayed,
   Robins flashed red across the yellow land;
   And all the willow boughs at her command
Changed into golden shawls their lace of jade.

She passed at dusk. I watched her turn and dance
   Among the violets, the while she drew
      My cold, reluctant soul into her dream,
Softly, seductive, of a Cid's romance...
    Now, from Night's skies of clear Castilian blue,
      Through lattices of stars her dark eyes gleam.

First published in The Bulletin, 27 July 1922

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of BiographyOld Qld Poetry

See also.

Contrast by Kathleen Dalziel

| No TrackBacks
There, the long twilight glimmers to its close
   In mothy meadows, and bordered lanes that lie
Between the elms and blossoming hedgerows,
   Beneath an English sky.

Twilights of long ago, the lingering hours
   Of starry Junes, amid the gathering dew.
So distant now, it seems they were not ours,
   But some one's that we knew.

Here, the warm fragrance of the eucalypt
   Blows, and the rounded skyline rolls away
Into blue distance, in gold sunshine dipped,
   The long Australian day.

And then, so suddenly it almost tricks
   The senses, the low sun has slipped from sight.
An unseen lance of instant darkness pricks
   The bubble of the day, and it is night.

First published in The Brisbane Courier, 26 July 1930

Author reference site: Austlit

See also

A Lay of the North by George Essex Evans

| No TrackBacks
Where the blue M'Kinlay Mountains stretch their wide majestic girth,   
Locking in their bosoms treasures time and progress shall unearth!
Far within their rocky fastness in a ravine wild and steep,
Breathing softly as an infant, lay a miner fast asleep.
He had travelled many a district searching for the precious ore.
Many a hardship, many a failure, had he braved and borne before;   
Now the fickle Goddess Fortune frowned no more upon her slave.
But, with fair and smiling features, what he long had sought forgave.
There within his grasp lay riches, wealth beyond his utmost hope;
There she placed no stern obstructions for his energy to cope;
In a few days he could gather what would bring him wealth and ease.
Then good-bye to Northern Queensland--hey for home across the seas!
So he slept: and in his dreaming he was home again once more.
Home again in Merry England, standing at his father's door.   
Now they cluster all around him--old friends grasp him by the hand,
Then the teardrops from his eyelids trickled fast upon the sand

. . . . . . .

Where the blue Mackinlay Mountains stand like sentinels alway,   
In a gorge within their fastness, still the murdered miner lay;   
In the search for wealth and treasure, after toilings, after strife.  
He had lost a gem far purer -- lost the precious stone of life.
Still he lay -- his fixed eyes staring upwards at the starry skies;
Blood for blood --- his blood appealing for the vengeance Heaven denies;
All around him stretch the mountains, and o'er head the azure height,
And for shroud kind Nature wrapped him in the mantle of the night.
At that home in Merry England, at the porch beside the door,
They are waiting, they are watching, but they ne'er will see him more;
Hope is buoyant, hope is stronger than the marshalled host of fears,
But hope deferred is agony and bitterness and tears.

First published in The Queenslander, 25 July 1885

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also

Trees in Mist by L. H. Allen

| No TrackBacks
Light winds across the upper heaven race,
Driving their clouds edged with a herald ray
Over the hlll-crest where the dawn-fires play,
Golden and red, in trembling interlace.

Within the cup that skirts the mountain-base
The mist is gathered in a swathe of grey,  
That stretches undulous 'neath the coming day,  
Until it hides the plain-land's dewy face.

Slow-wreathing like a chill benumbing foam,  
It drifts o'er all the hollow till it seems
A silver silence 'neath a clarion blue.

And now it parts and bares a noble dome,
Great trees in hooded conclave of old dreams,
Deepening with secrecy each sombre hue.   

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 24 July 1932

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Wattle by Walter D. White

| No TrackBacks
See the splendour far unrolled
Of the glorious wattle gold;
Hear the west wind idly sighing;
And the ibis flighting, crying;
Watch the opal twilight dying.
Where the tall trees, brave and old,
Stand embowered in swaying gold;
All the wayward winds that blow,
All the elves and fairies know
Where the golden wattles grow!

In the Northland, in the Southland,
In the Eastland and the Westland;
In the heat and in the cold,
See the wonder far unrolled
Of the trailing wattle gold:
Sun-kissed blossoms, softly falling,
Out where mighty hills are calling --
Wondrous pageant here on earth,
Miracle that called to birth
Flowers so graceful, rich and true
'Neath the arching dome of blue!  

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 23 July 1932

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

Black Swans by A. B."Banjo" Paterson

| No TrackBacks
As I lie at rest on a patch of clover
In the Western Park when the day is done,
I watch as the wild black swans fly over
With their phalanx turned to the sinking sun;
And I hear the clang of their leader crying
To a lagging mate in the rearward flying,
And they fade away in the darkness dying,
Where the stars are mustering one by one.

Oh! ye wild black swans, 'twere a world of wonder
For a while to join in your westward flight,
With the stars above and the dim earth under,
Through the cooling air of the glorious night.
As we swept along on our pinions winging,
We should catch the chime of a church-bell ringing,
Or the distant note of a torrent singing,
Or the far-off flash of a station light.

From the northern lakes with the reeds and rushes,
Where the hills are clothed with a purple haze,
Where the bell-birds chime and the songs of thrushes
Make music sweet in the jungle maze,
They will hold their course to the westward ever,
Till they reach the banks of the old grey river,
Where the waters wash, and the reed-beds quiver
In the burning heat of the summer days.

Oh! ye strange wild birds, will ye bear a greeting
To the folk that live in that western land?
Then for every sweep of your pinions beating,
Ye shall bear a wish to the sunburnt band,
To the stalwart men who are stoutly fighting
With the heat and drought and the dust-storm smiting,
Yet whose life somehow has a strange inviting,
When once to the work they have put their hand.

Facing it yet!  Oh, my friend stout-hearted,
What does it matter for rain or shine,
For the hopes deferred and the gain departed?
Nothing could conquer that heart of thine.
And thy health and strength are beyond confessing
As the only joys that are worth possessing.
May the days to come be as rich in blessing
As the days we spent in the auld lang syne.

I would fain go back to the old grey river,
To the old bush days when our hearts were light,
But, alas! those days they have fled for ever,
They are like the swans that have swept from sight.
And I know full well that the strangers' faces
Would meet us now in our dearest places;
For our day is dead and has left no traces
But the thoughts that live in my mind to-night.

There are folk long dead, and our hearts would sicken --
We would grieve for them with a bitter pain,
If the past could live and the dead could quicken,
We then might turn to that life again.
But on lonely nights we would hear them calling,
We should hear their steps on the pathways falling,
We should loathe the life with a hate appalling
In our lonely rides by the ridge and plain.

     .    .    .    .    .

In the silent park is a scent of clover,
And the distant roar of the town is dead,
And I hear once more as the swans fly over
Their far-off clamour from overhead.
They are flying west, by their instinct guided,
And for man likewise is his fate decided,
And griefs apportioned and joys divided
By a mighty power with a purpose dread.

First published
in The Sydney Mail, 22 July 1893;
and later in
The Man From Snowy River and Other Verses by A.B. Paterson, 1895;
An Anthology of Australian Verse edited by Bertram Stevens, 1907;
The Golden Treasury of Australian Verse edited by Bertram Stevens, 1909;
Silence Into Song: An Anthology of Australian Verse edited by Clifford O'Brien, 1968;
The Collected Verse of A.B. Paterson by A.B. Paterson, 1982;
Singer of the Bush, A.B. (Banjo) Paterson: Complete Works 1885-1900 compiled by Rosamund Campbell and Philippa Harvie, 1983;
Cross-Country: A Book of Australian Verse edited by John Barnes and Brian McFarlane, 1984;
Banjo Paterson's Poems of the Bush by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson, 1987;
The Banjo's Best-Loved Poems edited by Rosamund Campbell and Philippa Harvie, 1989;
A Vision Splendid: The Complete Poetry of A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson by A.B. Paterson, 1990;
A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson: Bush Ballads, Poems, Stories and Journalism edited by Clement Semmler, 1992;
The Collected Verse of Banjo Paterson edited by Clement Semmler, 1993; and
Banjo Paterson: His Poetry and Prose compiled by Richard Hall, 1993.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

Winter by William Main

| No TrackBacks
The piercing cold winds blow o'er paddocks brown and bare;
Leaner and leaner grow the stock on winter fare;
The ribs of horses show 'neath rough coats void of sheen
As on they vainly go searching for grasses green.
The earth now takes her rest, till sounds the voice of Spring;
The cold winds from the West but fleeting sadness bring.
But sadness from my heart no Spring will e'er remove;
Summer is but a part of winter, O my love!
If I ne'er see again the love-light in your eyes
The sun shines all in vain in blue unclouded skies;
Cold shall my heart remain till life within me dies.

First published in The Queenslander, 21 July 1894

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

Allegory by Mary Corringham

| No TrackBacks
I sought her in the busy whirl of light
That is a city's very breath of being;
After now this, now that, gay phantom fleeing,
Till so much splendour dazzled my poor sight.
I thought to find her clad in robes so bright
That I could never pass her by unseeing;
And other seekers, all in thought agreeing,
Were blind to her -- so simply gowned in white.
Not in loud music, leading dancing feet,
But in low bird-calls on a peaceful eve;
Not in gay concourses where idlers meet,
But in some corner soothing hearts that grieve --
Where tears, as well as transient joy, abide
Shall I find pleasure walking by my side.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 20 July 1929

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

The Man God by Charles Harpur

| No TrackBacks
A Man of Sorrows, and with Grief acquainted,
   He bowed his beauteous head to the rude hands
      Of Pilate's hireling bands;
And while beneath their cruel scourge he fainted,
   Yet loved them -- he, the heaven-descended Dove!
      Even with a Brother's love.

And when upon the infamous Cross they nailed him,
   With Hatred's mockery, and Scorn's bitter smile,
      Even then he cried, the while
Nature's extremest Agony assailed him, --
   Father, thy mercy even for These renew!
      They know not what they do.

And why, thus scorned and shamed, did he then trample
   Such natural indignation down, as now
      Pains, while we read, our brow?
That Brotherly Love, perfected by example,
   Might crucify that emnity in men
      Which crucified it then.

First published in The Weekly Register of Politics, Facts and General Literature, 19 July 1845;
and later in
The Maitland Mercury and Hunter River General Advertiser, 8 July 1846;
The Empire, 19 March 1858; and
The Poetical Works of Charles Harpur edited by Elizabeth Perkins, 1984.

Note: this poem is also known by the title "Ecco Homo".

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

The Battle of the Wazzir by C.J. Dennis

| No TrackBacks
If ole Pharaoh, King of Egyp', 'ad been gazin' on the scene
   'E'd' ave give the A.I.F. a narsty name
When they done their little best to scrub 'is dirty Kingdom clean,
   An' to shift 'is ancient 'eap uv sin an' shame.
An' I'm tippin' they'd 'ave phenyled 'im, an' rubbed it in 'is 'ead.
But old Pharaoh, King uv Egyp', 'e is dead.

So yeh don't 'ear much about it; an' it isn't meant yeh should,
   Since 'is Kingship wasn't there to go orf pop;
An' this mishunery effort fer to make the 'eathen good
   Wus a contract that the fellers 'ad to drop.
There wus other pressin' matters, so they 'ad to chuck the fun,
But the Battle uv the Wazzir took the bun.

Now, Ginger Mick 'e writes to me a long, ixcited note,
   An' 'e writes it in a whisper, so to speak;
Fer I guess the Censor's shadder wus across 'im as 'e wrote,
   An' 'e 'ad to bottle things that musn't leak.
So I ain't got orl the strength uv it; but sich as Ginger sends
I rejooce to decent English fer me friends.

It wus part their native carelessness, an' part their native skite;
   Fer they kids themselves they know the Devil well,
'Avin' met 'im, kind uv casu'l, on some wild Australian night-
   Wine an' women at a secon'-rate 'otel.
But the Devil uv Australia 'e's a little woolly sheep
To the devils wot the desert children keep.

So they mooches round the drink-shop's, an' the Wazzir took their eye,
   An' they found old Pharoah's daughters pleasin' Janes;
An' they wouldn't be Australian 'less they give the game a fly ...
   An' Egyp' smiled an' totted up 'is gains.
'E doped their drinks, an' breathed on them 'is aged evil breath ...
An' more than one woke up to long fer death.

When they wandered frum the newest an' the cleanest land on earth,
   An' the filth uv ages met 'em, it wus 'ard.
Fer there may be sin an' sorrer in the country uv their birth;
   But the dirt uv cenchuries ain't in the yard.
They wus children, playin' wiv an asp, an' never fearin' it,
An' they took it very sore when they wus bit.

First, they took the tales fer furphies.. when they got around the camp,
   Uv a cove done in fer life wiv one night's jag,
But when the yarns grew 'ot an' strong an' bore the 'all-mark stamp
   Uv dinkum oil, they waved the danger flag.
An' the shudder that a clean man feels when 'e's su'prized wiv dirt
Gripped orl the camp reel solid; an' it 'urt.

There wus Bill from up the Billabong, 'oo's dearest love wus cow,
   An' 'oo lived an' thought an' fought an' acted clean.
'E wus lately frum 'is mother wiv 'er kiss wet on 'is brow;
   But they snared 'im in, an' did 'im up reel mean.
Fer young Bill, wus gone a million, an' 'e never guessed the game...
For 'e's down in livin' 'ell, an' marked fer sbame.

An' Bill wus only one uv 'em to fall to Eastern sin
   Ev'ry comp'ny 'ad a rotten tale to tell,
An' there must be somethin' doin' when the strength uv it sunk in
   To a crowd that ain't afraid to clean up 'ell.
They wus game to take a gamble; but this dirt dealt to a mate --
Well, it riled 'em; an' they didn't 'esitate.

'Ave 'yeh seen a crowd uv fellers takin' chances 'on a game,
   Crackin' 'ard while they thought it on the square?
'Ave yeh 'eard their owl uv anguish when they tumbled to the same,
   'Avin' found they wus the victums uv a snare?
It wus jist that sort uv anger when they fell to Egyp's stunt;
An', remember, they wus trainin' fer the front.

I 'ave notions uv the Wazzir.  It's as old as Pharaoh's tomb;
   It's as cunnin' as the oldest imp in 'ell;
An' the game it plays uv lurin' blokes, wiv love-songs, to their doom
   Wus begun when first a tart 'ad smiles to sell.
An' it stood there thro' the ages; an' it might be standin' still
If it 'adn't bumped a clean cove, name o' Bill.

An' they done it like they done it when a word went to the push
   That a nark 'oo'd crooled a pal wus run to ground.
They done it like they done it when the blokes out in the bush
   Passed a telegraft that cops wus nosin' round.
There wus no one rung a fire-bell, but the tip wus passed about;
An' they fixed a night to clean the Wazzir out.

Yes, I've notions uv the Wazzir.  It's been pilin' up its dirt
   Since it mated wiv the Devil in year One,
An' spawned a brood uv evil things to do a man a 'urt
   Since the lurk uv snarin' innercents begun.
But it's sweeter an' it's cleaner since one wild an' woolly night
When the little A.I.F. put up a fight.

Now, it started wiv some 'orseplay.  If the 'eads 'ad seen the look,
   Dead in earnest, that wus underneath the fun,
They'd 'ave tumbled there wus somethin' that wus more than commin crook,
   An' 'ave stopped the game before it 'arf begun.
But the fellers larfed like school-boys, tbo' they orl wus more than narked,
An' they 'ad the 'ouses well an' truly marked.

Frum a little crazy balkiney that clawed agin a wall
   A chair come crasbin' down into the street;
Then a woman's frightened screamin' give the sign to bounce the ball,
   An' there came a sudden rush uv soljers' feet.
There's a glimpse uv frightened faces as a door caved in an' fell;
An' the Wazzir wus a 'owlin' screamin' 'ell.

Frum a winder 'igh above 'em there's a bloke near seven feet,
   Waves a bit uv naked Egyp' in the air.
An' there's squealin' an' there's shriekin' as they chased 'em down the street,
   When they dug 'em out like rabbits frum their lair.
Then down into the roadway gaudy 'ouse'old gods comes fast,
An' the Wazzir's Great Spring Cleanin' starts at last.

Frum the winders came pianners an' some giddy duchess pairs;
   An' they piled 'em on the roadway in the mire,
An' 'eaped 'em 'igh wiv fal-de-rals an' pretty parlor chairs,
   Which they started in to purify wiv fire.
Then the Redcaps come to argue, but they jist amused the mob;
Fer the scavengers wus warmin' to their job.

When the fire-reels come to quell 'em-'struth! they 'ad no bloomin' 'ope;
   Fer they cut the 'ose to ribbons in a jiff;
An' they called u'pon tbe drink-shops an' poured out their rotten dope,
   While the nigs 'oo didn't run wus frightened stiff.
An' when orb wus done an' over, an' they wearied uv the strife,
That old Wazzir'd 'ad the scourin' uv its life.

Now, old Gin er ain't quite candid; 'e don't say where 'e came in;
   But 'e mentions that'e don't get no C.B.,
An' 'e's 'ad some pretty practice dodgin' punishment fer sin
   Down in Spadger's since 'is early infancy.
So I guess, if they went after 'im, they found 'im snug in bed.
Fer old Ginger 'as a reel tactician's 'ead.

An' 'e sez that when 'e wandered down the Wazzir later on
   It wus like a 'ome where 'oliness reposed;
Fer its sinfulness wus 'idden, an' its brazenness wus gone,
   An' its doors, wiv proper modesty, wus closed.
If a 'ead looked out a winder, as they passed, it quick drew in;
Fer the Wazzir wus a wowser, scared from sin.

If old Pharaoh, King uv Egyp', 'e 'ad lived to see the day
   When they tidied up 'is 'eap uv shame an' sin,
Well, 'e mighter took it narsty, fer our fellers 'ave a way
   Uv completin' any job that they begin.
An' they might 'ave left 'is Kingship nursin' gravel-rash in bed...
But old Pharaoh, King uv Egyp', 'e is dead.

First published in The Bulletin, 18 July 1918;
and later in
The Making of a Sentimental Bloke: A Sketch of the Remarkable Career of C.J. Dennis by Alec H. Chisholm, 1963.

Author reference sites: C.J. Dennis, Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

Lost by M. Burkinshaw (Mabel Forrest)

| No TrackBacks
      Out into the mist,
Alone in the shadows that darken the vale,
With no heed the heart voice too broken to wail,
      The lips that I kissed!

      How cold and how still
The round baby limbs and the cheeks and the brow!
Is this waxen image all left to me now
      To fondle at will?

      Two years thou wert mine,
To scold and to clasp and to rock in my arms ---
Those sweet curling fingers, those rose-tinted palms,
      Those dimples of thine.

      No one was so near
As the mother who loved thee, yet dreaded to love,
Lest God should grow jealous, and bend from above,
      And find thee as dear.

      It was all in vain ---
The fates that I cheated, the prayers that I prayed.
Thou hast strayed in the darkness, mine own little maid,
      And I find not again.

First published in The Queenslander, 17 July 1897

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Daley's Dorg by W.T Goodge

| No TrackBacks
"You can talk about yer sheep dorgs," said the man from Allan's Creek,
   "But I know a dorg that simply knocked 'em bandy! --
Do whatever you would show him, and you'd hardly need to speak;
   Owned by Daley, drover cove in Jackandandy.

"We was talkin' in the parlour, me and Daley, quiet like,
   When a blow-fly starts a-buzzin' round the ceilin',
Up gets Daley, and he says to me, 'You wait a minute, Mike,
   And I'll show you what a dorg he is at heelin'.'

"And an empty pickle-bottle was a-standin' on the shelf,
   Daley takes it down and puts it on the table,
And he bets me drinks that blinded dorg would do it by himself -
   And I didn't think as how as he was able!

"Well, he shows the dorg the bottle, and he points up to the fly,
   And he shuts the door, and says to him -- 'Now Wattle!'
And in less than fifteen seconds, spare me days, it ain't a lie,
   That there dorg had got that insect in the bottle."

First published
in The Bulletin, 16 July 1898, and again in the same magazine on 24 June 1899, 27 December 1983 and 24 December 1985;
and later in
From the Ballads to Brennan edited by T. Inglis Moore,  1964;
The Penguin Book of Australian Humorous Verse edited by Bill Scott, 1984; and
Old Ballads from the Bush edited by Bill Scott, 1987.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

To a School-Girl by John Shaw Neilson

| No TrackBacks
O most unconscious daisy!
Thou daybreak of a joy!
Whose eyes invade the impassioned man
In every wayside boy.

Can I, walled in by Autumn,
With buoyant things agree?
Speak all my heart to a daisy
If one should smile at me?

Out of the Summer fallen,
Can I of Summer sing?
Call that I love on the deep yellow
Between me and the Spring?

First published in Bookfellow, 15 July 1921;
and later in
Collected Poems of John Shaw Neilson edited by R.H. Croll, 1934;
From the Ballads to Brennan edited by T. Inglis Moore, 1964;
John Shaw Neilson: Poetry, Autobiography and Correspondence edited by Cliff Hanna, 1991; and
Selected Poems edited by Robert Gray, 1993.

Note: this poem is also known by the title "To a School-Girl in Her Fourteenth Year".

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

The Birth of Music by Emily Coungeau

| No TrackBacks
Once, in the dawning of the splendid years,
When Fauns and Satyrs haunted woods at night,
Where deep arboreal vistas arched away
To spangled glades, and nymphs would, on tiptoe,
Dance graceful rhythms beneath the moon's soft glow,
Invisible, unheard by mortal ears,
A Spirit hid... As leaves absorb the light,
And never really die. . . It dormant lay.

He whispered to the trees with lips of fire,
Lord of the blue, domed hall .. the poet Wind
Faint, fingered, trembling, he would softly pour
Adoring passion in a minor key.
Till, like a bud that flowers impetuously,
Responsive to the breath of warm desire...
The sleeping Soul of Music woke, to find
Its magic spell would live for evermore.

And Thraeian Orpheus made the Spirit sing,
Charming the serpents wound about his feet;
And fair, frail Sappho in her Lesbian shrine,
Reeking eternal yonth at Music's fount...
Framing her lyrics on that Leucan mount...
Touched chords that down time's corridor still ring,
Though faint the echoes and the incense sweet,
She was the Muse who fanned the flame divine.

Music, the bay-crowned, of the golden tongue,
Falling in soft, celestial dews around,
A new inheritance, yet old as Time ...
The Chrysalis, whence comes seraphic wings,
To bear the spirit's sweet imaginings,
Past the supernal maze where stars are hung,
To bathe in waves of multi-coloured sound,
And melt with beauty into the Sublime.

First published in The Brisbane Courier, 14 July 1923

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

The Sapphire Mountain by Dulcie Deamer

| No TrackBacks
What of the worlds within the soul?
   A poet has said that strand and lea
Are but, as it were, a pictured scroll
   Of the glowing earth and the chanting sea.
That blue-grey hill in a sun-washed sky
   Is only a painted shadow thrown
By a sapphire mountain, hero-high,
   That my stripped spirit must scale alone.
Naked, unshod, and spear in hand,
   Up to the snows where the god-folk dwell,
It must pass from the valley-land,
   And heights hold Heaven, and depths hold Hell.
The organ-note of eternal seas
   Rolls in music on golden winds,
Strange fruits strengthen the slackening knees.
   Flame 'o the sun is a sword that blinds.
What if I climb the hills that seem --
   Conning this curious pictured scroll?
Empty the labour as in a dream --
   The sapphire mountain's within my soul!

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 13 July 1935

Author: Mary Elizabeth Kathleen Dulcie Deamer (1890-1972) was born in Christchurch, New Zealand, and joined a touring theatrical company in 1908. She married in Perth that same year and toured the Far East as an actor.  She separated from her husband in 1922 and settled in Sydney, where she remained until her death in 1972. She published 6 novels, 3 poetry collections, 3 short story collections and wrote 9 plays.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

The Song of the Grey Water by Ella McFadyen

| No TrackBacks
No man's step on the threshold, nor voice of him returning,
   Bar out the fear, the shadow -- thus lonely nights have taught her.
Oh, see the cradle rocking, and smell the drift fire burning,
   And hear a woman singing the song of the grey water.

Not when in rifted saffron, the prisoned day is breaking,
   Behind the eastward ranges, a winter dawning cold,
And fretted channel water foretells the wind awaking,
   Not when the mists are winding across the morning gold.

Not when, with sleep-dipped fingers, her chain of silence linking,
   The still sea for her mirror, slow slides the listening noon,
With lazy weeds awashing, and long green drinking,
   The sleepy shadows slipping beneath the leaves aswoon.

Not when with she-oaks droning like task-tired children singing,
   And shoreward steals a sea wind, brine gathered, blowing cool,
Not when, from leafy vantage, blue pinioned, potent, flinging,
   Amongst the shoaling silver death darts upon the pool.

But when the dry bark rustles along the forest dying,
   Through scarfed and peeling branches the night winds sough and fret.
Oh, leagues of lonely water, grey leagues beyond you living.
   What is it you have taken in years that I forget?

The voice of wind and water, like step and stumbling start is,
   And voices hushed and humbled, of those that bear the dead.
The fear of grey water in every woman's heart is,
   As one that hath a treasure, and wakes at night for dread.

No man's step on the threshold, nor voice of him returning.
   Bar out the fear, the shadow -- thus lonely nights have taught her.
Oh, see the cradle rocking, and smell the drift fire burning,
   And hear a woman singing the song of the grey water.

First published
in The Sydney Mail, 12 July 1911;
and later in
Outland Born and Other Verses by Ella McFadyen, 1911

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

Night Piece by Christopher Brennan

| No TrackBacks
The yellow gas is fired from street to street
   Past rows of heartless homes and hearths unlit,
Dead churches, and the unending pavement beat
   By crowds (say, rather, haggard shades that flit

Round nightly haunts of their delusive dream
   Where'er our paradisal instinct starves)
Till on the utmost post, its sinuous gleam
   Crawls in the oily water of the wharves,

Where Homer's sea loses his keen breath, hemm'd
   What place rebellious piles were driven down:
The priest-like waters to this task condemn'd
   To wash the roots of the inhuman town!

Where fat and strange-eyed fish that never saw
   The outer deep, broad halls of sapphire light,
Glut in the city's draught each nameless maw:
   And there, wide-eyed unto the soulless night,

Methinks a drown'd maid's face might fitly show
   What we have slain, a life that had been free,
Clean, large, nor thus tormented - even so
   As are the skies, the salt winds and the sea.

Ay, we had saved our days and kept them whole,
   To whom no part in our old joy remains --
Had felt those bright winds sweeping thro' our soul
   And all the keen sea tumbling in our veins;

Thrill'd to the harps of sunrise, when the height
   Whitens, and dawn dissolves in virgin tears;
Or caught, across the hush'd ambrosial night,
   The choral music of the swinging spheres;

Or drunk the silence, if nought else -- But no!
   And from each rotting soul distils in dreams
A poison, o'er the old earth creeping slow,
   That kills the flowers and curdles the live streams,

That taints the fresh breath of re-risen day
   And reeks across the pale bewildered moon...
Shall we be cleans'd and how?  I only pray,
   Red flame or deluge, may that end be soon!

First published in The Bulletin, 11 July 1896 and again in the same magazine on 28 August 1897;
and later in
The Golden Treasury of Australian Verse edited by Bertram Stevens, 1909;
The Verse of Christopher Brennan edited by A.R. Chisholm and John Joseph Quinn, 1960';
Poems [1913] by Christopher Brennan, 1972;
Selected Poems edited by G.A. Wilkes, 1973;
Christopher Brennan edited by Terry Sturm, 1984;
My Country: Australian Poetry and Short Stories, Two Hundred Years edited by Leonie Kramer, 1985;
The Macmillan Anthology of Australian Literature edited by Ken L. Goodwin and Alan Lawson, 1990;
The Penguin Book of 19th Century Australian Literature edited by Michael Ackland, 1993;
Australian Verse: An Oxford Anthology edited by John Leonard, 1998;
Our Country: Classic Australian Poetry: From the Colonial Ballads to Paterson & Lawson edited by Michael Cook, 2004; and
The Puncher & Wattmann Anthology of Australian Poetry edited by John Leonard, 2009.

Note: this poem is also known by the titles "Cities" and "The Yellow Gas".

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library

See also.

The Rouseabout by C. Walker Chandler

| No TrackBacks
I'm picking up wool in a shearing shed,
   Lincoln, and Cross, and Merino bred,
Then spreading it out as quick as can be,
   Just for the "tony" Classer to see.

They've emptied the paddocks into the yard,
   (Sheep can't get away with dogs on guard)
And soon they'll be hurried into the pen,
   Then on to the "board" and out again.

I would like to think that after I die,
   I could spread my fleeces across the sky,
And be turning the dark clouds inside out,
   Just like a heavenly Rouse-about.

First published
in The Sydney Morning Herald, 10 July 1926

Author: Charles Walker Chandler (1894-1971) was born in London and died in New Zealand.  beyond this nothing is known about this author.

Author reference site: Austlit

Dreams, Empty Dreams by F. Bennett

| No TrackBacks
I ponder the problem of Being
   As onward the good steamer goes,
Each billow seems big with a secret
   'Tis bursting its breast to disclose.

It heaves up a green, swollen bosom --
   When it bursts what shall then be revealed?
The answer to Life's dark Enigma?
   The key to a mystery sealed?

The form of a loved one long buried
   And jealously kept from our eyes
Where, dotted with coral for headstones,
   A submarine "God's acre" lies?

I lean out with startled eyes staring,
   I crane from the netting above,
For there, gazing fixedly upward,
   I see the gray eyes of my Love!   

Say, is it the thoughts of the absent
   That shine in my wondering eyes,
And mirror themselves in the ocean,
   In billows that swellingly rise?

The propeller has churned it to chaos,
   The picture is lost from my sight
To form in the next swelling greenness
   And die in the screw-tortured white.

It fails, and, despairing, drops downward,
   Its foam hides both secret and key,
I, thoughtful, return to my cabin ---
   The billow drives on o'er the sea.

I'll weary no more o'er the problem,
   The creeds and the theories crude;
Expectations they raise like the billow,
   And tantalise but to delude.

Like Man, o'er an Infinite Ocean,
   The billows have tirelessly pressed.
May he, like the waves, find a coastline,
   A margin, a haven, a Rest!  

First published
in The Queenslander, 9 July 1898

Author: Frederick Bennett was a teacher in Queensland in the 1890s and was appointed headmaster of Toowong State School in 1909 where he remained until he retired in 1934.

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

Borderland by Henry Lawson

| No TrackBacks
I am back from up the country -- very sorry that I went --
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent;
I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track --
Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back.
Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast,
But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast --
Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town
Drinking beer and lemon squashes, taking baths and cooling down.

Sunny plains! Great Scot! -- those burning wastes of barren soil and sand
With their everlasting fences strecthing out across the land!
Desolation where the crow is! Desert! where the eagle flies,
Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with redden'd eyes;
Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers creep
Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling sheep.
Stunted "peak" of granite gleaming, glaring! like a molten mass
Turned, from some infernal furnace, on a plain devoid of grass.

Miles and miles of thirsty gutters -- strings of muddy waterholes
In the place of "shining rivers" (walled by cliffs and forest boles).
"Range!" of ridges, gullies, ridges, barren! where the madden'ed flies --
Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt -- swarm about your blighted eyes!
Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees
Nothing. Nothing! but the madding sameness of the stunted trees!
Lonely hut where drought's eternal -- suffocating atmosphere --
Where the God forgotten hatter dreams of citylife and beer.

Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger, endless roads that gleam and glare,
Dark and evil-looking gullies -- hiding secrets here and there!
Dull, dumb flats and stony "rises," where the bullocks sweat and bake,
And the sinister "gohanna," and the lizard, and the snake.
Land of day and night -- no morning freshness, and no afternoon,
For the great, white sun in rising brings with him the heat of noon.
Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall
From the sad, heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum, worst of all.

Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that drift
O'er the busman like a blanket that the Lord will never lift --
Dismal land when it is raining -- growl of floods and oh! the "woosh"
Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the bush --
Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are pil'd
In the rain-swept windernesses that are wildest of the wild.

Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like men,
Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again --
Homes of men! if homes had ever such a God-forgotten place,
Where the wild selector's children fly before a stranger's face.
Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes' dismal yell,
Heaven of the shanty-keeper -- fitting fiend for such a hell --
And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the "curlew's call" --
And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward thro' it all!

I am back from up the country -- up the country where I went
Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent;
I have left a lot of broken idols out along the track,
Burnt a lot of fancy verses -- and I'm glad that I am back --
I believe the Southern poet's dream will not be realised
Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised.
I intend to stay at present -- as I said before -- in town
Drinking beer and lemon-squashes -- taking baths and cooling down.

First published in The Bulletin, 8 July 1892;
and later in
In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses by Henry Lawson, 1900;
Humorous Verses by Henry Lawson, 1941;
The World of Henry Lawson edited by Walter Stone, 1974;
The Collins Book of Australian Poetry compiled by Rodney Hall, 1981;
Cross-Country: A Book of Australian Verse edited by John Barnes, 1984;
A Camp-Fire Yarn: Henry Lawson Complete Works 1885-1900 edited by Leonard Cronin, 1984;
The Penguin Book of Australian Satirical Verse edited by Philip Neilsen, 1986;
The Penguin Book of Australian Ballads edited by Elizabeth Webby and Philip Butterss, 1993;
Australian Verse: An Oxford Anthology edited by John Leonard, 1998; and
The Puncher & Wattmann Anthology of Australian Poetry edited by John Leonard, 2009.

Note: this poem is also known by the title "Up the Country".

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography, Australian Poetry Library, The Poetry of Henry Lawson website

See also.

Beyond His Jurisdiction by Harry "Breaker" Morant

| No TrackBacks
It was a Western manager, and a language man was he;
Thus spoke he to the shed-boss: "Send 'The Rager' round to me;
I'll hie me to the office, where I'll write his crimson cheque,
Bid him roll his dusty swag up, or I'll break his no-good neck."

So when the bell was ringing -- when "smoke-oh!" time was o'er,
Says the shed-boss: "Mick, your services are wanted here no more."
Then "The Rager" hung his shears up, stepped from the shearing floor
And went a-swapping swear-words 'round at the office door.

For the boss began to language, and "The Rager" languaged back;
Says "The Rager": "There's my brother, can't you give him too the sack?"
"Your brother? Damn your brother! Yes, send him round here quick!"
"That narks yez," Michael answered -- "he's a cocky down in Vic."

First published in The Bulletin, 7 July 1894;
and later in
Bushman and Buccaneer: Harry Morant : His 'Ventures and Verses edited by Frank Renar, 1902;
The North Queensland Register, 28 January 1924;
Australian Bush Ballads edited by Nancy Keesing, 1955;
Complete Book of Australian Folklore edited by Bill Scott, 1976;
The Poetry of 'Breaker' Morant: from "The Bulletin" 1891-1903 with original illustrations by Breaker Morant, 1980;
The Penguin Book of Australian Humorous Verse edited by Bill Scott, 1984; and
Sin, Sweat and Sorrow: The Making of Capricornia Queensland 1840s-1940s edited by Liz Huf, Lorna L. McDonald and David A. Myers, 1993.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also

Woman by Ivy Moore

| No TrackBacks
As varying as rainbow's sheen,
   With mystic glamour in her eyes,
Of beauty's arts she is a queen;
   Maid, wife, or mother, still I ween,
She rules our lives with love serene,
   An Eve whose wonder never dies!
As varying as rainbow's sheen,
   With mystic glamour in her eyes!

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 6 July 1937

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

The Lawyer Man by Max A.

| No TrackBacks
When people gather to discuss
The railway freights, the motor-bus,
Or anything allecting us
   Within our social plan;
Wherever people meet to spout,
To turn the Gov'ment inside out,
You'll notice somewhere in the rout
   A fervent lawyer-man.

At pleasant Sunday afternoons,
Where Judkins weaves his mystic runes
And Parson Edgar rolls his tunes
   And Woodful's in the van;
Where Johnny Wren in secret stands
And laughs at all O'Donnell's bands,
While shillings tumble in his hands --
   There lurks a lawyer-man.

Within the Parliamentary hall,
Where statesmen, at their country's call,
Orate, debate, and brag, and brawl,
   And prosper while they can;
Among those patriots grand and good,
Who guide our infant nationhood,
We find, more often than we should,
   The noble lawyer-man.

Too often your domestic life
Is vexed by sounds of bitter strile;
Beware lest you offend your wife
   And fall beneath her ban;
All anxious to redress her woes
(More well-informed than you suppose).
There sits and waits, with eager nose,
   The wily lawyer-man.

You're not a dull, unsocial grub --
You often toddle to a club,
Sit down to have a quiet rub
   Of bridge whene'er you can;
Your partner, when the rubber starts,
Will growl because you made it hearts,
And prove his case with subtle arts --
   You've struck a lawyer-man.

In politics, in social sphere,
In your domestic circle, dear,
Over your billiards, bowls and beer,
   You'll meet this conquering clan.
The days of kings and crowns are past --
To dim oblivion they are cast;
The monarch of the world atlast
   Is He, the lawyer-man.

First published in Melbourne Punch, 5 July 1906

Author reference site: Austlit

See also.

The Poet's Realm by Will Carter

| No TrackBacks
Wider the Poet's realm is
   Than a kingdom by the sea;
Greater his mind's dominion
   Than sceptered sov'reignty.
Fairer his skies and clearer,
   Deeper his sea that flows
Where rock, in the pale reflection,
   The stars in rippled rows.
His voice is in laughing water,
   It sings in the leaping rill,
It swells in the rolling tempest,
   And truth is in it still.
His tongue hath a mystic message
   That travels the wide earth o'er,
It speaks in the pulsing present --
   It spake in the Long-Before,
Of courage, faith, and duty,
   Of wisdom grave and grand,
Till each ear hath heard its message,
   And each heart doth understand.
He sums the heart's deep passions,
   He marks their ebb and flow;
With Pity's gift he passes,
   With hope he whispers low.
From tower, high, impatient,
   His vision sweeps before;
Time is the winding stairway
   Death is the open door.
And ever, and still for ever,
   His thoughts in music flow;
Sweet is the breath of roses,
   Pure is the falling snow.
Yet sweeter not, nor purer,
   Are these than thoughts when strung
On lyric strings all tender,
   When Songs of Truth are sung,
Filling the grand concordance --
   Psalm of the sacred plan --
The bird and the bee and blossom,
   God and the soul of man.

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 4 July 1931

William Alexander Carter (1867-1956) was a teacher, singer and writer.  he contributed to a number of rural newspapers such as The Camperdown Chronicle.

Author reference site: Austlit

Leichhardt's Grave by Robert Lynd

| No TrackBacks
Ye who prepare with pilgrim feet
   Your long and doubtful path to wend,
If -- whitening on the waste -- ye meet
   The relics of my murder'd friend --
His bones with rev'rence ye shall bear
   To where some mountain streamlet flows;   
There, by its mossy bank, prepare
   The pillow of his long repose.

It shall be by a stream, whose tides
   Are drank by birds of ev'ry wing;   
Where ev'ry lovelier flower abides
   The earliest wak'ning touch of spring!     
O meet that he -- (who so carest
   All beauteous Nature's varied charms) --
That he -- her martyr'd son -- should rest
   Within his mother's fondest arms!   

When ye have made his narrow bed,
   And laid the good man's ashes there,
Ye shall kneel down around the dead,    
   And wait upon your God in prayer.
What though no reverend man be near --  
   No anthem pour its solemn breath --
No holy walls invest his bier
   With all the hallow'd pomp of death!   

Yet humble minds shall find the grace,
   Devoutly bow'd upon the sod,    
To call that blessing round the place
   Which consecrates the soil to God.
And ye the wilderness shall tell
   How faithful to the hope's of men --
The Mighty Power, he served so well,  
   Shall breathe upon his bones again!  

When ye your gracious task have done,
   Heap not the rock above his dust!   
The Angel of the Lord alone
   Shall guard the ashes of the just!   
But ye shall heed, with pious care,  
   The mem'ry of that spot to keep;
And note the marks that guide me where
   My virtuous friend is laid to sleep!   

For oh, bethink -- in other times,
   (And be those happier times at hand,)   
When science, like the smile of God --
   Comes bright'ning o'er that weary land --
How will her pilgrims hail the power,  
   Beneath the drooping myall's gloom,
To sit at eve, and mourn an hour,
   And pluck a leaf on Liechhardt's tomb!  

First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 3 July 1845

Author: Robert Lynd (1800-1851) was barrack-master of the 63rd Regiment and a friend of the explorer Ludwig Leichhardt.  He wrote this poem in July 1845 when Leichhardt was presumed dead.  However the explorer returned to Sydney, alive, in March 1846. Lynd died in Auckland, New Zealand.

Author reference site: Austlit

The Misanthrope by Henry Halloran

| No TrackBacks
Dark as the raven's wing his hair --
And dark as night his haughty brow --
His piercing eyes like meteors glare --
And sternly, on the world's vain show,
He turns their searching glance:- e'en now   
I mark his wild phrenetic mood --
I hear the deep and bitter curse
He breathes upon the universe,
And its demoniac brood.  

Atossa died -- and he has felt; --
Friends have betrayed -- and he has sigh'd;--
The joys on which his fancy dwelt  
Have perish'd-and a tow'ring pride,
And high disdain, now seem to guide  
His solitary wanderings:
Amidst the mountain crags he roams --
Or plunges wherw the whirlpool foams --
Or muses where the death-owl sings.  

The fountains of his tears are dry --
The feelings of his heart have fled --
But, rankling in his memory,
He bears the scorn the world has shed,
The calumnies that man has spread,
To blight his injur'd, ruin'd name:
No social feelings now can charm --  
No mirth excite, no fear alarm,
His heart-where dwells hate's quenchless flame.  

E'en when a child, his spirit spurn'd
To mingle with the heartless throng;
To wildest solitudes he turn'd,
With feelings deep, refin'd, and strong: --
He brooded o'er the deathless song   
Of ancient bards-and, as his mind
Drank inspiration from their verse,
He with their spirits would converse,
And wander, proud and unconfin'd.  

His friends were few-yet one he lov'd --  
And she was nature's fairest child:  
Thro' wilds their kindred spirits rov'd --
For minds, bv slavery undefil'd,   
Will ever seek their native wild.
She perish'd!-he ne'er wept, nor sigh'd --
For noble souls disdain to show  
Their deep, corroding, madd'ning woe,
Or bear the pitying scorn of pride.

But Malice rear'd her gorgon crest,
And Calumny anssail'd his fame;
And fiends who friendship once profest,
Heap'd odium on his injur'd name,
And strove to couple it with shame:--
His high unshackled spirit spurns
The visor'd world's hypocrisy --   
Its sneer, its scorn, its artful lie, --
But with a deathless hatred burns.

First published
in The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 2 July 1831

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

Life and Death by Emily Bulcock

| No TrackBacks
Life that kept me on the rack,   
Life that filled both hands and heart --
Set for me no idle part,
Rudely broke upon my dream ---
Yields its wavering torchlight back!
Strange Death's pulseless calm will seem!  

Yet perchance that calm will be
Stirred by vigorous life awaking
Larger buds of promise breaking!
Death will yield a nobler mind,
As the tangled threads unwind,
Reading clear Life's mystery.

So before the journey ends  
I would know him as a lover!
Making thus a brave amends,
Much to me he will discover.
So we twain will meet as friends
Whisper then this comfort over ---
"Death, that takes so much, so much
Yieldeth all at one swift touch!"

First published in The Register, 1 July 1922;
and later in
Jacaranda Blooms and Other Poems by Emily Bulcock, 1923.

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

About this Archive

This page is an archive of entries from July 2012 listed from newest to oldest.

June 2012 is the previous archive.

August 2012 is the next archive.

Find recent content on the main index or look in the archives to find all content.


Powered by Movable Type 4.23-en