Part 10

When from the summit of some sudden steep Of speculation you have strength to turn To things too boundless for the broken sweep Of finer comprehension, wait and learn

That God hath been "His own interpreter" From first to last. So you will understand The tribe who best succeed, when men most err, To suck through fogs the fatness of the land.

One thing is surer than the autumn tints We saw last week in yonder river bend-- That all our poor expression helps and hints, However vaguely, to the solemn end

That God is truth; and if our dim ideal Fall short of fact--so short that we must weep-- Why shape specific sorrows, though the real Be not the song which erewhile made us sleep?

Remember, truth draws upward. This to us Of steady happiness should be a cause Beyond the differential calculus Or Kant's dull dogmas and mechanic laws.

A man is manliest when he wisely knows How vain it is to halt and pule and pine; Whilst under every mystery haply flows The finest issue of a love divine.

Mountain Moss

It lies amongst the sleeping stones, Far down the hidden mountain glade; And past its brink the torrent moans For ever in a dreamy shade.

A little patch of dark-green moss, Whose softness grew of quiet ways (With all its deep, delicious floss) In slumb'rous suns of summer days.

You know the place? With pleasant tints The broken sunset lights the bowers; And then the woods are full with hints Of distant, dear, voluptuous flowers!

'Tis often now the pilgrim turns A faded face towards that seat, And cools his brow amongst the ferns; The runnel dabbling at his feet.

There fierce December seldom goes, With scorching step and dust and drouth; But, soft and low, October blows Sweet odours from her dewy mouth.

And Autumn, like a gipsy bold, Doth gather near it grapes and grain, Ere Winter comes, the woodman old, To lop the leaves in wind and rain.

O, greenest moss of mountain glen, The face of Rose is known to thee; But we shall never share with men A knowledge dear to love and me!

For are they not between us saved, The words my darling used to say, What time the western waters laved The forehead of the fainting day?

Cool comfort had we on your breast While yet the fervid noon burned mute O'er barley field and barren crest, And leagues of gardens flushed with fruit.

Oh, sweet and low, we whispered so, And sucked the pulp of plum and peach; But it was many years ago, When each, you know, was loved of each.

The Glen of Arrawatta

A sky of wind! And while these fitful gusts Are beating round the windows in the cold, With sullen sobs of rain, behold I shape A settler's story of the wild old times: One told by camp-fires when the station drays Were housed and hidden, forty years ago; While swarthy drivers smoked their pipes, and drew, And crowded round the friendly gleaming flame That lured the dingo, howling, from his caves, And brought sharp sudden feet about the brakes.

A tale of Love and Death. And shall I say A tale of love _in_ death--for all the patient eyes That gathered darkness, watching for a son And brother, never dreaming of the fate-- The fearful fate he met alone, unknown, Within the ruthless Australasian wastes?

For in a far-off, sultry summer, rimmed With thundercloud and red with forest fires, All day, by ways uncouth and ledges rude, The wild men held upon a stranger's trail, Which ran against the rivers and athwart The gorges of the deep blue western hills.

And when a cloudy sunset, like the flame In windy evenings on the Plains of Thirst Beyond the dead banks of the far Barcoo, Lay heavy down the topmost peaks, they came, With pent-in breath and stealthy steps, and crouched, Like snakes, amongst the grasses, till the night Had covered face from face, and thrown the gloom Of many shadows on the front of things.

There, in the shelter of a nameless glen, Fenced round by cedars and the tangled growths Of blackwood, stained with brown and shot with grey, The jaded white man built his fire, and turned His horse adrift amongst the water-pools That trickled underneath the yellow leaves And made a pleasant murmur, like the brooks Of England through the sweet autumnal noons.

Then, after he had slaked his thirst and used The forest fare, for which a healthful day Of mountain life had brought a zest, he took His axe, and shaped with boughs and wattle-forks A wurley, fashioned like a bushman's roof: The door brought out athwart the strenuous flame The back thatched in against a rising wind.

And while the sturdy hatchet filled the clifts With sounds unknown, the immemorial haunts Of echoes sent their lonely dwellers forth, Who lived a life of wonder: flying round And round the glen--what time the kangaroo Leapt from his lair and huddled with the bats-- Far scattering down the wildly startled fells. Then came the doleful owl; and evermore The bleak morass gave out the bittern's call, The plover's cry, and many a fitful wail Of chilly omen, falling on the ear Like those cold flaws of wind that come and go An hour before the break of day.

Anon The stranger held from toil, and, settling down, He drew rough solace from his well-filled pipe, And smoked into the night, revolving there The primal questions of a squatter's life; For in the flats, a short day's journey past His present camp, his station yards were kept, With many a lodge and paddock jutting forth Across the heart of unnamed prairie-lands, Now loud with bleating and the cattle bells, And misty with the hut-fire's daily smoke.

Wide spreading flats, and western spurs of hills That dipped to plains of dim perpetual blue; Bold summits set against the thunder heaps; And slopes behacked and crushed by battling kine, Where now the furious tumult of their feet Gives back the dust, and up from glen and brake Evokes fierce clamour, and becomes indeed A token of the squatter's daring life, Which, growing inland--growing year by year-- Doth set us thinking in these latter days, And makes one ponder of the lonely lands Beyond the lonely tracks of Burke and Wills, Where, when the wandering Stuart fixed his camps In central wastes, afar from any home Or haunt of man, and in the changeless midst Of sullen deserts and the footless miles Of sultry silence, all the ways about Grew strangely vocal, and a marvellous noise Became the wonder of the waxing glooms.

Now, after darkness, like a mighty spell Amongst the hills and dim, dispeopled dells, Had brought a stillness to the soul of things, It came to pass that, from the secret depths Of dripping gorges, many a runnel-voice Came, mellowed with the silence, and remained About the caves, a sweet though alien sound; Now rising ever, like a fervent flute In moony evenings, when the theme is love; Now falling, as ye hear the Sunday bells While hastening fieldward from the gleaming town.

Then fell a softer mood, and memory paused With faithful love, amidst the sainted shrines Of youth and passion in the valleys past Of dear delights which never grow again. And if the stranger (who had left behind Far anxious homesteads in a wave-swept isle, To face a fierce sea-circle day by day, And hear at night the dark Atlantic's moan) _Now_ took a hope and planned a swift return, With wealth and health and with a youth unspent, To those sweet ones that stayed with want at home, Say _who_ shall blame him--though the years are long, And life is hard, and waiting makes the heart grow old?

Thus passed the time, until the moon serene Stood over high dominion like a dream Of peace: within the white, transfigured woods; And o'er the vast dew-dripping wilderness Of slopes illumined with her silent fires.

Then, far beyond the home of pale red leaves And silver sluices, and the shining stems Of runnel blooms, the dreamy wanderer saw, The wilder for the vision of the moon, Stark desolations and a waste of plain, All smit by flame and broken with the storms; Black ghosts of trees, and sapless trunks that stood Harsh hollow channels of the fiery noise, Which ran from bole to bole a year before, And grew with ruin, and was like, indeed, The roar of mighty winds with wintering streams That foam about the limits of the land And mix their swiftness with the flying seas.

Now, when the man had turned his face about To take his rest, behold the gem-like eyes Of ambushed wild things stared from bole and brake With dumb amaze and faint-recurring glance, And fear anon that drove them down the brush; While from his den the dingo, like a scout In sheltered ways, crept out and cowered near To sniff the tokens of the stranger's feast And marvel at the shadows of the flame.

Thereafter grew the wind; and chafing depths In distant waters sent a troubled cry Across the slumb'rous forest; and the chill Of coming rain was on the sleeper's brow, When, flat as reptiles hutted in the scrub, A deadly crescent crawled to where he lay-- A band of fierce, fantastic savages That, starting naked round the faded fire, With sudden spears and swift terrific yells, Came bounding wildly at the white man's head, And faced him, staring like a dream of Hell!

Here let me pass! I would not stay to tell Of hopeless struggles under crushing blows; Of how the surging fiends, with thickening strokes, Howled round the stranger till they drained his strength; How Love and Life stood face to face with Hate And Death; and then how Death was left alone With Night and Silence in the sobbing rains.

So, after many moons, the searchers found The body mouldering in the mouldering dell Amidst the fungi and the bleaching leaves, And buried it, and raised a stony mound Which took the mosses. Then the place became The haunt of fearful legends and the lair Of bats and adders.

There he lies and sleeps From year to year--in soft Australian nights, And through the furnaced noons, and in the times Of wind and wet! Yet never mourner comes To drop upon that grave the Christian's tear Or pluck the foul, dank weeds of death away.

But while the English autumn filled her lap With faded gold, and while the reapers cooled Their flame-red faces in the clover grass, They looked for him at home: and when the frost Had made a silence in the mourning lanes And cooped the farmers by December fires, They looked for him at home: and through the days Which brought about the million-coloured Spring, With moon-like splendours, in the garden plots, They looked for him at home: while Summer danced, A shining singer, through the tasselled corn, They looked for him at home. From sun to sun They waited. Season after season went, And Memory wept upon the lonely moors, And hope grew voiceless, and the watchers passed, Like shadows, one by one away.

And he Whose fate was hidden under forest leaves And in the darkness of untrodden dells Became a marvel. Often by the hearths In winter nights, and when the wind was wild Outside the casements, children heard the tale Of how he left their native vales behind (Where he had been a child himself) to shape New fortunes for his father's fallen house; Of how he struggled--how his name became, By fine devotion and unselfish zeal, A name of beauty in a selfish land; And then of how the aching hours went by, With patient listeners praying for the step Which never crossed the floor again. So passed The tale to children; but the bitter end Remained a wonder, like the unknown grave, Alone with God and Silence in the hills.

Euterpe

Child of Light, the bright, the bird-like! wilt thou float and float to me, Facing winds and sleets and waters, flying glimpses of the sea? Down amongst the hills of tempest, where the elves of tumult roam-- Blown wet shadows of the summits, dim sonorous sprites of foam? Here and here my days are wasted, shorn of leaf and stript of fruit: Vexed because of speech half spoken, maiden with the marvellous lute! Vexed because of songs half-shapen, smit with fire and mixed with pain: Part of thee, and part of Sorrow, like a sunset pale with rain. Child of Light, the bright, the bird-like! wilt thou float and float to me Facing winds and sleets and waters, flying glimpses of the sea?

All night long, in fluent pauses, falling far, but full, but fine, Faultless friend of flowers and fountains, do I hear that voice of thine-- All night long, amidst the burden of the lordly storm, that sings High above the tumbled forelands, fleet and fierce with thunderings! Then and then, my love, Euterpe, lips of life replete with dreams Murmur for thy sweet, sharp fragments dying down Lethean streams: Murmur for thy mouth's marred music, splendid hints that burn and break, Heavy with excess of beauty: murmur for thy music's sake. All night long, in fluent pauses, falling far, but full, but fine, Faultless friend of flowers and fountains, do I hear that voice of thine.

In the yellow flame of evening sound of thee doth come and go Through the noises of the river, and the drifting of the snow: In the yellow flame of evening--at the setting of the day-- Sound that lightens, falls and lightens, flickers, faints and fades away. I am famished of thy silence--broken for the tender note Caught with its surpassing passion--caught and strangled in thy throat! We have nought to help thy trouble--nought for that which lieth mute On the harpstring and the lutestring and the spirit of the lute. In the yellow flame of evening sound of thee doth come and go Through the noises of the river, and the drifting of the snow.

Daughter of the dead red summers! Men that laugh and men that weep Call thee Music--shall I follow, choose their name, and turn and sleep? What thou art, behold, I know not; but thy honey slakes and slays Half the want which whitens manhood in the stress of alien days! Even as a wondrous woman, struck with love and great desire, Hast thou been to me, Euterpe! half of tears and half of fire. But thy joy is swift and fitful; and a subtle sense of pain Sighs through thy melodious breathing, takes the rapture from thy strain, Daughter of the dead red summers! Men that laugh and men that weep Call thee Music--shall I follow, choose their name, and turn and sleep?

Ellen Ray

A quiet song for Ellen-- The patient Ellen Ray, A dreamer in the nightfall, A watcher in the day. The wedded of the sailor Who keeps so far away: A shadow on his forehead For patient Ellen Ray.

When autumn winds were driving Across the chafing bay, He said the words of anger That wasted Ellen Ray: He said the words of anger And went his bitter way: Her dower was the darkness-- The patient Ellen Ray.

Your comfort is a phantom, My patient Ellen Ray; You house it in the night-time, It fronts you in the day; And when the moon is very low And when the lights are grey, You sit and hug a sorry hope, My patient Ellen Ray!

You sit and hug a sorry hope-- Yet who will dare to say, The sweetness of October Is not for Ellen Ray? The bearer of a burden Must rest at fall of day; And you have borne a heavy one, My patient Ellen Ray.

At Dusk

At dusk, like flowers that shun the day, Shy thoughts from dim recesses break, And plead for words I dare not say For your sweet sake.

My early love! my first, my last! Mistakes have been that both must rue; But all the passion of the past Survives for you.

The tender message Hope might send Sinks fainting at the lips of speech, For, are you lover--are you friend, That I would reach?

How much to-night I'd give to win A banished peace--an old repose; But here I sit, and sigh, and sin When no one knows.

The stern, the steadfast reticence, Which made the dearest phrases halt, And checked a first and finest sense, Was not my fault.

I held my words because there grew About my life persistent pride; And you were loved, who never knew What love could hide!

This purpose filled my soul like flame: To win you wealth and take the place Where care is not, nor any shame To vex your face.

I said "Till then my heart must keep Its secrets safe and unconfest;" And days and nights unknown to sleep The vow attest.

Yet, oh! my sweet, it seems so long Since you were near; and fates retard The sequel of a struggle strong, And life is hard--

Too hard, when one is left alone To wrestle passion, never free To turn and say to you, "My own, Come home to me!"

Safi

Strong pinions bore Safi, the dreamer, Through the dazzle and whirl of a race, And the earth, raying up in confusion, Like a sea thundered under his face!

And the earth, raying up in confusion, Passed flying and flying afar, Till it dropped like a moon into silence, And waned from a moon to a star.

Was it light, was it shadow he followed, That he swept through those desperate tracts, With his hair beating back on his shoulders Like the tops of the wind-hackled flax?

"I come," murmured Safi, the dreamer, "I come, but thou fliest before: But thy way hath the breath of the honey, And the scent of the myrrh evermore!"

His eyes were the eyes of a watcher Held on by luxurious faith, And his lips were the lips of a longer Amazed with the beauty of Death.

"For ever and ever," he murmured, "My love, for the sweetness with thee, Do I follow thy footsteps," said Safi, "Like the wind on a measureless sea."

And, fronting the furthermost spaces, He kept through the distances dim, Till the days, and the years, and the cycles Were lost and forgotten by him.

When he came to the silver star-portals, The Queen of that wonderful place Looked forth from her towers resplendent, And started, and dreamed in his face.

And one said, "This is Safi the Only, Who lived in a planet below, And housed him apart from his fellows, A million of ages ago.

"He erred, if he suffers, to clutch at High lights from the wood and the street; Not caring to see how his brothers Were content with the things at their feet."

But she whispered, "Ah, turn to the stranger! He looks like a lord of the land; For his eyes are the eyes of an angel, And the thought on his forehead is grand!

"Is there never a peace for the sinner Whose sin is in this, that he mars The light of his worship of Beauty, Forgetting the flower for the stars?"

"Behold him, my Sister immortal, And doubt that he knoweth his shame, Who raves in the shadow for sweetness, And gloats on the ghost of a flame!

"His sin is his sin, if he suffers, Who wilfully straitened the truth; And his doom is his doom, if he follows A lie without sorrow or ruth."

And another from uttermost verges Ran out with a terrible voice-- "Let him go--it is well that he goeth, Though he break with the lot of his choice!"

"I come," murmured Safi, the dreamer, "I come, but thou fliest before: But thy way hath the breath of the honey, And the scent of the myrrh evermore."

"My Queen," said the first of the Voices, "He hunteth a perilous wraith, Arrayed with voluptuous fancies And ringed with tyrannical faith.

"Wound up in the heart of his error He must sweep through the silences dire, Like one in the dark of a desert Allured by fallacious fire."

And she faltered, and asked, like a doubter, "When he hangs on those Spaces sublime With the Terror that knoweth no limit, And holdeth no record of Time--

"Forgotten of God and the demons-- Will he keep to his fancy amain? Can he live for that horrible chaos Of flame and perpetual rain?"

But an answer as soft as a prayer Fell down from a high, hidden land, And the words were the words of a language Which none but the gods understand.

Daniel Henry Deniehy

Take the harp, but very softly for our brother touch the strings: Wind and wood shall help to wail him, waves and mournful mountain-springs. Take the harp, but very softly, for the friend who grew so old Through the hours we would not hear of--nights we would not fain behold! Other voices, sweeter voices, shall lament him year by year, Though the morning finds us lonely, though we sit and marvel here: Marvel much while Summer cometh, trammelled with November wheat, Gold about her forehead gleaming, green and gold about her feet; Yea, and while the land is dark with plover, gull, and gloomy glede, Where the cold, swift songs of Winter fill the interlucent reed.

Yet, my harp--and oh, my fathers! never look for Sorrow's lay, Making life a mighty darkness in the patient noon of day; Since he resteth whom we loved so, out beyond these fleeting seas, Blowing clouds and restless regions paved with old perplexities, In a land where thunder breaks not, in a place unknown of snow, Where the rain is mute for ever, where the wild winds never go: Home of far-forgotten phantoms--genii of our peaceful prime, Shining by perpetual waters past the ways of Change and Time: Haven of the harried spirit, where it folds its wearied wings, Turns its face and sleeps a sleep with deep forgetfulness of things.

His should be a grave by mountains, in a cool and thick-mossed lea, With the lone creek falling past it--falling ever to the sea. His should be a grave by waters, by a bright and broad lagoon, Making steadfast splendours hallowed of the quiet, shining moon. There the elves of many forests--wandering winds and flying lights-- Born of green, of happy mornings, dear to yellow summer nights, Full of dole for him that loved them, then might halt and then might go, Finding fathers of the people to their children speaking low-- Speaking low of one who, failing, suffered all the poet's pain, Dying with the dead leaves round him--hopes which never grow again.

Merope