Only there's a drowsy humming
From yon warm lagoon slow-coming :
"Tis the dragon-hornet-see!
All bedaubed resplendently
Yellow on a tawny ground-
Each rich spot not square nor round,
Rudely heart-shaped, as it were
The blurred and hasty impress there
Of a vermeil-crusted seal
Dusted o'er with golden meal.
Only there's a droning where
Yon bright beetle shines in air,
Tracks it in its gleaming flight
With a slanting beam of light
Rising in the sunshine higher,
Till its shards flame out like fire.

Every other thing is still,
Save the ever-wakeful rill,
Whose cool murmur only throws
Cooler comfort round repose;
Or some ripple in the sea,
Of leafy boughs, where, lazily,
Tired summer, in her bower
Turning with the noontide hour,
Heaves a slumbrous breath ere she
Once more slumbers peacefully.

Oh, 't is easeful here to lie
Hidden from noon's scorching eye,
In this grassy cool recess
Musing thus of quietness.

AN ABORIGINAL MOTHER'S

LAMENT

STILL farther would I fly, my child, To make thee safer yet

From the unsparing white man,

With his dread hand murder-wet!

And but for thee, I would their fire
Had eaten me as fast!

Hark! Hark! I hear his death-cry

Yet lengthening up the blast!
But no-when his bound hands had signed
The way that we should fly,

On the roaring pyre flung bleeding-
I saw thy father die!

No more shall his loud tomahawk
Be plied to win our cheer,
Or the shining fish pools darken

Beneath his shadowing spear;
The fading tracks of his fleet foot
Shall guide not as before,
And the mountain-spirits mimic
His hunting call no more!

SONG OF THE SQUATTER

THE Commissioner bet me a pony- I won, So he cut off exactly two-thirds of my run; For he said I was making a fortune too fast,

And profit gained slower the longer would last.

He remarked, as devouring my mutton he

sat,

That I suffered my sheep to grow sadly too fat;

That they wasted waste land, did prerogative brown,

And rebelliously nibbled the droits of the Crown;

"But none can outlast her, and few travel faster,

She strides in her work clean away from The Drag;

You hold her and sit her, she could n't be fitter,

Whenever you hit her she 'll spring like a stag.

"And p'raps the green jacket, at odds though they back it,

May fall, or there's no knowing what may turn up.

The mare is quite ready, sit still and ride steady,

Keep cool; and I think you may just win the Cup."

Dark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for the tussle,

Stood Iseult, arching her neck to the curb, A lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry,

A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb.

Some parting injunction, bestowed with great unction,

I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce, When Reginald Murray, full tilt on White Surrey,

Came down in a hurry to start us at

once.

"Keep back in the yellow! Come up on Othello!

Hold hard on the chestnut ! Turn round on The Drag!

Keep back there on Spartan! Back you, sir, in tartan!

So, steady there, easy," and down went the flag.

We started, and Kerr made strong running on Mermaid.

Through furrows that led to the first stake-and-bound,

The crack, half extended, looked bloodlike and splendid,

Held wide on the right where the headland was sound.

I pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle,

Before her two-thirds of the field got away,

All through the wet pasture where floods of the last year

Still loitered, they clotted my crimson with clay.

The fourth fence, a wattle, floored Monk and Blue-bottle;

The Drag came to grief at the blackthorn and ditch,

The rails toppled over Redoubt and Red Rover,

The lane stopped Lycurgus and Leicestershire Witch.

She passed like an arrow Kildare and Cock Sparrow,

And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone wall;

And Giles on The Greyling came down at the paling,

And I was left sailing in front of them all.

I took them a burster, nor eased her nor nursed her

Until the Black Bullfinch led into the plough,

And through the strong bramble we bored with a scramble

My cap was knocked off by the hazeltree bough.

Where furrows looked lighter I drew the rein tighter;