« AnkstesnisTęsti »
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,
We can never feel the freshness, never The stories of Youth, of the burden of
Come back with the wind, and are themes
of the rhyme
In the waves of the ocean.
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
She gave to the hours ;
And then we may kiss her, and suffer her
To sleep with the flowers.
On the forehead of Morning
Are heavy with warning !
Through its echoing gorges ;
She hath hidden her eyes in a mantle of
And her feet in the surges !
of a rose,
Chief temples of thunder-
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
Leapeth wild at the forelands ;
And the plover, whose cry is like passion
Complains in the moorlands.
My song hath no music to mingle with
And its burden is ended ;
By mountain, by river,
With thy voices forever.
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,
Dark widowed sister of the grove —
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
Wild fellowship with thee.
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.
Because he bears, and finds it hard,
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
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.
Are like the sentences of one
And light of stars and sun !
For all eternity
At Immortality in chains,
With flames and arrowy rains :
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.
And still the life that lives in thee,
Remains a mystery !
The language of the high-throned lords, Who'd give that grand old theme of thine
Its sense in faultless words.
With ruin of the fourfold gale,
Still wail thy lonely wail ;
The sleep of far hill-folded streams,
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 ?
While the moaning wind your spray
In the mist?
Of the good ship out at sea ?
While the sailors bend the knee,
To assist ?
More than ever you could gather -
From our tale.
While those on board, aghast,
In the gale.
And rent their riven sail ;
In their ears.
And the growling thunder's blast ;
For their fears.
Oh, ay ! we've seen and heard
Oh, ay! we've heard and seen
This, this, now is the tale
We have to tell to-day,
Do you hear ?
The treasures of the Earth,
Why rejoice you so to-day?
From your cruel, cruel play ;
On the shore ?
As ye frolic in your glee ;
Ye scourges of the sea,