Part 11

Far in the ways of the hyaline wastes--in the face of the splendid Six of the sisters--the star-dowered sisters ineffably bright, Merope sitteth, the shadow-like wife of a monarch unfriended Of Ades--of Orcus, the fierce, the implacable god of the night. Merope--fugitive Merope! lost to thyself and thy lover, Cast, like a dream, out of thought, with the moons which have passed into sleep, What shall avail thee? Alcyone's tears, or the sight to discover Of Sisyphus pallid for thee by the blue, bitter lights of the deep-- Pallid, but patient for sorrow? Oh, thou of the fire and the water, Half with the flame of the sunset, and kin to the streams of the sea, Hast thou the songs of old times for desire of thy dark-featured daughter, Sweet with the lips of thy yearning, O Aethra! with tokens of thee-- Songs that would lull her, like kisses forgotten of silence where speech was Less than the silence that bound it as passion is bound by a ban; Seeing we know of thee, Mother, we turning and hearing how each was Wrapt in the other ere Merope faltered and fell for a man? Mortal she clave to, forgetting her birthright, forgetting the lordlike Sons of the many-winged Father, and chiefs of the plume and the star, Therefore, because that her sin was the grief of the grand and the godlike, Sitteth thy child than a morning-moon bleaker, the faded, and far. Ringed with the flower-like Six of the Seven, arrayed and anointed Ever with beautiful pity, she watches, she weeps, and she wanes, Blind as a flame on the hills of the Winter in hours appointed For the life of the foam and the thunder-- the strength of the imminent rains. Who hath a portion, Alcyone, like her? Asterope, fairer Than sunset on snow, and beloved of all brightness, say what is there left Sadder and paler than Pleione's daughter, disconsolate bearer Of trouble that smites like a sword of the gods to the break of the heft? Demeter, and Dryope, known to the forests, the falls, and the fountains, Yearly, because of their walking and wailing and wringing of hands, _Are_ they as one with this woman?--of Hyrie, wild in the mountains, Breaking her heart in the frosts and the fires of the uttermost lands? _These_ have their bitterness. This, for Persephone, that for Oechalian Homes, and the lights of a kindness blown out with the stress of her shame: One for her child, and one for her sin; but thou above all art an alien, Girt with the halos that vex thee, and wrapt in a grief beyond name. Yet sayeth Sisyphus--Sisyphus, stricken and chained of the minioned Kings of great darkness, and trodden in dust by the feet of the Fates-- "Sweet are the ways of thy watching, and pallid and perished and pinioned, Moon amongst maidens, I leap for thy love like a god at the gates-- Leap for the dreams of a rose of the heavens, and beat at the portals Paved with the pain of unsatisfied pleadings for thee and for thine! But Zeus is immutable Master, and these are the walls the immortals Build for our sighing, and who may set lips at the lords and repine? Therefore," he saith, "I am sick for thee, Merope, faint for the tender Touch of thy mouth, and the eyes like the lights of an altar to me; But, lo, thou art far; and thy face is a still and a sorrowful splendour! And the storm is abroad with the rain on the perilous straits of the sea."

After the Hunt

Underneath the windy mountain walls Forth we rode, an eager band, By the surges and the verges and the gorges, Till the night was on the land-- On the hazy, mazy land! Far away the bounding prey Leapt across the ruts and logs, But we galloped, galloped, galloped on, Till we heard the yapping of the dogs-- The yapping and the yelping of the dogs.

Oh, it was a madly merry day We shall not so soon forget, And the edges and the ledges and the ridges Haunt us with their echoes yet-- Echoes, echoes, echoes yet! While the moon is on the hill Gleaming through the streaming fogs, Don't you hear the yapping of the dogs-- The yapping and the yelping of the dogs?

Rose Lorraine

Sweet water-moons, blown into lights Of flying gold on pool and creek, And many sounds and many sights Of younger days are back this week. I cannot say I sought to face Or greatly cared to cross again The subtle spirit of the place Whose life is mixed with Rose Lorraine.

What though her voice rings clearly through A nightly dream I gladly keep, No wish have I to start anew Heart fountains that have ceased to leap. Here, face to face with different days, And later things that plead for love, It would be worse than wrong to raise A phantom far too fain to move.

But, Rose Lorraine--ah! Rose Lorraine, I'll whisper now, where no one hears-- If you should chance to meet again The man you kissed in soft, dead years, Just say for once "He suffered much," And add to this "His fate was worst Because of me, my voice, my touch." There is no passion like the first!

If I that breathe your slow sweet name, As one breathes low notes on a flute, Have vext your peace with word of blame, The phrase is dead--the lips are mute. Yet when I turn towards the wall, In stormy nights, in times of rain, I often wish you could recall Your tender speeches, Rose Lorraine.

Because, you see, I thought them true, And did not count you self-deceived, And gave myself in all to you, And looked on Love as Life achieved. Then came the bitter, sudden change, The fastened lips, the dumb despair. The first few weeks were very strange, And long, and sad, and hard to bear.

No woman lives with power to burst My passion's bonds, and set me free; For Rose is last where Rose was first, And only Rose is fair to me. The faintest memory of her face, The wilful face that hurt me so, Is followed by a fiery trace That Rose Lorraine must never know.

I keep a faded ribbon string You used to wear about your throat; And of this pale, this perished thing, I think I know the threads by rote. God help such love! To touch your hand, To loiter where your feet might fall, You marvellous girl, my soul would stand The worst of hell--its fires and all!

[End of Leaves from Australian Forests.]

SONGS FROM THE MOUNTAINS

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 zones 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 year, The great sublime cantata of thy storm Strikes through my spirit--fills it with a life Of startling beauty! Thou my Bible art, With holy leaves of rock, and flower, and tree, And moss, and shining runnel. From each page That helps to make thy awful volume, I Have learned a noble lesson. In the psalm Of thy grave winds, and in the liturgy Of singing waters, lo! my soul has heard The higher worship; and from thee, indeed, The broad foundations of a finer hope Were gathered in; and thou hast lifted up The blind horizon for a larger faith! Moreover, walking in exalted woods Of naked glory, in the green and gold Of forest sunshine, I have paused like one With all the life transfigured; and a flood Of light ineffable has made me feel As felt the grand old prophets caught away By flames of inspiration; but the words Sufficient for the story of my Dream Are far too splendid for poor human lips. But thou, to whom I turn with reverent eyes-- O stately Father, whose majestic face Shines far above the zone of wind and cloud, Where high dominion of the morning is-- Thou hast the Song complete of which my songs Are pallid adumbrations! Certain sounds Of strong authentic sorrow in this book May have the sob of upland torrents--these, And only these, may touch the great World's heart; For, lo! they are the issues of that grief Which makes a man more human, and his life More like that frank, exalted life of thine. But in these pages there are other tones In which thy large, superior voice is not-- Through which no beauty that resembles thine Has ever shone. _These_ are the broken words Of blind occasions, when the World has come Between me and my Dream. No song is here Of mighty compass; for my singing robes I've worn in stolen moments. All my days Have been the days of a laborious life, And ever on my struggling soul has burned The fierce heat of this hurried sphere. But thou, To whose fair majesty I dedicate My book of rhymes--thou hast the perfect rest Which makes the heaven of the highest gods! To thee the noises of this violent time Are far, faint whispers; and, from age to age, Within the world and yet apart from it, Thou standest! Round thy lordly capes the sea Rolls on with a superb indifference For ever; in thy deep, green, gracious glens The silver fountains sing for ever. Far Above dim ghosts of waters in the caves, The royal robe of morning on thy head Abides for ever. Evermore the wind Is thy august companion; and thy peers Are cloud, and thunder, and the face sublime Of blue mid-heaven! On thy awful brow Is Deity; and in that voice of thine There is the great imperial utterance Of God for ever; and thy feet are set Where evermore, through all the days and years, There rolls the grand hymn of the deathless wave.

Mary Rivers

Path beside the silver waters, flashing in October's sun-- Walk, by green and golden margins where the sister streamlets run-- Twenty shining springs have vanished, full of flower, and leaf, and bird, Since the step of Mary Rivers in your lawny dell was heard! Twenty white-haired Junes have left us-- grey with frost and bleak with gale-- Since the hand of her we loved so plucked the blossoms in your dale. Twenty summers, twenty autumns, from the grand old hills have passed, With their robes of royal colour, since we saw the darling last.

Morning comes--the blessed morning! and the slow song of the sea, Like a psalm from radiant altars, floats across a rose-red lea; Then the fair, strong noonday blossoms, and the reaper seeks the cool Valley of the moss and myrtle, and the glimmering water-pool. Noonday flames and evening follows; and the lordly mountains rest Heads arrayed with tenfold splendour on the rich heart of the West. Evening walks with moon and music where the higher life has been; But the face of Mary Rivers _there_ will nevermore be seen.

Ah! when autumn dells are dewy, and the wave is very still, And that grey ghost called the Twilight passes from the distant hill-- Even in the hallowed nightfall, when the fathers sit and dream, And the splendid rose of heaven sees a sister in the stream-- Often do I watch the waters gleaming in a starry bay, Thinking of a bygone beauty, and a season far away; Musing on the grace that left us in a time of singing rain, On the lady who will never walk amongst these heaths again.

Four there were, but two were taken; and this darling we deplore, She was sweetest of the circle--she was dearest of the four! In the daytime and the dewtime comes the phantom of her face: None will ever sit where she did--none will ever fill her place. With the passing of our Mary, like a sunset out of sight, Passed away our pure first passion--all its life and all its light! All that made the world a dreamland--all the glory and the glow Of the fine, fresh, morning feeling vanished twenty years ago.

Girl, whose strange, unearthly beauty haunts us ever in our sleep, Many griefs have worn our hearts out--we are now too tired to weep! Time has tried us, years have changed us; but the sweetness shed by you Falls upon our spirits daily, like divine, immortal dew. Shining are our thoughts about you--of the blossoms past recall, You are still the rose of lustre--still the fairest of them all; In the sleep that brings the garland gathered from the bygone hours, You are still our Mary Rivers--still the queen of all the flowers.

Let me ask, where none can hear me--When you passed into the shine, And you heard a great love calling, did you know that it was mine? In your life of light and music, tell me did you ever see, Shining in a holy silence, what was as a flame in me? Ah, my darling! no one saw it. Purer than untrodden dew Was that first unhappy passion buried in the grave with you. Bird and leaf will keep the secret--wind and wood will never tell Men the thing that I have whispered. Mary Rivers, fare you well!

Kingsborough

A waving of hats and of hands, The voices of thousands in one, A shout from the ring and the stands, And a glitter of heads in the sun! "_They are off--they are off!_" is the roar, As the cracks settle down to the race, With the "yellow and black" to the fore, And the Panic blood forcing the pace.

At the back of the course, and away Where the running-ground home again wheels, Grubb travels in front on the bay, With a feather-weight hard at his heels. But Yeomans, you see, is about, And the wily New Zealander waits, Though the high-blooded flyer is out, Whose rider and colours are Tait's.

Look! Ashworth comes on with a run To the head of the Levity colt; And the fleet--the magnificent son Of Panic is shooting his bolt. Hurrah for the Weatherbit strain! A Fireworks is first in the straight; And "_A Kelpie will win it again!_" Is the roar from the ring to the gate.

The leader must have it--but no! For see, full of running, behind A beautiful, wonderful foe With the speed of the thunder and wind! A flashing of whips, and a cry, And Ashworth sits down on his horse, With Kingsborough's head at his thigh And the "field" scattered over the course!

In a clamour of calls and acclaim The pair race away from the ruck: The horse to the last of it game-- A marvel of muscle and pluck! But the foot of the Sappho is there, And Kingston's invincible strength; And the numbers go up in the air-- The colt is the first by a length!

The first, and the favourite too! The terror that came from his stall, With the spirit of fire and of dew, To show the road home to them all; From the back of the field to the straight He has come, as is ever his wont, And carried his welter-like weight, Like a tradesman, right through to the front.

Nor wonder at cheering a wit, For this is the popular horse, That never was beaten when "fit" By any four hoofs on the course; To starter for Leger or Cup, Has he ever shown feather of fear When saddle and rider were up And the case to be argued was clear?

No! rather the questionless pluck Of the blood unaccustomed to yield, Preferred to spread-eagle the ruck, And make a long tail of the "field". Bear witness, ye lovers of sport, To races of which he can boast, When flyer by flyer was caught, And beaten by lengths on the post!

Lo! this is the beautiful bay-- Of many, the marvellous one Who showed us last season the way That a Leger should always be won. There was something to look at and learn, Ye shrewd irreproachable "touts", When the Panic colt tired at the turn, And the thing was all over--but shouts!

Aye, that was the spin, when the twain Came locked by the bend of the course, The Zealander pulling his rein, And the veteran hard on his horse! When Ashworth was "riding" 'twas late For his friends to applaud on the stands, And the Sappho colt entered the straight With the race of the year in his hands.

Just look at his withers, his thighs! And the way that he carries his head! Has Richmond more wonderful eyes, Or Melbourne that spring in his tread? The grand, the intelligent glance From a spirit that fathoms and feels, Makes the heart of a horse-lover dance Till the warm-blooded life in him reels.

What care have I ever to know His owner by sight or by name? The horse that I glory in so Is still the magnificent same. I own I am proud of the pluck Of the sportsman that never was bought; But the nag that spread-eagled the ruck Is bound to be first in my thought.

For who that has masculine flame, Or who that is thorough at all, Can help feeling joy in the fame Of this king of the kings of the stall? What odds if assumption has sealed His soulless hereafter abode, So long as he shows to his "field" The gleam of his hoofs, and the road?

Beyond Kerguelen

Down in the South, by the waste without sail on it, Far from the zone of the blossom and tree, Lieth, with winter and whirlwind and wail on it, Ghost of a land by the ghost of a sea. Weird is the mist from the summit to base of it; Sun of its heaven is wizened and grey; Phantom of life is the light on the face of it-- Never is night on it, never is day! Here is the shore without flower or bird on it; Here is no litany sweet of the springs-- Only the haughty, harsh thunder is heard on it, Only the storm, with the roar in its wings!

Shadow of moon is the moon in the sky of it-- Wan as the face of a wizard, and far! Never there shines from the firmament high of it Grace of the planet or glory of star. All the year round, in the place of white days on it-- All the year round where there never is night-- Lies a great sinister, bitter, blind haze on it: Growth that is neither of darkness nor light! Wild is the cry of the sea in the caves by it-- Sea that is smitten by spears of the snow; Desolate songs are the songs of the waves by it-- Down in the south, where the ships never go.

Storm from the Pole is the singer that sings to it Hymns of the land at the planet's grey verge. Thunder discloses dark, wonderful things to it-- Thunder and rain, and the dolorous surge. Hills with no hope of a wing or a leaf on them, Scarred with the chronicles written by flame, Stare, through the gloom of inscrutable grief on them, Down on the horns of the gulfs without name. Cliffs, with the records of fierce flying fires on them-- Loom over perilous pits of eclipse; Alps, with anathema stamped in the spires on them-- Out by the wave with a curse on its lips.

Never is sign of soft, beautiful green on it-- Never the colour, the glory of rose! Neither the fountain nor river is seen on it, Naked its crags are, and barren its snows! Blue as the face of the drowned is the shore of it-- Shore, with the capes of indefinite cave. Strange is the voice of its wind, and the roar of it Startles the mountain and hushes the wave. Out to the south and away to the north of it, Spectral and sad are the spaces untold! All the year round a great cry goeth forth of it-- Sob of this leper of lands in the cold.

No man hath stood, all its bleak, bitter years on it-- Fall of a foot on its wastes is unknown: Only the sound of the hurricane's spears on it Breaks with the shout from the uttermost zone. Blind are its bays with the shadow of bale on them; Storms of the nadir their rocks have uphurled; Earthquake hath registered deeply its tale on them-- Tale of distress from the dawn of the world! _There_ are the gaps, with the surges that seethe in them-- Gaps in whose jaws is a menace that glares! _There_ the wan reefs, with the merciless teeth in them, Gleam on a chaos that startles and scares!

Back in the dawn of this beautiful sphere, on it-- Land of the dolorous, desolate face-- Beamed the blue day; and the bountiful year on it Fostered the leaf and the blossom of grace. Grand were the lights of its midsummer noon on it-- Mornings of majesty shone on its seas; Glitter of star and the glory of moon on it Fell, in the march of the musical breeze. Valleys and hills, with the whisper of wing in them, Dells of the daffodil--spaces impearled, Flowered and flashed with the splendour of Spring in them-- Back in the morn of this wonderful world.

Soft were the words that the thunder then said to it-- Said to this lustre of emerald plain; Sun brought the yellow, the green, and the red to it-- Sweet were the songs of its silvery rain. Voices of water and wind in the bays of it Lingered, and lulled like the psalm of a dream. Fair were the nights and effulgent the days of it-- Moon was in shadow and shade in the beam. Summer's chief throne was the marvellous coast of it, Home of the Spring was its luminous lea: Garden of glitter! But only the ghost of it Moans in the south by the ghost of a sea.

Black Lizzie

The gloved and jewelled bards who sing Of Pippa, Maud, and Dorothea, Have hardly done the handsome thing For you, my inky Cytherea.

Flower of a land whose sunny skies Are like the dome of Dante's clime, They _might_ have praised your lips, your eyes, And, eke, your ankles in their rhyme!

But let them pass! To right your wrong, Aspasia of the ardent South, Your poet means to sing a song With some prolixity of mouth.

I'll even sketch you as you are In Herrick's style of carelessness, Not overstocked with things that bar An ample view--to wit, with dress.

You have your blanket, it is true; But then, if I am right at all, What best would suit a dame like you Was worn by Eve before the Fall.

Indeed, the "fashion" is a thing That never cramped your cornless toes: Your single jewel is a ring Slung in your penetrated nose.

I can't detect the flowing lines Of Grecian features in your face, Nor are there patent any signs That link you with the Roman race.