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The silver fountains sing forever. Far Youth and I and Love together! other Above dim ghosts of waters in the caves,

times and other themes The royal robe of morning on thy head Come to me unsung, unwept for, through Abides forever! Evermore the wind

the faded evening gleams. Is thy august companion ; and thy peers Come to me and touch me mutely - I that Are cloud, and thunder, and the face sublime looked and longed so well, Of blue mid-heaven ! On thy awful brow Shall I look and yet forget them ? — who Is Deity; and in that voice of thine

may know or who foretell ? There is the great imperial utterance Though the southern wind roams, shadowed Of God forever; and thy feet are set

with its immemorial grief, Where evermore, through all the days and Where the frosty wings of Winter leave years,

their whiteness on the leaf. There rolls the grand hymn of the deathless wave.

Friend of mine beyond the waters, here

and there these perished days COOGEE

Haunt me with their sweet dead faces and

their old divided ways. Sing the song of wave-worn Coogee, Coo- You that helped and you that loved me, gee in the distance white,

take this song, and when you read With its jags and points disrupted, gaps Let the lost things come about you, set and fractures fringed with light;

your thoughts, and hear and heed. Haunt of gledes, and restless plovers of the Time has laid his burden on us melancholy wail,

wear our manhood now, Ever lending deeper pathos to the mel- We would be the boys we have been, free ancholy gale.

of heart and bright of brow, There, my brothers, down the fissures, Be the boys for just an hour, with the chasms deep and wan and wild,

splendor and the speech Grows the sea-bloom, one that blushes like Of thy lights and thunders, Coogee, flying a shrinking, fair, blind child ;

up thy gleaming beach. And amongst the oozing forelands many a glad green rock-vine runs,

Heart's desire and heart's division ! who Getting ease on earthy ledges, sheltered would come and say to me, from December suns.

With the eyes of far-off friendship, “ You

are as you used to be ?Often, when a gusty morning, rising cold Something glad and good has left me here and gray and strange,

with sickening discontent, Lifts its face from watery spaces, vistas Tired of looking, neither knowing what it full with cloudy change,

was or where it went. Bearing up a gloomy burden which anon So it is this sight of Coogee, shining in the begins to wane,

morning dew, Fading in the sudden shadow of a dark de- Sets me stumbling through dim summers termined rain,

once on fire with youth and youDo I seek an eastern window, so to watch Summers pale as southern evenings when the breakers beat

the year has lost its power Round the steadfast crags of Coogee, dim And the wasted face of April weeps above with drifts of driving sleet :

the withered flower. Hearing hollow mournful noises sweeping down a solemn shore,

Not that seasons bring no solace, not that While the grim sea-caves are tideless, and time lacks light and rest, the storm strives at their core. But the old things were the dearest, and

the old loves seem the best. Often when the floating vapors fill the silent We that start at songs familiar, we that autumn leas,

tremble at a tone Dreaming memories fall like moonlight Floating down the ways of music, like a over silent sleeping seas,

sigh of sweetness flown,

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We can never feel the freshness, never The stories of Youth, of the burden of
find again the mood

Time,
Left among fair-featured places, bright- And the death of Devotion,
ened of our brotherhood.

Come back with the wind, and are themes
This and this we have to think of when the

of the rhyme
night is over all,

In the waves of the ocean.
When the woods begin to perish, and the
rains begin to fall.

We, having a secret to others unknown,

In the cool mountain-mosses,

May whisper together, September, alone SEPTEMBER IN AUSTRALIA Of our loves and our losses.

One word for her beauty, and one for the
GRAY Winter hath gone, like a wearisome place
guest,

She gave to the hours ;
And, behold, for repayment,

And then we may kiss her, and suffer her
Septeinber comes in with the wind of the

face
West

To sleep with the flowers.
And the Spring in her raiment !
The ways of the frost have been filled of High places that knew of the gold and the
the flowers,

white
While the forest discovers

On the forehead of Morning
Wild wings, with the halo of hyaline hours, Now darken and quake, and the steps of
And a music of lovers.

the Night

Are heavy with warning !
September, the maid with the swift silver Her voice in the distance is lofty and loud
feet!

Through its echoing gorges ;
She glides, and she graces

She hath hidden her eyes in a mantle of
The valleys of coolness, the slopes of the cloud,
heat,

And her feet in the surges !
With her blossomy traces ;
Sweet month, with a mouth that is made On the tops of the hills, on the turreted

of a rose,
She lightens and lingers

Chief temples of thunder-
In spots where the harp of the evening The gale, like a ghost, in the middle watch
glows,

moans, Attuned by her fingers.

Gliding over and under.

The sea, flying white through the rack and The stream from its home in the hollow

the rain,
hill slips

Leapeth wild at the forelands ;
In a darling old fashion ;

And the plover, whose cry is like passion
And the day goeth down with a song on its

with pain,
lips

Complains in the moorlands.
Whose key-note is passion ;
Far out in the fierce, bitter front of the sea Oh, season of changes — of shadow and
I stand, and remember

shine-
Dead things that were brothers and sisters September the splendid !
of thee,

My song hath no music to mingle with
Resplendent September.

thine,

And its burden is ended ;
The West, when it blows at the fall of the But thou, being born of the winds and the

sun,
And beats on the beaches,

By mountain, by river,
So filled with a tender and tremulous tune May lighten and listen, and loiter and run,
That touches and teaches ;

With thy voices forever.

cones

noon

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the grass,

THE LAST OF HIS TRIBE With the honey-voiced woman who beck

ons and stands, He crouches, and buries his face on his And gleams like a dream in his face knees,

Like a marvellous dream in his face ? And hides in the dark of his hair ; For he cannot look up to the storm-smitten trees,

THE VOICE IN THE WILD OAK Or think of the loneliness there Of the loss and the loneliness there. TWELVE years ago, when I could face

High heaven's dome with different eyes, The wallaroos grope through the tufts of In days full-flowered with hours of grace,

And nights not sad with sighs,
And turn to their covers for fear; I wrote a song in which I strove
But he sits in the ashes and lets them To shadow forth thy strain of woe,
pass

Dark widowed sister of the grove —
Where the boomerangs sleep with the

Twelve wasted years ago. spear With the nullah, the sling, and the But youth was then too young to find spear.

Those high authentic syllables

Whose voice is like the wintering wind Uloola, behold him! The thunder that By sunless mountain fells ; breaks

Nor had I sinned and suffered then
On the top of the rocks with the rain, To that superlative degree
And the wind which drives up with the salt That I would rather seek, than men,
of the lakes,

Wild fellowship with thee.
Have made him a hunter again
A hunter and fisher again.

But he who hears this autumn day

Thy more than deep autumnal rhyme, For his eyes have been full with a smoul- Is one whose hair was shot with gray dering thought;

By grief instead of time.
But he dreams of the hunts of yore, He has no need, like many a bard,
And of foes that he sought, and of fights To sing imaginary pain,
that he fought

Because he bears, and finds it hard,
With those who will battle no more — The punishment of Cain.
Who will go to the battle no more.

No more be sees the affluence It is well that the water which tumbles and Which makes the heart of Nature glad ; fills,

For he has lost the fine first sense Goes moaning and moaning along ;

Of beauty that he had. For an echo rolls out from the sides of the The old delight God's happy breeze hills,

Was wont to give, to grief has grown ; And he starts at a wonderful song And therefore, Niobe of trees, At the sounds of a wonderful song.

His song is like thine own. And he sees through the rents of the scat- But I, who am that perished soul, tering fogs,

Have wasted so these powers of mine, The corroboree warlike and grim,

That I can never write that whole, And the lubra who sat by the fire on the Pure, perfect speech of thine. logs,

Some lord of words august, supreme, To watch, like a mourner, for him

The grave, grand melody demands ; Like a mother and mourner for him. The dark translation of thy theme

I leave to other hands. Will he go in his sleep from these desolate lands,

Yet here, where plovers nightly call Like a chief, to the rest of his race, Across dim melancholy leas

a

Thy soul for some infernal crime That left it blasted, blind, and stripped

A dread to Death and Time!

Where comes by whistling fen and fall

The moan of far-off seas A gray old Fancy often sits

Beneath thy shade with tired wings, And fills thy strong, strange rhyme by fits

With awful utterings.
Then times there are when all the words

Are like the sentences of one
Shut in by fate from wind and birds

And light of stars and sun !
No dazzling dryad, but a dark

.
Dream-haunted spirit, doomed to be
Imprisoned, cramped in bands of bark,

For all eternity
Yea, like the speech of one aghast

At Immortality in chains,
What time the lordly storm rides past

With flames and arrowy rains :
Some wan Tithonus of the wood,

White with immeasurable years An awful ghost, in solitude

With moaning moors and meres ! And when high thunder smites the hill

And hunts the wild dog to his den, Thy cries, like maledictions, shrill

Ånd shriek from glen to glen, As if a frightful memory whipped

But when the fair-haired August dies,

And flowers wax strong and beautiful, Thy songs are stately harmonies

By wood-lights green and cool, Most like the voice of one who shows

Through sufferings fierce, in fine relief, A noble patience and repose —

A dignity in grief.
But, ah ! conceptions fade away,

And still the life that lives in thee,
The soul of thy majestic lay,

Remains a mystery !
And he must speak the speech divine,

The language of the high-throned lords, Who'd give that grand old theme of thine

Its sense in faultless words.
By hollow lands and sea-tracts harsh,

With ruin of the fourfold gale,
Where sighs the sedge and sobs the marsh,

Still wail thy lonely wail ;
And, year by year, one step will break

The sleep of far hill-folded streams,
And seek, if only for thy sake,

Thy home of many dreams.

Perep f. Sinnett

THE SONG OF THE WILD

STORM-WAVES (AFTER THE LOSS OF THE “ TARARUA”) Oh, ye wild waves, shoreward dashing,

What is your tale to-day ?
O’er the rocks your white foam splashing,

While the moaning wind your spray
Whirls heavenwards away

In the mist?
Have ye heard the timbers crashing

Of the good ship out at sea ?
Seen the masts the dank ropes lashing,

While the sailors bend the knee,
And vainly call on Heaven

To assist ?

More than ever you could gather -
More than ever you could glean

From our tale.
We have seen, and heard, and laughed,
As we tossed the shattered craft,

While those on board, aghast,
Every moment thought their last,

In the gale.
We tossed them like a plaything,

And rent their riven sail ;
And we laughed our loud Ha! ha!
With the demons of the gale

In their ears.
We have laughed, and heard, and seen,
In the lightning's lurid sheen,

And the growling thunder's blast ;
And we drowned them all at last

For their fears.

Oh, ay ! we've seen and heard

Oh, ay! we've heard and seen

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This, this, now is the tale

We have to tell to-day,
And now to you we've sung it
In our merry, mocking way.

Do you hear ?
How our havoc we have wrought,
And to destruction brought

The treasures of the Earth,
Held by man in price, and worth,

Very dear?
Oh! ye cruel waves up-dashing,

Why rejoice you so to-day?
As shoreward ye come crashing

From your cruel, cruel play ;
Why fling ye up your spray

On the shore ?
The sand your salt spume splashing,

As ye frolic in your glee ;
As the iron rocks ye 're lashing,

Ye scourges of the sea,
Will ye never then be glutted

Any more?

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