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And the goldentinted fern leaves, how they rustled underneath :
And the honeysuckle osiers, how they crashed!
We led the hunt throughout, Ned, on the chestnut and the gray,
And the troopers were three hundred yards behind,
While we emptied our six-shooters on the bush-rangers at bay,
In the creek with stunted box-trees for a blind!
There you grappled with the leader, man to man, and horse to horse,
And you rolled together when the chestnut rear'd.
He blazed away and missed you in that shallow water-course
A narrow shave - his powder singed your beard!
Where the wild flowers woo the sun, Where the balmy breezes blow, Where the butterfly takes wing, Where the aspens, drooping, grow, Where the young birds chirp and sing
I am weary, let me go.
I have striven hard and long
Always to maintain the right.
Taking, giving blow for blow; Brother, I have played my part, And am weary, let me go.
Stern the world and bitter cold, Irksome, painful to endure; Everywhere a love of gold, Nowhere pity for the poor. Everywhere mistrust, disguise, Pride, hypocrisy, and show; Draw the curtain, close mine eyes, I am weary, let me go.
Other chance when I am gone
May restore the battle-call,
Shield and buckler, hang them up,
I am weary, lay me low.
James Brunton Stephens
THE DOMINION OF AUSTRALIA
SHE is not yet, but he whose ear Thrills to that finer atmosphere
Where footfalls of appointed things,
Like wave-beats from a viewless seaHears in the voiceful tremors of the sky Auroral heralds whispering" She is nigh."
She is not yet; but he whose sight Foreknows the advent of the light, Whose soul to morning radiance turns Ere night her curtain hath withdrawn, And in its quivering folds discerns
The mute monitions of the dawn, With urgent sense strained onward to de
Her distant tokens, starts to find her nigh.
Not yet her day. How long "not yet?"
With sanguine imminence of morn,
The Day of the Dominion born. Prelusive baptism!-ere the natal hour Named with the name and prophecy of
Already here to hearts intense
To bid her tremble into form:
For even as, from sight concealed,
Nor sunset-streaked with crimson bar, Nor silver-spanned by wake of moon, Nor visited of any star,
Beneath these lands a river waits to bless (So men divine) our utmost wilderness,
Rolls dark, but yet shall know our skies,
The blessing prisoned and unseen,
So flows beneath our good and ill
That from its silent depths of gloom
And hide our barren fields in bloom, Till, all our sundering lines with love o'ergrown,
Our bounds shall be the girdling seas alone.
Henry Clarence Kendall
TO A MOUNTAIN
To thee, O father of the stately peaks, Above me in the loftier light—to thee, Imperial brother of those awful hills, Whose feet are set in splendid spheres of flame,
Whose heads are where the gods are, and whose sides
Of strength are belted round with all the
Of all the world, I dedicate these songs. And if, within the compass of this book, There lives and glows one verse in which there beats
The pulse of wind and torrent - if one line
Is here that like a running water sounds, And seems an echo from the lands of leaf, Be sure that line is thine. Here, in this home,
Away from men and books and all the schools,
I take thee for my Teacher. In thy voice Of deathless majesty, I, kneeling, hear God's grand authentic gospel! Year by