Part 18

To-night the sea sends up a gulf-like sound, And ancient rhymes are ringing in my head, The many lilts of song we sang and said, My friend and brother, when we journeyed round Our haunts at Wollongong, that classic ground For me at least, a lingerer deeply read And steeped in beauty. Oft in trance I tread Those shining shores, and hear your talk of Fame With thought-flushed face and heart so well assured (Beholding through the woodland's bright distress The Moon half pillaged of her loveliness) Of this wild dreamer: Had you but endured A dubious dark, you might have won a name With brighter bays than I can ever claim.

The Waterfall

The song of the water Doomed ever to roam, A beautiful exile, Afar from its home.

The cliffs on the mountain, The grand and the gray, They took the bright creature And hurled it away!

I heard the wild downfall, And knew it must spill A passionate heart out All over the hill.

Oh! was it a daughter Of sorrow and sin, That they threw it so madly Down into the lynn?

. . .

And listen, my Sister, For this is the song The Waterfall taught me The ridges among:--

"Oh where are the shadows So cool and so sweet And the rocks," saith the water, "With the moss on their feet?

"Oh, where are my playmates The wind and the flowers-- The golden and purple-- Of honey-sweet bowers,

"Mine eyes have been blinded Because of the sun; And moaning and moaning I listlessly run.

"These hills are so flinty!-- Ah! tell me, dark Earth, What valley leads back to The place of my birth?--

"What valley leads up to The haunts where a child Of the caverns I sported, The free and the wild?

"There lift me,"--it crieth, "I faint from the heat; With a sob for the shadows So cool and so sweet."

Ye rocks, that look over With never a tear, I yearn for one half of The wasted love here!

My sister so wistful, You know I believe, Like a child for the mountains This water doth grieve.

Ah! you with the blue eyes And golden-brown hair, Come closer and closer And truly declare:--

Supposing a darling Once happened to sin, In a passionate space, Would you carry her in--

If your fathers and mothers, The grand and the gray, Had taken the weak one And hurled her away?

The Song of Arda

(From "Annatanam".)

Low as a lute, my love, beneath the call Of storm, I hear a melancholy wind; The memorably mournful wind of yore Which is the very brother of the one That wanders, like a hermit, by the mound Of Death, in lone Annatanam. A song Was shaped for this, what time we heard outside The gentle falling of the faded leaf In quiet noons: a song whose theme doth turn On gaps of Ruin and the gay-green clifts Beneath the summits haunted by the moon. Yea, much it travels to the dens of dole; And in the midst of this strange rhyme, my lords, Our Desolation like a phantom sits With wasted cheeks and eyes that cannot weep And fastened lips crampt up in marvellous pain.

A song in whose voice is the voice of the foam And the rhyme of the wintering wave, And the tongue of the things that eternally roam In forest, in fell or in cave; But mostly 'tis like to the Wind without home In the glen of a desolate grave-- Of a deep and desolate grave.

The torrent flies over the thunder-struck clift With many and many a call; The leaves are swept down, and a dolorous drift Is hurried away with the fall. But mostly 'tis like the Wind without home In the glen of a desolate grave-- Of a deep and desolate grave.

Whoever goes thither by night or by day Must mutter, O Father, to Thee, For the shadows that startle, the sounds that waylay Are heavy to hear and to see; And a step and a moan and a whisper for aye Have made it a sorrow to be-- A sorrow of sorrows to be.

Oh! cover your faces and shudder, and turn And hide in the dark of your hair, Nor look to the Glen in the Mountains, to learn Of the mystery mouldering there; But rather sit low in the ashes and urn Dead hopes in your mighty despair-- In the depths of your mighty despair.

The Helmsman

Like one who meets a staggering blow, The stout old ship doth reel, And waters vast go seething past-- But will it last, this fearful blast, On straining shroud and groaning mast, O sailor at the wheel?

His face is smitten with the wind, His cheeks are chilled with rain; And you were right, his hair is white, But eyes are calm and heart is light _He_ does not fear the strife to-night, He knows the roaring main.

Ho, Sailor! Will to-morrow bring The hours of pleasant rest? An answer low--"I do not know, The thunders grow and far winds blow, But storms may come and storms may go-- Our God, He judgeth best!"

Now you are right, brave mariner, But we are not like you; We, used to shore, our fates deplore, And fear the more when waters roar; So few amongst us look before, Or stop to think that Heaven is o'er-- Ah! what you say is true.

And those who go abroad in ships, Who seldom see the land, But sail and stray so far away, Should trust and pray, for are not they, When Darkness blinds them on their way, All guided by God's hand?

But you are wrinkled, grey and worn; 'Tis time you dwelt in peace! Your prime is past; we fail so fast; You may not last through every blast, And, oh, 'tis fearful to be cast Amongst the smothering seas!

Is there no absent face to love That you must live alone? If faith did fade, if friends betrayed, And turned, and staid resolves you'd made, Ah, still 'tis pleasant to be laid Where you at least are known.

The answer slides betwixt our words-- "The season shines and glooms On ship and strand, on sea and land, But life must go and Time is spanned, As well you know when out you stand With Death amongst the tombs!

"It matters not to one so old Who mourns when Fate comes round, And one may sleep down in the deep As well as those beneath the heap That fifty stormy years will sweep And trample to the ground."

Your speech is wise, brave mariner, And we would let you be; You speak with truth, you strive to soothe; But, oh, the wrecks of Love and Truth, What say you to our tears for Youth And Beauty drowned at sea?

"Oh, talk not of the Beauty lost, Since first these decks I trod The hopeless stare on faces fair, The streaming, bare, dishevelled hair, The wild despair, the sinking--where, Oh where, oh where?--My God!"

To Miss Annie Hopkins

Beneath the shelter of the bush, In undisturbed repose-- Unruffled by the kiss of breeze-- There lurks a smiling rose; Beneath thine outer beauty, gleams, In holy light enshrined, A symbol of the blooming flower, A pure, unspotted mind.

The lovely tint that crowns the hill When westward sinks the sun, The milder dazzle in the stream That evening sits upon, The morning blushes, mantling o'er The face of land and sea, They all recall to mind the charms That are combined in thee!

Foreshadowings

Fifteen miles and then the harbour! Here we cannot choose but stand, Faces thrust towards the day-break, listening for our native land! Close-reefed topsails shuddering over, straining down the groaning mast; For a tempest cleaves the darkness, hissing, howling, shrieking past! Lo! the air is flecked with stormbirds, and their melancholy wail Lends a tone of deeper pathos to the melancholy gale! Whilst away they wheel to leeward, leaving in their rapid flight Wind and water grappling wildly through the watches of the night.

Yesterday we both were happy; but my soul is filled with change, And I'm sad, my gallant comrade, with foreshadowings vague and strange! Dear old place, are we so near you? Like to one that speaks in sleep, I'm talking, thinking wildly o'er this moaning, maddened deep! Much it makes me marvel, brother, that such thoughts should linger nigh Now we know what shore is hidden somewhere in that misty sky! Oh! I even fear to see it; and I've never felt so low Since we turned our faces from it, seven weary years ago.

Have you faith at all in omens? Fits of passion I have known When it seemed in crowded towns as if I walked the Earth alone! And amongst my comrades often, o'er the lucent, laughing sea, I have felt like one that drifteth on a dark and dangerous lee! As a man who, crossing waters underneath a moony night, Knows there will be gloomy weather if a cloudrack bounds the light, So I hold, when Life is splendid, and our hopes are new and warm, We can sometimes, looking forward, see the shade and feel the storm.

When you called me I was dreaming that this thunder raged no more, And we travelled, both together, on a calm, delightful shore; That we went along rejoicing, for I thought I heard you say, "Now we soon shall see them, brother--now our fears have passed away!" Pleasant were those deep green wild-woods; and we hurried, like a breeze, Till I saw a distant opening through the porches of the trees; And our village faintly gleaming past the forest and the stream; But we wandered sadly through it with the Spirit of my Dream.

Why was our delight so fickle? Was it well while there to mourn; When the loved--the loving, crowding, came to welcome our return? In my vision, once so glorious, did we find that aught was changed; Or that ONE whom WE remembered was forgotten or estranged? Through a mist of many voices, listening for sweet accents fled, Heard we hints of lost affection, or of gentle faces dead? No! but on the quiet dreamscape came a darkness like a pall And a ghostly shadow, brother, fell and rested over all.

Talking thus my friend I fronted, and in trustful tones he spake-- "I have long been waiting, watching here to see the morning break; Now behold the bright fulfilment! Did my Spirit yearn in vain; And amidst this holy splendour can a moody heart remain? Let them pass, those wayward fancies! Waking thoughts return with sleep; And they mingle strangely sometimes, while we lie in slumber deep; But, believe me, dreams are nothing. If unto His creatures weak God should whisper of the Future, not in riddles will He speak."

Since he answered I have rested, for his brave words fell like balm; And we reached the land in daylight, and the tempest died in calm; Though the sounds of gusty fragments of a faint and broken breeze Still went gliding with the runnels, gurgling down the spangled leas! So we turned and travelled onward, till we rested at a place Where a Vision fell about us, sunned with many a lovely face; Then we heard low silvery voices; and I knelt upon the shore-- Knelt and whispered, "God I thank Thee! and will wander never more."

Sonnets on the Discovery of Botany Bay by Captain Cook

I

The First Attempt to Reach the Shore

Where is the painter who shall paint for you, My Austral brothers, with a pencil steeped In hues of Truth, the weather-smitten crew Who gazed on unknown shores--a thoughtful few-- What time the heart of their great Leader leaped Till he was faint with pain of longing? New And wondrous sights on each and every hand, Like strange supernal visions, grew and grew Until the rocks and trees, and sea and sand, Danced madly in the tear-bewildered view! And from the surf a fierce, fantastic band Of startled wild men to the hills withdrew With yells of fear! Who'll paint thy face, O Cook! Turned seaward, "after many a wistful look!"

II

The Second Attempt, Opposed by Two of the Natives

"There were but two, and we were forty! Yet," The Captain wrote, "that dauntless couple throve, And faced our wildering faces; and I said 'Lie to awhile!' I did not choose to let A strife go on of little worth to _us_. And so unequal! But the dying tread Of flying kinsmen moved them not: for wet With surf and wild with streaks of white and black The pair remained."--O stout Caractacus! 'Twas thus you stood when Caesar's legions strove To beat their few, fantastic foemen back-- Your patriots with their savage stripes of red! To drench the stormy cliff and moaning cove With faithful blood, as pure as any ever shed.

III

The Spot Where Cook Landed

Chaotic crags are huddled east and west-- Dark, heavy crags, against a straitened sea That cometh, like a troubled soul in quest Of voiceless rest where never dwelleth rest, With noise "like thunder everlasting." But here, behold a silent space of sand!-- Oh, pilgrim, halt!--it even seems to be _Asleep in other years_. How still! How grand! How awful in its wild solemnity! _This_ is the spot on which the Chief did land, And there, perchance, he stood what time a band Of yelling strangers scoured the savage lea. Dear friend, with thoughtful eyes look slowly round-- By all the sacred Past 'tis sacred ground.

IV

Sutherland's Grave

'Tis holy ground! The silent silver lights And darks undreamed of, falling year by year Upon his sleep, in soft Australian nights, Are joys enough for him who lieth here So sanctified with Rest. We need not rear The storied monument o'er such a spot! That soul, the first for whom the Christian tear Was shed on Austral soil, hath heritage Most ample! Let the ages wane with age, The grass which clothes _this_ grave shall wither not. See yonder quiet lily! Have the blights Of many winters left it on a faded tomb?* Oh, peace! Its fellows, glad with green delights, Shall gather round it deep eternal bloom!

* A wild lily grows on the spot supposed to be Sutherland's grave.--H.K.

To Henry Halloran

You know I left my forest home full loth, And those weird ways I knew so well and long, Dishevelled with their sloping sidelong growth Of twisted thorn and kurrajong.

It seems to me, my friend (and this wild thought Of all wild thoughts, doth chiefly make me bleed), That in those hills and valleys wonder-fraught, I loved and lost a noble creed.

A splendid creed! But let me even turn And hide myself from what I've seen, and try To fathom certain truths you know, and learn The Beauty shining in your sky:

Remembering you in ardent autumn nights, And Stenhouse near you, like a fine stray guest Of other days, with all his lore of lights So manifold and manifest!

Then hold me firm. I cannot choose but long For that which lies and burns beyond my reach, Suggested in your steadfast, subtle song And his most marvellous speech!

For now my soul goes drifting back again, Ay, drifting, drifting, like the silent snow While scattered sheddings, in a fall of rain, Revive the dear lost Long Ago!

The time I, loitering by untrodden fens, Intent upon low-hanging lustrous skies, Heard mellowed psalms from sounding southern glens-- Euroma, dear to dreaming eyes!

And caught seductive tokens of a voice Half maddened with the dim, delirious themes Of perfect Love, and the immortal choice Of starry faces--Astral dreams!

That last was yours! And if you sometimes find An alien darkness on the front of things, Sing none the less for Life, nor fall behind, Like me, with trailing, tired wings!

Yea, though the heavy Earth wears sackcloth now Because she hath the great prophetic grief Which makes me set my face one way, and bow And falter for a far belief,

Be faithful yet for all, my brave bright peer, In that rare light you hold so true and good; And find me something clearer than the clear White spaces of Infinitude.

Lost in the Flood

When God drave the ruthless waters From our cornfields to the sea, Came she where our wives and daughters Sobbed their thanks on bended knee. Hidden faces! there ye found her Mute as death, and staring wild At the shadow waxing round her Like the presence of her child-- Of her drenched and drowning child!

Dark thoughts live when tears won't gather; Who can tell us what she felt? It was human, O my Father, If she blamed Thee while she knelt! Ever, as a benediction Fell like balm on all and each, Rose a young face whose affliction Choked and stayed the founts of speech-- Stayed and shut the founts of speech!

Often doth she sit and ponder Over gleams of happy hair! How her white hands used to wander, Like a flood of moonlight there! Lord--our Lord! Thou know'st her weakness: Give her faith that she may pray; And the subtle strength of meekness, Lest she falter by the way-- Falter, fainting, by the way!

"Darling!" saith she, wildly moaning Where the grass-grown silence lies, "Is there rest from sobs and groaning-- Rest with you beyond the skies? Child of mine, so far above me! Late it waxeth--dark and late; Will the love with which I love thee, Lift me where you sit and wait-- Darling! where you sit and wait?"

Eighteen Hundred and Sixty-Four

I hear no footfall beating through the dark, A lonely gust is loitering at the pane; There is no sound within these forests stark Beyond a splash or two of sullen rain;

But you are with us! and our patient land Is filled with long-expected change at last, Though we have scarce the heart to lift a hand Of welcome, after all the yearning past!

Ah! marvel not; the days and nights were long And cold and dull and dashed with many tears; And lately there hath been a doleful song, Of "Mene, Mene," in our restless ears!

Indeed, we've said, "The royal son of Time, Whose feet will shortly cross our threshold floor, May lead us to those outer heights sublime Our Sires have sold their lives to see before!

We'll follow him! Beyond the waves and wrecks Of years fulfilled, some fine results must lie; We'll pass the last of all wild things that vex The pale, sad face of our Humanity!"

But now our fainting feet are loth to stray From trodden paths; our eyes with pain are blind! We've lost fair treasures by the weary way; We cry, like children, to be left behind.

Our human speech is dim. Yet, latest born Of God's Eternity, there came to me, In saddened streets last week, from lips forlorn A sound more solemn than the sleepless sea!

O, Rachael! Rachael! We have heard the cries In Rama, stranger, o'er our darling dead; And seen our mothers with the heavy eyes, Who would not hearken to be comforted!

Then lead us gently! It must come to pass That some of us shall halt and faint and fall; For we are looking through a darkened glass, And Heaven seems far, and faith grows cold and pale.

I know, for one, I need a subtle strength I have not yet to hold me from a fall; What time I cry to God within the length Of weary hours; my face against the wall!

My mourning brothers! in the long, still nights, When sleep is wilful, and the lone moon shines, Bethink you of the silent, silver lights, And darks with Death amongst the moody pines!

Then, though you cannot shut a stricken face Away from you, this hope will come about That Christ hath sent again throughout the place Some signs of Love to worst and weaken doubt.

So you may find in every afterthought A peace beyond your best expression dear; And haply hearken to the Voice which wrought Such strength in Peter on the seas of fear!

To----

Ah, often do I wait and watch, And look up, straining through the Real With longing eyes, my friend, to catch Faint glimpses of your white Ideal.

I know she loved to rest her feet By slumbrous seas and hidden strand; But mostly hints of her I meet On moony spots of mountain land.

I've never reached her shining place, And only cross at times a gleam; As one might pass a fleeting face Just on the outside of a Dream.

But you may climb, her happy Choice! She knows your step, the maiden true, And ever when she hears your voice, She turns and sits and waits for you.

How sweet to rest on breezy crest With such a Love, what time the Morn Looks from his halls of rosy rest, Across green miles of gleaming corn!

How sweet to find a leafy nook, When bees are out, and Day burns mute, Where you may hear a passion'd brook Play past you, like a mellow flute!

Or, turning from the sunken sun, On fields of dim delight to lie-- To close your eyes and muse upon The twilight's strange divinity!

Or through the Night's mysterious noon, While Sound lies hushed among the trees, To sit and watch a mirror'd moon Float over silver-sleeping seas!

Oh, vain regret! why should I stay To think and dream of joys unknown? You walk with her from day to day, I faint afar off--and alone.

At Long Bay

Five years ago! you cannot choose But know the face of change, Though July sleeps and Spring renews The gloss in gorge and range.

Five years ago! I hardly know How they have slipped away, Since here we watched at ebb and flow The waters of the Bay;

And saw, with eyes of little faith, From cumbered summits fade The rainbow and the rainbow wraith, That shadow of a shade.

For Love and Youth were vext with doubt, Like ships on driving seas, And in those days the heart gave out Unthankful similes.

But let it be! I've often said His lot was hardly cast Who never turned a happy head To an unhappy Past--

Who never turned a face of light To cares beyond recall: He only fares in sorer plight Who hath no Past at all!

So take my faith, and let it stand Between us for a sign That five bright years have known the land Since yonder tumbled line

Of seacliff took our troubled talk-- The words at random thrown, And Echo lived about this walk Of gap and slimy stone.

Here first we learned the Love which leaves No lack or loss behind, The dark, sweet Love which woos the eves And haunts the morning wind.

And roves with runnels in the dell, And houses by the wave What time the storm hath struck the fell And Terror fills the cave--

A Love, you know, that lives and lies For moments past control, And mellows through the Poet's eyes And sweetens in his soul.

Here first we faced a briny breeze, What time the middle gale Went shrilling over whitened seas With flying towers of sail.

And here we heard the plovers call As shattered pauses came, When Heaven showed a fiery wall With sheets of wasted flame.

Here grebe and gull and heavy glede Passed eastward far away, The while the wind, with slackened speed, Drooped with the dying Day.

And here our friendship, like a tree, Perennial grew and grew, Till you were glad to live for me, And I to live for you.

For Ever