Part 13

Whenever an elder is asked--a white-headed man of the woods-- Of the terrible mystery masked where the dark everlastingly broods, Be sure he will turn to the bay, with his back to the glen in the range, And glide like a phantom away, with a countenance pallid with change. From the line of dead timber that lies supine at the foot of the glade, The fierce-featured eaglehawk flies--afraid as a dove is afraid; But back in that wilderness dread are a fall and the forks of a ford-- _Ah! pray and uncover your head, and lean like a child on the Lord._

A sinister fog at the wane--at the change of the moon cometh forth Like an ominous ghost in the train of a bitter, black storm of the north! At the head of the gully unknown it hangs like a spirit of bale. And the noise of a shriek and a groan strikes up in the gusts of the gale. In the throat of a feculent pit is the beard of a bloody-red sedge; And a foam like the foam of a fit sweats out of the lips of the ledge. But down in the water of death, in the livid, dead pool at the base-- _Bow low, with inaudible breath, beseech with the hands to the face!_

A furlong of fetid, black fen, with gelid, green patches of pond, Lies dumb by the horns of the glen--at the gates of the horror beyond; And those who have looked on it tell of the terrible growths that are there-- The flowerage fostered by hell, the blossoms that startle and scare. If ever a wandering bird should light on Gehennas like this Be sure that a cry will be heard, and the sound of the flat adder's hiss. But hard by the jaws of the bend is a ghastly Thing matted with moss-- _Ah, Lord! be a father, a friend, for the sake of the Christ of the Cross._

Black Tom, with the sinews of five--that never a hangman could hang-- In the days of the shackle and gyve, broke loose from the guards of the gang. Thereafter, for seasons a score, this devil prowled under the ban; A mate of red talon and paw, a wolf in the shape of a man. But, ringed by ineffable fire, in a thunder and wind of the north, The sword of Omnipotent ire--the bolt of high Heaven went forth! But, wan as the sorrowful foam, a grey mother waits by the sea For the boys that have never come home these fifty-four winters and three.

From the folds of the forested hills there are ravelled and roundabout tracks, Because of the terror that fills the strong-handed men of the axe! Of the workers away in the range there is none that will wait for the night, When the storm-stricken moon is in change and the sinister fog is in sight. And later and deep in the dark, when the bitter wind whistles about, There is never a howl or a bark from the dog in the kennel without, But the white fathers fasten the door, and often and often they start, At a sound like a foot on the floor and a touch like a hand on the heart.

When Underneath the Brown Dead Grass

When underneath the brown dead grass My weary bones are laid, I hope I shall not see the glass At ninety in the shade. I trust indeed that, when I lie Beneath the churchyard pine, I shall not hear that startling cry "'Thermom' is ninety-nine!"

If one should whisper through my sleep "Come up and be alive," I'd answer--_No, unless you'll keep The glass at sixty-five._ I _might_ be willing if allowed To wear old Adam's rig, And mix amongst the city crowd Like Polynesian "nig".

Far better in the sod to lie, With pasturing pig above, Than broil beneath a copper sky-- In sight of all I love! Far better to be turned to grass To feed the poley cow, Than be the half boiled bream, alas, That I am really now!

For cow and pig I would not hear, And hoof I would not see; But if these items did appear They wouldn't trouble me. For ah! the pelt of mortal man Weighs less than half a ton, And any sight is better than A sultry southern sun.

The Voice in the Wild Oak

(Written in the shadow of 1872.)

Twelve years ago, when I could face High heaven's dome with different eyes-- In days full-flowered with hours of grace, And nights not sad with sighs-- I wrote a song in which I strove To shadow forth thy strain of woe, Dark widowed sister of the grove!-- Twelve wasted years ago.

But youth was then too young to find Those high authentic syllables, Whose voice is like the wintering wind By sunless mountain fells; Nor had I sinned and suffered then To that superlative degree That I would rather seek, than men, Wild fellowship with thee!

But he who hears this autumn day Thy more than deep autumnal rhyme, Is one whose hair was shot with grey By Grief instead of Time. He has no need, like many a bard, To sing imaginary pain, Because he bears, and finds it hard, The punishment of Cain.

No more he sees the affluence Which makes the heart of Nature glad; For he has lost the fine, first sense Of Beauty that he had. The old delight God's happy breeze Was wont to give, to Grief has grown; And therefore, Niobe of trees, His song is like thine own!

But I, who am that perished soul, Have wasted so these powers of mine, That I can never write that whole, Pure, perfect speech of thine. Some lord of words august, supreme, The grave, grand melody demands; The dark translation of thy theme I leave to other hands.

Yet here, where plovers nightly call Across dim, melancholy leas-- Where comes by whistling fen and fall The moan of far-off seas-- A grey, old Fancy often sits Beneath thy shade with tired wings, And fills thy strong, strange rhyme by fits With awful utterings.

Then times there are when all the words Are like the sentences of one Shut in by Fate from wind and birds And light of stars and sun, No dazzling dryad, but a dark Dream-haunted spirit doomed to be Imprisoned, crampt in bands of bark, For all eternity.

Yea, like the speech of one aghast At Immortality in chains, What time the lordly storm rides past With flames and arrowy rains: Some wan Tithonus of the wood, 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 And shriek from glen to glen, As if a frightful memory whipped Thy soul for some infernal crime That left it blasted, blind, and stript-- A dread to Death and Time!

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.

But, ah! conceptions fade away, And still the life that lives in thee-- The soul of thy majestic lay-- Remains a mystery! And he must speak the speech divine-- The language of the high-throned lords-- Who'd give that grand old theme of thine Its sense in faultless words.

By hollow lands and sea-tracts harsh, With ruin of the fourfold gale, Where sighs the sedge and sobs the marsh, Still wail thy lonely wail; And, year by year, one step will break The sleep of far hill-folded streams, And seek, if only for thy sake Thy home of many dreams.

Billy Vickers

No song is this of leaf and bird, And gracious waters flowing; I'm sick at heart, for I have heard Big Billy Vickers "blowing".

He'd never take a leading place In chambers legislative: This booby with the vacant face-- This hoddy-doddy native!

Indeed, I'm forced to say aside, To you, O reader, solely, He only wants the horns and hide To be a bullock wholly.

But, like all noodles, he is vain; And when his tongue is wagging, I feel inclined to copy Cain, And "drop" him for his bragging.

He, being Bush-bred, stands, of course, Six feet his dirty socks in; His lingo is confined to horse And plough, and pig and oxen.

Two years ago he'd less to say Within his little circuit; But now he has, besides a dray, A team of twelve to work it.

No wonder is it that he feels Inclined to clack and rattle About his bullocks and his wheels-- He owns a dozen cattle.

In short, to be exact and blunt, In his own estimation He's "out and out" the head and front Top-sawyer of creation!

For, mark me, he can "sit a buck" For hours and hours together; And never horse has had the luck To pitch him from the leather.

If ever he should have a "spill" Upon the grass or gravel, Be sure of this, the saddle will With Billy Vickers travel.

At punching oxen you may guess There's nothing out can "camp" him: He has, in fact, the slouch and dress Which bullock-driver stamp him.

I do not mean to give offence, But I have vainly striven To ferret out the difference 'Twixt driver and the driven.

Of course, the statements herein made In every other stanza Are Billy's own; and I'm afraid They're stark extravaganza.

I feel constrained to treat as trash His noisy fiddle-faddle About his doings with the lash, His feats upon the saddle.

But grant he "knows his way about", Or grant that he is silly, There cannot be the slightest doubt Of Billy's faith in Billy.

Of all the doings of the day His ignorance is utter; But he can quote the price of hay, The current rate of butter.

His notions of our leading men Are mixed and misty very: He knows a cochin-china hen-- He never speaks of Berry.

As you'll assume, he hasn't heard Of Madame Patti's singing; But I will stake my solemn word He knows what maize is bringing.

Surrounded by majestic peaks, By lordly mountain ranges, Where highest voice of thunder speaks His aspect never changes.

The grand Pacific there beyond His dirty hut is glowing: He only sees a big salt pond, O'er which his grain is going.

The sea that covers half the sphere, With all its stately speeches, Is held by Bill to be a mere Broad highway for his peaches.

Through Nature's splendid temples he Plods, under mountains hoary; But he has not the eyes to see Their grandeur and their glory.

A bullock in a biped's boot, I iterate, is Billy! He crushes with a careless foot The touching water-lily.

I've said enough--I'll let him go! If he could read these verses, He'd pepper me for hours, I know, With his peculiar curses.

But this is sure, he'll never change His manners loud and flashy, Nor learn with neatness to arrange His clothing, cheap and trashy.

Like other louts, he'll jog along, And swig at shanty liquors, And chew and spit. Here ends the song Of Mr. Billy Vickers.

Persia

I am writing this song at the close Of a beautiful day of the spring In a dell where the daffodil grows By a grove of the glimmering wing; From glades where a musical word Comes ever from luminous fall, I send you the song of a bird That I wish to be dear to you all.

I have given my darling the name Of a land at the gates of the day, Where morning is always the same, And spring never passes away. With a prayer for a lifetime of light, I christened her Persia, you see; And I hope that some fathers to-night Will kneel in the spirit with me.

She is only commencing to look At the beauty in which she is set; And forest and flower and brook, To her are all mysteries yet. I know that to many my words Will seem insignificant things; But _you_ who are mothers of birds Will feel for the father who sings.

For all of you doubtless have been Where sorrows are many and wild; And you _know_ what a beautiful scene Of this world can be made by a child: I am sure, if they listen to this, Sweet women will quiver, and long To tenderly stoop to and kiss The Persia I've put in a song.

And I'm certain the critic will pause, And excuse, for the sake of my bird, My sins against critical laws-- The slips in the thought and the word. And haply some dear little face Of his own to his mind will occur-- Some Persia who brightens his place-- And I'll be forgiven for her.

A life that is turning to grey Has hardly been happy, you see; But the rose that has dropped on my way Is morning and music to me. Yea, she that I hold by the hand Is changing white winter to green, And making a light of the land-- All fathers will know what I mean:

All women and men who have known The sickness of sorrow and sin, Will feel--having babes of their own-- My verse and the pathos therein. For that must be touching which shows How a life has been led from the wild To a garden of glitter and rose, By the flower-like hand of a child.

She is strange to this wonderful sphere; One summer and winter have set Since God left her radiance here-- Her sweet second year is not yet. The world is so lovely and new To eyes full of eloquent light, And, sisters, I'm hoping that you Will pray for my Persia to-night.

For I, who have suffered so much, And know what the bitterness is, Am sad to think sorrow must touch Some day even darlings like this! But sorrow is part of this life, And, therefore, a father doth long For the blessing of mother and wife On the bird he has put in a song.

Lilith

Strange is the song, and the soul that is singing Falters because of the vision it sees; Voice that is not of the living is ringing Down in the depths where the darkness is clinging, Even when Noon is the lord of the leas, Fast, like a curse, to the ghosts of the trees!

Here in a mist that is parted in sunder, Half with the darkness and half with the day; Face of a woman, but face of a wonder, Vivid and wild as a flame of the thunder, Flashes and fades, and the wail of the grey Water is loud on the straits of the bay!

Father, whose years have been many and weary-- Elder, whose life is as lovely as light Shining in ways that are sterile and dreary-- Tell me the name of this beautiful peri, Flashing on me like the wonderful white Star, at the meeting of morning and night.

Look to thy Saviour, and down on thy knee, man, Lean on the Lord, as the Zebedee leaned; Daughter of hell is the neighbour of thee, man-- Lilith, of Adam the luminous leman! Turn to the Christ to be succoured and screened, Saved from the eyes of a marvellous fiend!

Serpent she is in the shape of a woman, Brighter than woman, ineffably fair! Shelter thyself from the splendour, and sue, man; Light that was never a loveliness human Lives in the face of this sinister snare, Longing to strangle thy soul with her hair!

Lilith, who came to the father and bound him Fast with her eyes in the first of the springs; Lilith she is, but remember she drowned him, Shedding her flood of gold tresses around him-- Lulled him to sleep with the lyric she sings: Melody strange with unspeakable things!

Low is her voice, but beware of it ever, Swift bitter death is the fruit of delay; Never was song of its beauty--ah! never-- Heard on the mountain, or meadow, or river, Not of the night is it, not of the day-- Fly from it, stranger, away and away.

Back on the hills are the blossom and feather, Glory of noon is on valley and spire; Here is the grace of magnificent weather, Where is the woman from gulfs of the nether? Where is the fiend with the face of desire? Gone, with a cry, in miraculous fire!

Sound that was not of this world, or the spacious Splendid blue heaven, has passed from the lea; Dead is the voice of the devil audacious: Only a dream is her music fallacious, Here, in the song and the shadow of tree, Down by the green and the gold of the sea.

Bob

Singer of songs of the hills-- Dreamer, by waters unstirred, Back in a valley of rills, Home of the leaf and the bird!-- Read in this fall of the year Just the compassionate phrase, Faded with traces of tear, Written in far-away days:

"_Gone is the light of my lap (Lord, at Thy bidding I bow), Here is my little one's cap, He has no need of it now, Give it to somebody's boy-- Somebody's darling_"--she wrote. Touching was Bob in his joy-- Bob without boots or a coat.

Only a cap; but it gave Capless and comfortless one Happiness, bright as the brave, Beautiful light of the sun. Soft may the sanctified sod Rest on the father who led Bob from the gutter, unshod-- Covered his cold little head!

Bob from the foot to the crown Measured a yard, and no more-- Baby alone in the town, Homeless, and hungry, and sore-- Child that was never a child, Hiding away from the rain, Draggled and dirty and wild, Down in a pipe of the drain.

Poor little beggar was Bob-- Couldn't afford to be sick, Getting a penny a job, Sometimes a curse and a kick. Father was killed by the drink; Mother was driven to shame; Bob couldn't manage to think-- He had forgotten their name.

God was in heaven above, Flowers illumined the ground, Women of infinite love Lived in the palaces round-- Saints with the character sweet Found in the fathers of old, Laboured in alley and street-- Baby slept out in the cold.

Nobody noticed the child-- Nobody knew of the mite Creeping about like a wild Thing in the shadow of night. Beaten by drunkards and cowed-- Frightened to speak or to sob-- How could he ask you aloud, "_Have you a penny for Bob?_"

Few were the pennies he got-- Seldom could hide them away, Watched by the ravenous sot Ever at wait for his prey. Poor little man! He would weep Oft for a morsel of bread; Coppers he wanted to keep Went to the tavern instead.

This was his history, friend-- Ragged, unhoused, and alone; How could the child comprehend Love that he never had known? Hunted about in the world, Crouching in crevices dim, Crust with a curse at him hurled Stood for a kindness with him.

Little excited his joy-- Bun after doing a job; Mother of bright-headed boy, Think of the motherless Bob! High in the heavens august Providence saw him, and said-- "_Out of the pits of the dust Lift him, and cover his head._"

Ah, the ineffable grace, Father of children, in Thee! Boy in a radiant place, Fanned by the breeze of the sea-- Child on a lullaby lap Said, in the pause of his pain, "_Mother, don't bury my cap-- Give it to Bob in the lane._"

Beautiful bidding of Death! What could she do but obey, Even when suffering Faith Hadn't the power to pray? So, in the fall of the year, Saint with the fatherly head Hunted for somebody's dear-- "_Somebody's darling,_" he said.

Bob, who was nobody's child, Sitting on nobody's lap, Draggled and dirty and wild-- Bob got the little one's cap. Strange were compassionate words! Waif of the alley and lane Dreamed of the music of birds Floating about in the rain.

White-headed father in God, Over thy beautiful grave Green is the grass of the sod, Soft is the sound of the wave. Down by the slopes of the sea Often and often will sob Boy who was fostered by thee-- This is the story of Bob.

Peter the Piccaninny

He has a name which can't be brought Within the sphere of metre; But, as he's Peter by report, I'll trot him out as Peter.

I call him mine; but don't suppose That I'm his dad, O reader! My wife has got a Norman nose-- She reads the tales of Ouida.

I never loved a nigger belle-- My tastes are too aesthetic! The perfume from a gin is--well, A rather strong emetic.

But, seeing that my theme is Pete, This verse will be the neater If I keep on the proper beat, And stick throughout to Peter.

We picked him up the Lord knows where! At noon we came across him Asleep beside a hunk of bear-- His paunch was bulged with 'possum.

(Last stanza will not bear, I own, A pressure analytic; But bard whose weight is fourteen stone, Is apt to thump the critic.)

We asked the kid to give his name: He didn't seem too willing-- The darkey played the darkey's game-- We tipped him with a shilling!

We tipped him with a shining bob-- No Tommy Dodd, believe us. We didn't "tumble" to his job-- Ah, why did Pete deceive us!

I, being, as I've said, a bard, Resolved at once to foster This mite whose length was just a yard-- This portable impostor!

"This babe"--I spoke in Wordsworth's tone-- (See Wordsworth's "Lucy", neighbour) "I'll make a darling of my own; And he'll repay my labour.

"He'll grow as gentle as a fawn-- As quiet as the blossoms That beautify a land of lawn-- He'll eat no more opossums.

"The child I to myself will take In a paternal manner; And ah! he will not swallow snake In future, or 'goanna'.

"Will you reside with me, my dear?" I asked in accents mellow-- The nigger grinned from ear to ear, And said, "All right, old fellow!"

And so my Pete was taken home-- My pretty piccaninny! And, not to speak of soap or comb, His cleansing cost a guinea.

"But hang expenses!" I exclaimed, "I'll give him education: A 'nig' is better when he's tamed, Perhaps, than a Caucasian.

"Ethnologists are in the wrong About our sable brothers; And I intend to stop the song Of Pickering and others."

Alas, I didn't do it though! Old Pickering's conclusions Were to the point, as issues show, And mine were mere delusions.

My inky pet was clothed and fed For months exceeding forty; But to the end, it must be said, His ways were very naughty.

When told about the Land of Morn Above this world of Mammon, He'd shout, with an emphatic scorn, "Ah, gammon, gammon, gammon!"

He never lingered, like the bard, To sniff at rose expanding. "Me like," he said, "em cattle-yard-- Fine smell--de smell of branding!"

The soul of man, I tried to show, Went up beyond our vision. "You ebber see dat fellow go?" He asked in sheer derision.

In short, it soon occurred to me This kid of six or seven, Who wouldn't learn his A B C, Was hardly ripe for heaven.

He never lost his appetite-- He bigger grew, and bigger; And proved, with every inch of height, A nigger is a nigger.