Part 14

And, looking from this moment back, I have a strong persuasion That, after all, a finished black Is not the "clean"--Caucasian.

Dear Peter from my threshold went, One morning in the body: He "dropped" me, to oblige a gent-- A gent with spear and waddy!

He shelved me for a boomerang-- We never had a quarrel; And, if a moral here doth hang, Why let it hang--the moral!

My mournful tale its course has run-- My Pete, when last I spied him, Was eating 'possum underdone: He had his gin beside him.

Narrara Creek

(Written in the shadow of 1872.)

From the rainy hill-heads, where, in starts and in spasms, Leaps wild the white torrent from chasms to chasms-- From the home of bold echoes, whose voices of wonder Fly out of blind caverns struck black by high thunder-- Through gorges august, in whose nether recesses Is heard the far psalm of unseen wildernesses-- Like a dominant spirit, a strong-handed sharer Of spoil with the tempest, comes down the Narrara.

Yea, where the great sword of the hurricane cleaveth The forested fells that the dark never leaveth-- By fierce-featured crags, in whose evil abysses The clammy snake coils, and the flat adder hisses-- Past lordly rock temples, where Silence is riven By the anthems supreme of the four winds of heaven-- It speeds, with the cry of the streams of the fountains It chained to its sides, and dragged down from the mountains!

But when it goes forth from the slopes with a sally-- Being strengthened with tribute from many a valley-- It broadens and brightens, and thereupon marches Above the stream sapphires and under green arches, With the rhythm of majesty--careless of cumber-- Its might in repose and its fierceness in slumber-- Till it beams on the plains, where the wind is a bearer Of words from the sea to the stately Narrara!

Narrara! grand son of the haughty hill torrent, Too late in my day have I looked at thy current-- Too late in my life to discern and inherit The soul of thy beauty, the joy of thy spirit! With the years of the youth and the hairs of the hoary, I sit like a shadow outside of thy glory; Nor look with the morning-like feelings, O river, That illumined the boy in the days gone for ever!

Ah! sad are the sounds of old ballads which borrow One-half of their grief from the listener's sorrow; And sad are the eyes of the pilgrim who traces The ruins of Time in revisited places; But sadder than all is the sense of his losses That cometh to one when a sudden age crosses And cripples his manhood. So, stricken by fate, I Felt older at thirty than some do at eighty.

Because I believe in the beautiful story, The poem of Greece in the days of her glory-- That the high-seated Lord of the woods and the waters Has peopled His world with His deified daughters-- That flowerful forests and waterways streaming Are gracious with goddesses glowing and gleaming-- I pray that thy singing divinity, fairer Than wonderful women, may listen, Narrara!

O spirit of sea-going currents!--thou, being The child of immortals, all-knowing, all-seeing-- Thou hast at thy heart the dark truth that I borrow For the song that I sing thee, no fanciful sorrow; In the sight of thine eyes is the history written Of Love smitten down as the strong leaf is smitten; And before thee there goeth a phantom beseeching For faculties forfeited--hopes beyond reaching.

. . . . .

Thou knowest, O sister of deities blazing With splendour ineffable, beauty amazing, What life the gods gave me--what largess I tasted-- The youth thrown away, and the faculties wasted. I might, as thou seest, have stood in high places, Instead of in pits where the brand of disgrace is, A byword for scoffers--a butt and a caution, With the grave of poor Burns and Maginn for my portion.

But the heart of the Father Supreme is offended, And my life in the light of His favour is ended; And, whipped by inflexible devils, I shiver, With a hollow "_Too late_" in my hearing for ever; But thou--being sinless, exalted, supernal, The daughter of diademed gods, the eternal-- Shalt shine in thy waters when time and existence Have dwindled, like stars, in unspeakable distance.

But the face of thy river--the torrented power That smites at the rock while it fosters the flower-- Shall gleam in my dreams with the summer-look splendid, And the beauty of woodlands and waterfalls blended; And often I'll think of far-forested noises, And the emphasis deep of grand sea-going voices, And turn to Narrara the eyes of a lover, When the sorrowful days of my singing are over.

In Memory of John Fairfax

Because this man fulfilled his days, Like one who walks with steadfast gaze Averted from forbidden ways With lures of fair, false flowerage deep, Behold the Lord whose throne is dim With fires of flaming seraphim-- The Christ that suffered sent for him: "He giveth His beloved sleep."

Think not that souls whose deeds august Put sin to shame and make men just Become at last the helpless dust That wintering winds through waste-lands sweep! The higher life within us cries, Like some fine spirit from the skies, "The Father's blessing on us lies-- 'He giveth His beloved sleep.'"

Not human sleep--the fitful rest With evil shapes of dreams distressed,-- But perfect quiet, unexpressed By any worldly word we keep. The dim Hereafter framed in creeds May not be this; but He who reads Our lives, sets flowers on wayside weeds-- "He giveth His beloved sleep."

Be sure this hero who has passed The human space--the outer vast-- Who worked in harness to the last, Doth now a hallowed harvest reap. Love sees his grave, nor turns away-- The eyes of faith are like the day, And grief has not a word to say-- "He giveth His beloved sleep."

That fair, rare spirit, Honour, throws A light, which puts to shame the rose, Across his grave, because she knows The son whose ashes it doth keep; And, like far music, _this_ is heard-- "Behold the man who never stirred, By word of his, an angry word!-- 'He giveth His beloved sleep.'"

He earned his place. Within his hands, The power which counsels and commands, And shapes the social life of lands, Became a blessing pure and deep. Through thirty years of turbulence Our thoughts were sweetened with a sense Of his benignant influence-- "He giveth His beloved sleep."

No splendid talents, which excite Like music, songs, or floods of light, Were his; but, rather, all those bright, Calm qualities of soul which reap A mute, but certain, fine respect, Not only from a source elect, But from the hearts of every sect-- "He giveth His beloved sleep."

He giveth His beloved rest! The faithful soul that onward pressed, Unswerving, from Life's east to west, By paths austere and passes steep, Is past all toil; and, over Death, With reverent hands and prayerful breath, I plant this flower, alive with faith-- "He giveth His beloved sleep."

Araluen

-- * Araluen: The poet's daughter, who died in infancy. --

Take this rose, and very gently place it on the tender, deep Mosses where our little darling, Araluen, lies asleep. Put the blossom close to baby--kneel with me, my love, and pray; We must leave the bird we've buried--say good-bye to her to-day. In the shadow of our trouble we must go to other lands, And the flowers we have fostered will be left to other hands: Other eyes will watch them growing--other feet will softly tread Where two hearts are nearly breaking, where so many tears are shed. Bitter is the world we live in: life and love are mixed with pain; We will never see these daisies--never water them again.

Ah! the saddest thought in leaving baby in this bush alone Is that we have not been able on her grave to place a stone: We have been too poor to do it; but, my darling, never mind-- God is in the gracious heavens, and His sun and rain are kind: They will dress the spot with beauty, they will make the grasses grow: Many winds will lull our birdie, many songs will come and go. Here the blue-eyed Spring will linger, here the shining month will stay, Like a friend, by Araluen, when we two are far away; But beyond the wild, wide waters, we will tread another shore-- We will never watch this blossom, never see it any more.

Girl, whose hand at God's high altar in the dear, dead year I pressed, Lean your stricken head upon me--this is still your lover's breast! She who sleeps was first and sweetest--none we have to take her place; Empty is the little cradle--absent is the little face. Other children may be given; but this rose beyond recall, But this garland of your girlhood, will be dearest of them all. None will ever, Araluen, nestle where you used to be, In my heart of hearts, you darling, when the world was new to me; We were young when you were with us, life and love were happy things To your father and your mother ere the angels gave you wings.

You that sit and sob beside me--you, upon whose golden head Many rains of many sorrows have from day to day been shed; Who because your love was noble, faced with me the lot austere Ever pressing with its hardship on the man of letters here-- Let me feel that you are near me, lay your hand within mine own; You are all I have to live for, now that we are left alone. Three there were, but one has vanished. Sins of mine have made you weep; But forgive your baby's father now that baby is asleep. Let us go, for night is falling; leave the darling with her flowers; Other hands will come and tend them--other friends in other hours.

The Sydney International Exhibition

(The poem which won the prize offered by the proprietors of the "Sydney Morning Herald".)

Now, while Orion, flaming south, doth set A shining foot on hills of wind and wet-- Far haughty hills beyond the fountains cold And dells of glimmering greenness manifold-- While August sings the advent of the Spring, And in the calm is heard September's wing, The lordly voice of song I ask of thee, High, deathless radiance--crowned Calliope! What though we never hear the great god's lays Which made all music the Hellenic days-- What though the face of thy fair heaven beams Still only on the crystal Grecian streams-- What though a sky of new, strange beauty shines Where no white Dryad sings within the pines: Here is a land whose large, imperial grace Must tempt thee, goddess, in thine holy place! Here are the dells of peace and plenilune, The hills of morning and the slopes of noon; Here are the waters dear to days of blue, And dark-green hollows of the noontide dew; Here lies the harp, by fragrant wood-winds fanned, That waits the coming of thy quickening hand! And shall Australia, framed and set in sea, August with glory, wait in vain for thee? Shall more than Tempe's beauty be unsung Because its shine is strange--its colours young? No! by the full, live light which puts to shame The far, fair splendours of Thessalian flame-- By yonder forest psalm which sinks and swells Like that of Phocis, grave with oracles-- By deep prophetic winds that come and go Where whispering springs of pondering mountains flow-- By lute-like leaves and many-languaged caves, Where sounds the strong hosanna of the waves, This great new majesty shall not remain Unhonoured by the high immortal strain! Soon, soon, the music of the southern lyre Shall start and blossom with a speech like fire! Soon, soon, shall flower and flow in flame divine Thy songs, Apollo, and Euterpe, thine! Strong, shining sons of Delphicus shall rise With all their father's glory in their eyes; And then shall beam on yonder slopes and springs The light that swims upon the light of things. And therefore, lingering in a land of lawn, I, standing here, a singer of the dawn, With gaze upturned to where wan summits lie Against the morning flowing up the sky-- Whose eyes in dreams of many colours see A glittering vision of the years to be-- Do ask of thee, Calliope, one hour Of life pre-eminent with perfect power, That I may leave a song whose lonely rays May shine hereafter from these songless days.

For now there breaks across the faint grey range The rose-red dawning of a radiant change. A soft, sweet voice is in the valleys deep, Where darkness droops and sings itself to sleep. The grave, mute woods, that yet the silence hold Of dim, dead ages, gleam with hints of gold. Yon eastern cape that meets the straitened wave-- A twofold tower above the whistling cave-- Whose strength in thunder shields the gentle lea, And makes a white wrath of a league of sea, Now wears the face of peace; and in the bay The weak, spent voice of Winter dies away. In every dell there is a whispering wing, On every lawn a glimmer of the Spring; By every hill are growths of tender green-- On every slope a fair, new life is seen; And lo! beneath the morning's blossoming fires, The shining city of a hundred spires, In mists of gold, by countless havens furled, And glad with all the flags of all the world!

These are the shores, where, in a dream of fear, Cathay saw darkness dwelling half the year!*1* These are the coasts that old fallacious tales Chained down with ice and ringed with sleepless gales! This is the land that, in the hour of awe, From Indian peaks the rapt Venetian saw!*2* Here is the long grey line of strange sea wall That checked the prow of the audacious Gaul, What time he steered towards the southern snow, From zone to zone, four hundred years ago!*3* By yonder gulf, whose marching waters meet The wine-dark currents from the isles of heat, Strong sons of Europe, in a far dim year, Faced ghastly foes, and felt the alien spear! There, in a later dawn, by shipless waves, The tender grasses found forgotten graves.*4* Far in the west, beyond those hills sublime, Dirk Hartog anchored in the olden time; There, by a wild-faced bay, and in a cleft, His shining name the fair-haired Northman left;*5* And, on those broad imperial waters, far Beneath the lordly occidental star, Sailed Tasman down a great and glowing space Whose softer lights were like his lady's face. In dreams of her he roved from zone to zone, And gave her lovely name to coasts unknown*6* And saw, in streaming sunset everywhere, The curious beauty of her golden hair, By flaming tracts of tropic afternoon, Where in low heavens hangs a fourfold moon. Here, on the tides of a resplendent year, By capes of jasper, came the buccaneer.*7* Then, then, the wild men, flying from the beach, First heard the clear, bold sounds of English speech; And then first fell across a Southern plain The broad, strong shadows of a Saxon train. Near yonder wall of stately cliff, that braves The arrogance of congregated waves, The daring son of grey old Yorkshire stood And dreamed in a majestic solitude, What time a gentle April shed its showers, Aflame with sunset, on the Bay of Flowers.*8* The noble seaman who withheld the hand, And spared the Hector of his native land-- The single savage, yelling on the beach The dark, strange curses of barbaric speech. Exalted sailor! whose benignant phrase Shines full of beauty in these latter days; Who met the naked tribes of fiery skies With great, divine compassion in his eyes; Who died, like Him of hoary Nazareth, That death august--the radiant martyr's death; Who in the last hour showed the Christian face Whose crumbling beauty shamed the alien race. In peace he sleeps where deep eternal calms Lie round the land of heavy-fruited palms. Lo! in that dell, behind a singing bar, Where deep, pure pools of glittering waters are, Beyond a mossy, yellow, gleaming glade, The last of Forby Sutherland was laid-- The blue-eyed Saxon from the hills of snow Who fell asleep a hundred years ago. In flowerful shades, where gold and green are rife, Still rests the shell of his forgotten life. Far, far away, beneath some northern sky The fathers of his humble household lie; But by his lonely grave are sapphire streams, And gracious woodlands, where the fire-fly gleams; And ever comes across a silver lea The hymn sublime of the eternal sea.

-- *1* According to Mr. R. H. Major, and others, the Great Southern Land is referred to in old Chinese records as a polar continent, subject to the long polar nights. *2* Marco Polo mentions a large land called by the Malays Lochac. The northern coast was supposed to be in latitude 10 Degrees S. *3* Mr. R. H. Major discovered a map of Terra Australis dated A.D. 1555 and bearing the name of Le Testu, a French pilot. Le Testu must have visited these coasts some years before the date of the chart. *4* The sailors of the _Duyfken_, a Dutch vessel which entered the Gulf of Carpentaria in A.D. 1606, were attacked by the natives. In the fray some of the whites were killed. No doubt these unlucky adventurers were the first Europeans buried in Australia. *5* Dirk Hartog left a tin plate, bearing his name, in Shark Bay, Western Australia. *6* The story of Tasman's love for Maria, the daughter of Governor Van Diemen, was generally accepted at the time Kendall wrote; but it has since been disproved. Maria was the wife of Antony Van Diemen, Governor of Batavia, who had no children.--Ed. *7* Dampier. *8* Botany Bay. --

On that bold hill, against a broad blue stream, Stood Arthur Phillip in a day of dream: What time the mists of morning westward rolled, And heaven flowered on a bay of gold! Here, in the hour that shines and sounds afar, Flamed first old England's banner like a star; Here, in a time august with prayer and praise, Was born the nation of these splendid days; And here this land's majestic yesterday Of immemorial silence died away. Where are the woods that, ninety summers back, Stood hoar with ages by the water-track? Where are the valleys of the flashing wing, The dim green margins and the glimmering spring? Where now the warrior of the forest race, His glaring war-paint and his fearless face? The banks of April and the groves of bird, The glades of silence and the pools unstirred, The gleaming savage and the whistling spear, Passed with the passing of a wild old year! A single torrent singing by the wave, A shadowy relic in a mountain cave, A ghost of fire in immemorial hills, The whittled tree by folded wayside rills, The call of bird that hides in hollows far, Where feet of thunder, wings of winter are-- Of all that Past, these wrecks of wind and rain, These touching memories--these alone remain!

What sun is this that beams and broadens west? What wonder this, in deathless glory dressed? What strange, sweet harp of highest god took flame And gave this Troy its life, its light, its name? What awful lyre of marvellous power and range Upraised this Ilion--wrought this dazzling change? No shining singer of Hellenic dreams Set yonder splendour by the morning streams! No god who glimmers in a doubtful sphere Shed glory there--created beauty here! This is the city that our fathers framed-- These are the crescents by the elders named! The human hands of strong, heroic men Broke down the mountain, filled the gaping glen, Ran streets through swamp, built banks against the foam, And bent the arch and raised the lordly dome! Here are the towers that the founders made! Here are the temples where these Romans prayed! Here stand the courts in which their leaders met! Here are their homes, and here their altars yet! Here sleep the grand old men whose lives sublime Of thought and action shine and sound through time! Who worked in darkness--onward fought their ways To bring about these large majestic days-- Who left their sons the hearts and high desires Which built this city of the hundred spires!

A stately Morning rises on the wing, The hills take colour, and the valleys sing. A strong September flames beyond the lea-- A silver vision on a silver sea. A new Age, "cast in a diviner mould", Comes crowned with lustre, zoned and shod with gold! What dream is this on lawny spaces set? What miracle of dome and minaret? What great mute majesty is this that takes The first of morning ere the song-bird wakes? Lo, this was built to honour gathering lands By Celtic, Saxon, Australasian hands! These are the halls where all the flags unfurled Break into speech that welcomes all the world. And lo, our friends are here from every zone-- From isles we dream of and from tracts unknown! Here are the fathers from the stately space Where Ireland is and England's sacred face! Here are the Norsemen from their strong sea-wall, The grave, grand Teuton and the brilliant Gaul! From green, sweet groves the dark-eyed Lusians sail, And proud Iberia leaves the grape-flushed vale. Here are the lords whose starry banner shines From fierce Magellan to the Arctic pines. Here come the strangers from the gates of day-- From hills of sunrise and from white Cathay. The spicy islands send their swarthy sons, The lofty North its mailed and mighty ones. Venetian keels are floating on our sea; Our eyes are glad with radiant Italy! Yea, North and South, and glowing West and East, Are gathering here to grace our splendid feast! The chiefs from peaks august with Asian snow, The elders born where regal roses grow, Come hither, with the flower of that fair land That blooms beyond the fiery tracts of sand Where Syrian suns their angry lustres fling Across blind channels of the bygone spring. And on this great, auspicious day, the flowers Of labour glorify majestic hours.

The singing angel from the starry sphere Of dazzling Science shows his wonders here; And Art, the dream-clad spirit, starts, and brings From Fairyland her strange, sweet, glittering things. Here are the works man did, what time his face Was touched by God in some exalted place; Here glows the splendour--here the marvel wrought When Heaven flashed upon the maker's thought! Yea, here are all the miracles sublime-- The lights of Genius and the stars of Time! And, being lifted by this noble noon, Australia broadens like a tropic moon. Her white, pure lustre beams across the zones; The nations greet her from their awful thrones. From hence the morning beauty of her name Will shine afar, like an exceeding flame. Her place will be with mighty lords, whose sway Controls the thunder and the marching day. Her crown will shine beside the crowns of kings Who shape the seasons, rule the course of things, The fame of her across the years to be Will spread like light on a surpassing sea; And graced with glory, girt with power august, Her life will last till all things turn to dust.