Part 12

In short, I do not think your mould Resembles, with its knobs of bone, The fair Hellenic shapes of old Whose perfect forms survive in stone.

Still, if the charm called Beauty lies In ampleness of ear and lip, And nostrils of exceeding size, You are a gem, my ladyship!

Here, squatting by the doubtful flame Of three poor sticks, without a roof Above your head, impassive dame You live on--somewhat hunger-proof.

The current scandals of the day Don't trouble you--you seem to take Things in the coolest sort of way-- And _wisest_--for you have no ache.

You smoke a pipe--of course, you do! About an inch in length or less, Which, from a sexual point of view, Mars somehow your attractiveness.

But, rather than resign the weed, You'd shock us, whites, by chewing it; For etiquette is not indeed A thing that bothers you a bit.

Your people--take them as a whole-- Are careless on the score of grace; And hence you needn't comb your poll Or decorate your unctuous face.

Still, seeing that a little soap Would soften an excess of tint, You'll pardon my advance, I hope, In giving you a gentle hint.

You have your lovers--dusky beaux Not made of the poetic stuff That sports an Apollonian nose, And wears a sleek Byronic cuff.

But rather of a rougher clay Unmixed with overmuch romance, Far better at the wildwood fray Than spinning in a ballroom dance.

_These_ scarcely are the sonneteers That sing their loves in faultless clothes: _Your_ friends have more decided ears And more capaciousness of nose.

No doubt they suit you best--although They woo you roughly it is said: Their way of courtship is a blow Struck with a nullah on the head.

It doesn't hurt you much--the thing Is hardly novel to your life; And, _sans_ the feast and marriage ring, You make a good impromptu wife.

This hasty sort of wedding might, In other cases, bring distress; But then, your draper's bills are light-- You're frugal in regard to dress.

You have no passion for the play, Or park, or other showy scenes; And, hence, you have no scores to pay, And live within your husband's means.

Of course, his income isn't large,-- And not too certain--still you thrive By steering well inside the marge, And keep your little ones alive.

In short, in some respects you set A fine example; and a few Of those white matrons I have met Would show some sense by copying you.

Here let us part! I will not say, O lady free from scents and starch, That you are like, in any way, The authoress of "_Middlemarch_".

One cannot match her perfect phrase With commonplaces from your lip; And yet there are some sexual traits That show your dim relationship.

Indeed, in spite of all the mists That grow from social codes, I see The liberal likeness which exists Throughout our whole humanity.

And though I've laughed at your expense, O Dryad of the dusky race, No man who has a heart and sense Would bring displeasure to your face.

Hy-Brasil

"Daughter," said the ancient father, pausing by the evening sea, "Turn thy face towards the sunset--turn thy face and kneel with me! Prayer and praise and holy fasting, lips of love and life of light, These and these have made thee perfect--shining saint with seraph's sight! Look towards that flaming crescent--look beyond that glowing space-- Tell me, sister of the angels, what is beaming in thy face?" And the daughter, who had fasted, who had spent her days in prayer, Till the glory of the Saviour touched her head and rested there, Turned her eyes towards the sea-line--saw beyond the fiery crest, Floating over waves of jasper, far Hy-Brasil in the west.

All the calmness and the colour--all the splendour and repose, Flowing where the sunset flowered, like a silver-hearted rose! There indeed was singing Eden, where the great gold river runs Past the porch and gates of crystal, ringed by strong and shining ones! There indeed was God's own garden, sailing down the sapphire sea-- Lawny dells and slopes of summer, dazzling stream and radiant tree! Out against the hushed horizon--out beneath the reverent day, Flamed the Wonder on the waters--flamed and flashed and passed away. And the maiden who had seen it felt a hand within her own, And an angel that we know not led her to the lands unknown.

Never since hath eye beheld it--never since hath mortal, dazed By its strange, unearthly splendour, on the floating Eden gazed! Only once since Eve went weeping through a throng of glittering wings, Hath the holy seen Hy-Brasil where the great gold river sings! Only once by quiet waters, under still, resplendent skies, Did the sister of the seraphs kneel in sight of Paradise! She, the pure, the perfect woman, sanctified by patient prayer, Had the eyes of saints of Heaven, all their glory in her hair: Therefore God the Father whispered to a radiant spirit near-- "Show Our daughter fair Hy-Brasil--show her this, and lead her here."

But beyond the halls of sunset, but within the wondrous west, On the rose-red seas of evening, sails the Garden of the Blest. Still the gates of glassy beauty, still the walls of glowing light, Shine on waves that no man knows of, out of sound and out of sight. Yet the slopes and lawns of lustre, yet the dells of sparkling streams, Dip to tranquil shores of jasper, where the watching angel beams. But, behold, our eyes are human, and our way is paved with pain, We can never find Hy-Brasil, never see its hills again; Never look on bays of crystal, never bend the reverent knee In the sight of Eden floating--floating on the sapphire sea!

Jim the Splitter

The bard who is singing of Wollombi Jim Is hardly just now in the requisite trim To sit on his Pegasus fairly; Besides, he is bluntly informed by the Muse That Jim is a subject no singer should choose; For Jim is poetical rarely.

But being full up of the myths that are Greek-- Of the classic, and noble, and nude, and antique, Which means not a rag but the pelt on; This poet intends to give Daphne the slip, For the sake of a hero in moleskin and kip, With a jumper and snake-buckle belt on.

No party is Jim of the Pericles type-- He is modern right up from the toe to the pipe; And being no reader or roamer, He hasn't Euripides much in the head; And let it be carefully, tenderly said, He never has analysed Homer.

He can roar out a song of the twopenny kind; But, knowing the beggar so well, I'm inclined To believe that a "par" about Kelly, The rascal who skulked under shadow of curse, Is more in his line than the happiest verse On the glittering pages of Shelley.

You mustn't, however, adjudge him in haste, Because a red robber is more to his taste Than Ruskin, Rossetti, or Dante! You see, he was bred in a bangalow wood, And bangalow pith was the principal food His mother served out in her shanty.

His knowledge is this--he can tell in the dark What timber will split by the feel of the bark; And rough as his manner of speech is, His wits to the fore he can readily bring In passing off ash as the genuine thing When scarce in the forest the beech is.

In girthing a tree that he sells in the round, He assumes, as a rule, that the body is sound, And measures, forgetting to bark it! He may be a ninny, but still the old dog Can plug to perfection the pipe of a log And palm it away on the market.

He splits a fair shingle, but holds to the rule Of his father's, and, haply, his grandfather's school; Which means that he never has blundered, When tying his shingles, by slinging in more Than the recognized number of ninety and four To the bundle he sells for a hundred!

When asked by the market for ironbark red, It always occurs to the Wollombi head To do a "mahogany" swindle. In forests where never the ironbark grew, When Jim is at work, it would flabbergast you To see how the ironbarks dwindle.

He can stick to the saddle, can Wollombi Jim, And when a buckjumper dispenses with him, The leather goes off with the rider. And, as to a team, over gully and hill He can travel with twelve on the breadth of a quill And boss the unlucky offsider.

He shines at his best at the tiller of saw, On the top of the pit, where his whisper is law To the gentleman working below him. When the pair of them pause in a circle of dust, Like a monarch he poses--exalted, august-- There's nothing this planet can show him!

For a man is a _man_ who can sharpen and set, And _he_ is the only thing masculine yet According to sawyer and splitter-- Or rather according to Wollombi Jim; And nothing will tempt me to differ from him, For Jim is a bit of a hitter.

But, being full up, we'll allow him to rip, Along with his lingo, his saw, and his whip-- He isn't the classical notion. And, after a night in his humpy, you see, A person of orthodox habits would be Refreshed by a dip in the ocean.

To tot him right up from the heel to the head, He isn't the Grecian of whom we have read-- His face is a trifle too shady. The nymph in green valleys of Thessaly dim Would never "jack up" her old lover for him, For she has the tastes of a lady.

So much for our hero! A statuesque foot Would suffer by wearing that heavy-nailed boot-- Its owner is hardly Achilles. However, he's happy! He cuts a great "fig" In the land where a coat is no part of the rig-- In the country of damper and billies.

Mooni

(Written in the shadow of 1872.)

Ah, to be by Mooni now, Where the great dark hills of wonder, Scarred with storm and cleft asunder By the strong sword of the thunder, Make a night on morning's brow! Just to stand where Nature's face is Flushed with power in forest places-- Where of God authentic trace is-- Ah, to be by Mooni now!

Just to be by Mooni's springs! There to stand, the shining sharer Of that larger life, and rarer Beauty caught from beauty fairer Than the human face of things! Soul of mine from sin abhorrent Fain would hide by flashing current, Like a sister of the torrent, Far away by Mooni's springs.

He that is by Mooni now Sees the water-sapphires gleaming Where the River Spirit, dreaming, Sleeps by fall and fountain streaming Under lute of leaf and bough-- Hears, where stamp of storm with stress is, Psalms from unseen wildernesses Deep amongst far hill-recesses-- He that is by Mooni now.

Yea, for him by Mooni's marge Sings the yellow-haired September, With the face the gods remember When the ridge is burnt to ember, And the dumb sea chains the barge! Where the mount like molten brass is, Down beneath fern-feathered passes, Noonday dew in cool green grasses Gleams on him by Mooni's marge.

Who that dwells by Mooni yet, Feels, in flowerful forest arches, Smiting wings and breath that parches Where strong Summer's path of march is, And the suns in thunder set? Housed beneath the gracious kirtle Of the shadowy water myrtle, Winds may hiss with heat, and hurtle-- He is safe by Mooni yet!

Days there were when he who sings (Dumb so long through passion's losses) Stood where Mooni's water crosses Shining tracts of green-haired mosses, Like a soul with radiant wings; Then the psalm the wind rehearses-- Then the song the stream disperses Lent a beauty to his verses, Who to-night of Mooni sings.

Ah, the theme--the sad, grey theme! Certain days are not above me, Certain hearts have ceased to love me, Certain fancies fail to move me Like the affluent morning dream. Head whereon the white is stealing, Heart whose hurts are past all healing, Where is now the first pure feeling? Ah, the theme--the sad, grey theme!

Sin and shame have left their trace! He who mocks the mighty, gracious Love of Christ, with eyes audacious, Hunting after fires fallacious, Wears the issue in his face. Soul that flouted gift and Giver, Like the broken Persian river, Thou hast lost thy strength for ever! Sin and shame have left their trace.

In the years that used to be, When the large, supreme occasion Brought the life of inspiration, Like a god's transfiguration Was the shining change in me. Then, where Mooni's glory glances, Clear, diviner countenances Beamed on me like blessed chances, In the years that used to be.

Ah, the beauty of old ways! Then the man who so resembled Lords of light unstained, unhumbled, Touched the skirts of Christ, nor trembled At the grand benignant gaze! Now he shrinks before the splendid Face of Deity offended, All the loveliness is ended! All the beauty of old ways!

Still to be by Mooni cool-- Where the water-blossoms glister, And, by gleaming vale and vista, Sits the English April's sister Soft and sweet and wonderful. Just to rest beyond the burning Outer world--its sneers and spurning-- Ah! my heart--my heart is yearning Still to be by Mooni cool!

Now, by Mooni's fair hill heads, Lo, the gold green lights are glowing, Where, because no wind is blowing, Fancy hears the flowers growing In the herby watersheds! Faint it is--the sound of thunder From the torrents far thereunder, Where the meeting mountains ponder-- Now, by Mooni's fair hill heads.

Just to be where Mooni is, Even where the fierce fall races Down august, unfathomed places, Where of sun or moon no trace is, And the streams of shadows hiss! Have I not an ample reason So to long for--sick of treason-- Something of the grand old season, Just to be where Mooni is?

Pytheas

Gaul whose keel in far, dim ages ploughed wan widths of polar sea-- Gray old sailor of Massilia, who hath woven wreath for thee? Who amongst the world's high singers ever breathed the tale sublime Of the man who coasted England in the misty dawn of time? Leaves of laurel, lights of music--these and these have never shed Glory on the name unheard of, lustre on the vanished head. Lords of song, and these are many, never yet have raised the lay For the white, wind-beaten seaman of a wild, forgotten day. Harp of shining son of Godhead still is as a voice august; But the man who first saw Britain sleeps beneath unnoticed dust.

From the fair, calm bays Hellenic, from the crescents and the bends, Round the wall of crystal Athens, glowing in gold evening-ends, Sailed abroad the grand, strong father, with his face towards the snow Of the awful northern mountains, twenty centuries ago. On the seas that none had heard of, by the shores where none had furled Wing of canvas, passed this elder to the limits of the world. Lurid limits, loud with thunder and the roar of flaming cone, Ghastly tracts of ice and whirlwind lying in a dim, blind zone, Bitter belts of naked region, girt about by cliffs of fear, Where the Spirit of the Darkness dwells in heaven half the year.

Yea, against the wild, weird Thule, steered the stranger through the gates Opened by a fire eternal, into tempest-trampled straits-- Thule, lying like a nightmare on the borders of the Pole: Neither land, nor air, nor water, but a mixture of the whole! Dumb, dead chaos, grey as spectre, now a mist and now a cloud, Where the winds cry out for ever, and the wave is always loud. Here the lord of many waters, in the great exalted years, Saw the sight that no man knows of--heard the sound that no man hears-- Felt that God was in the Shadow ere he turned his prow and sped To the sweet green fields of England with the sunshine overhead.

In the day when pallid Persia fled before the Thracian steel, By the land that now is London passed the strange Hellenic keel. Up the bends of quiet river, hard by banks of grove and flower, Sailed the father through a silence in the old majestic hour. Not a sound of fin or feather, not a note of wave or breeze, Vext the face of sleeping streamlets, broke the rest of stirless trees. Not a foot was in the forest, not a voice was in the wood, When the elder from Massilia over English waters stood. All was new, and hushed, and holy--all was pure untrodden space, When the lord of many oceans turned to it a reverent face.

Man who knew resplendent Athens, set and framed in silver sea, Did not dream a dream of England--England of the years to be! Friend of fathers like to Plato--bards august and hallowed seers-- Did not see that tenfold glory, Britain of the future years! Spirit filled with Grecian music, songs that charm the dark away, On that large, supreme occasion, did not note diviner lay-- Did not hear the voice of Shakespeare--all the mighty life was still, Down the slopes that dipped to seaward, on the shoulders of the hill; But the gold and green were brighter than the bloom of Thracian springs, And a strange, surpassing beauty shone upon the face of things.

In a grave that no man thinks of--back from far-forgotten bays-- Sleeps the grey, wind-beaten sailor of the old exalted days. He that coasted Wales and Dover, he that first saw Sussex plains, Passed away with head unlaurelled in the wild Thessalian rains. In a space by hand untended, by a fen of vapours blind, Lies the king of many waters--out of sight and out of mind! No one brings the yearly blossom--no one culls the flower of grace, For the shell of mighty father buried in that lonely place; But the winds are low and holy, and the songs of sweetness flow, Where he fell asleep for ever, twenty centuries ago.

Bill the Bullock-Driver

The leaders of millions, the lords of the lands, Who sway the wide world with their will And shake the great globe with the strength of their hands, Flash past us--unnoticed by Bill.

The elders of science who measure the spheres And weigh the vast bulk of the sun-- Who see the grand lights beyond aeons of years, Are less than a bullock to _one_.

The singers that sweeten all time with their song-- Pure voices that make us forget Humanity's drama of marvellous wrong-- To Bill are as mysteries yet.

By thunders of battle and nations uphurled, Bill's sympathies never were stirred: The helmsmen who stand at the wheel of the world By him are unknown and unheard.

What trouble has Bill for the ruin of lands, Or the quarrels of temple and throne, So long as the whip that he holds in his hands And the team that he drives are his own?

As straight and as sound as a slab without crack, Our Bill is a king in his way; Though he camps by the side of a shingle track, And sleeps on the bed of his dray.

A whip-lash to him is as dear as a rose Would be to a delicate maid; He carries his darlings wherever he goes, In a pocket-book tattered and frayed.

The joy of a bard when he happens to write A song like the song of his dream Is nothing at all to our hero's delight In the pluck and the strength of his team.

For the kings of the earth, for the faces august Of princes, the millions may shout; To Bill, as he lumbers along in the dust, A bullock's the grandest thing out.

His four-footed friends are the friends of his choice-- No lover is Bill of your dames; But the cattle that turn at the sound of his voice Have the sweetest of features and names.

A father's chief joy is a favourite son, When he reaches some eminent goal, But the pride of Bill's heart is the hairy-legged one That pulls with a will at the pole.

His dray is no living, responsible thing, But he gives it the gender of life; And, seeing his fancy is free in the wing, It suits him as well as a wife.

He thrives like an Arab. Between the two wheels Is his bedroom, where, lying up-curled, He thinks for himself, like a sultan, and feels That his home is the best in the world.

For, even though cattle, like subjects, will break At times from the yoke and the band, Bill knows how to act when his rule is at stake, And is therefore a lord of the land.

Of course he must dream; but be sure that his dreams, If happy, must compass, alas! Fat bullocks at feed by improbable streams, Knee-deep in improbable grass.

No poet is Bill, for the visions of night To him are as visions of day; And the pipe that in sleep he endeavours to light Is the pipe that he smokes on the dray.

To the mighty, magnificent temples of God, In the hearts of the dominant hills, Bill's eyes are as blind as the fire-blackened clod That burns far away from the rills.

Through beautiful, bountiful forests that screen A marvel of blossoms from heat-- Whose lights are the mellow and golden and green-- Bill walks with irreverent feet.

The manifold splendours of mountain and wood By Bill like nonentities slip; He loves the black myrtle because it is good As a handle to lash to his whip.

And thus through the world, with a swing in his tread, Our hero self-satisfied goes; With his cabbage-tree hat on the back of his head, And the string of it under his nose.

Poor bullocky Bill! In the circles select Of the scholars he hasn't a place; But he walks like a _man_, with his forehead erect, And he looks at God's day in the face.

For, rough as he seems, he would shudder to wrong A dog with the loss of a hair; And the angels of shine and superlative song See his heart and the deity there.

Few know him, indeed; but the beauty that glows In the forest is loveliness still; And Providence helping the life of the rose Is a Friend and a Father to Bill.

Cooranbean

Years fifty, and seven to boot, have smitten the children of men Since sound of a voice or a foot came out of the head of that glen. The brand of black devil is there--an evil wind moaneth around-- There is doom, there is death in the air: a curse groweth up from the ground! No noise of the axe or the saw in that hollow unholy is heard, No fall of the hoof or the paw, no whirr of the wing of the bird; But a grey mother down by the sea, as wan as the foam on the strait, Has counted the beads on her knee these forty-nine winters and eight.