Part 19

Out of the body for ever, Wearily sobbing, "Oh, whither?" A Soul that hath wasted its chances Floats on the limitless ether.

Lost in dim, horrible blankness; Drifting like wind on a sea, Untraversed and vacant and moaning, Nor shallow nor shore on the lee!

Helpless, unfriended, forsaken; Haunted and tracked by the Past, With fragments of pitiless voices, And desolate faces aghast!

One saith--"It is well that he goeth Naked and fainting with cold, Who worshipped his sweet-smelling garments, Arrayed with the cunning of old!

"Hark! how he crieth, my brothers, With pain for the glittering things He saw on the shoulders of Rulers, And the might in the mouths of the Kings!

"This Soul hath been one of the idlers Who wait with still hands, when they lack For Fortune, like Joseph, to throw them The cup thrust in Benjamin's sack.

"Now, had he been faithful in striving, And warring with Wrong to the sword, He must have passed over these spaces Caught up in the arms of the Lord."

A second: "Lo, Passion was wilful; And, glad with voluptuous sighs, He held it luxurious trouble To ache for luxurious eyes!

"She bound him, the woman resplendent; She withered his strength with her stare; And Faith hath been twisted and strangled With folds of her luminous hair!

"Was it well, O you wandering wailer, Abandoned in terrible space, To halt on the highway to Heaven Because of a glittering face?"

And another: "Behold, he was careful: He faltered to think of his Youth, Dejected and weary and footsore, Alone on the dim road to Truth.

"If the way had been shorter and greener And brighter, he might have been brave; But the goal was too far and he fainted, Like Peter with Christ on the wave!"

Beyond the wild haunts of the mockers-- Far in the distance and gray, Floateth that sorrowful spirit Away, and away, and away.

Pale phantoms fly past it, like shadows: Dim eyes that are blinded with tears; Old faces all white with affliction-- The ghosts of the wasted dead years!

"Soul that hath ruined us, shiver And moan when you know us," they cry-- "Behold, I was part of thy substance!"-- "And I"--saith another--"and I!"

Drifting from starless abysses Into the ether sublime, Where is no upward nor downward, Nor region nor record of Time!

Out of the Body for ever No refuge--no succour nor stay-- Floated that sorrowful Spirit Away, and away, and away.

Sonnets

To N. D. Stenhouse, Esq.

Dark days have passed, but you who taught me then To look upon the world with trustful eyes, Are not forgotten! Quick to sympathise With noble thoughts, I've dreamt of moments when Your low voice filled with strains of fairer skies! Stray breaths of Grecian song that went and came, Like floating fragrance from some quiet glen In those far hills which shine with classic fame Of passioned nymphs and grand-browed god-like men! I sometimes fear my heart hath lost the same Sweet sense of harmony; but _this_ I know That Beauty waits on you _where'er_ you go, Because she loveth child-like Faith! Her bowers Are rich for it with glad perennial flowers.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

A lofty Type of all her sex, I ween, My English brothers, though your wayward race Now slight the Soul that never wore a screen, And loved too well to keep her noble place! Ah, bravest Woman that our World hath seen (A light in spaces wild and tempest-tost), In every verse of thine, behold, we trace The full reflection of an earnest face And hear the scrawling of an eager pen! O sisters! knowing what you've loved and lost, I ask where shall we find its like, and when? That dear heart with its passion sorrow-crost, And pathos rippling, like a brook in June Amongst the roses of a windless noon.

Sir Walter Scott

The Bard of ancient lore! Like one forlorn, He turned, enamoured, to the silent Past; And searching down its mazes gray and vast, As you might find the blossom by the thorn, He found fair things in barren places cast And brought them up into the light of morn. Lo! Truth, resplendent, as a tropic dawn, Shines always through his wond'rous pictures! Hence The many quick emotions which are born Of an Imagination so intense! The chargers' hoofs come tearing up the sward-- The claymores rattle in the restless sheath; You close his page, and almost look abroad For Highland glens and windy leagues of heath.

Let me here endeavour to draw the fair distinctions between the great writers, or some of the great writers, of Scott's day; borrowing at the same time a later name. I shall start with that strange figure, Percy Bysshe Shelley. He was too subjective to be merely a descriptive poet, too metaphysical to be vague, and too imaginative to be didactic. As Scott was the most dramatic, Wordsworth the most profound, Byron the most passionate, so Shelley was the most spiritual writer of his time. Scott's poetry was the result of vivid emotion, Wordsworth's of quiet observation, Byron's of passion, and Shelley's of passion and reflection. Scott races like a torrent, Byron rolls like a sea, Wordsworth ripples into a lake, Tennyson flows like a river, and Shelley gushes like a fountain. As Tennyson is the most harmonious, so Shelley is the most musical of modern bards. I fear to touch upon that grand old man, Coleridge; he appears to me so utterly apart from his contemporaries. He stands, like Teneriffe, alone. Can I liken him to a magnificent thunder-scorched crag with its summits eternally veiled in vapour?--H.K.

The Bereaved One

She sleeps--and I see through a shadowy haze, Where the hopes of the past and the dreams that I cherished In the sunlight of brighter and happier days, As the mists of the morning, have faded and perished. She sleeps--and will waken to bless me no more; Her life has died out like the gleam on the river, And the bliss that illumined my bosom of yore Has fled from its dwelling for ever and ever.

I had thought in this life not to travel alone, I had hoped for a mate in my joys and my sorrow-- But the face of my idol is colder than stone, And my path will be lonely without her to-morrow. I was hoping to bask in the light of her smile When Fortune and Fame with their laurels had crown'd me-- But the fire in her eyes has been dying the while, And the thorns of affliction are planted around me.

There are those that may vent all their grief in their tears And weep till the past is away in the distance; But this wreck of the dream of my sunshiny years Will hang like a cloud o'er the rest of existence. In the depth of my soul she shall ever remain; My thoughts, like the angels, shall hover about her; For our hearts have been reft and divided in pain And what is this world to be left in without her?

Dungog

Here, pent about by office walls And barren eyes all day, 'Tis sweet to think of waterfalls Two hundred miles away!

I would not ask you, friends, to brook An old, old truth from me, If I could shut a Poet's book Which haunts me like the Sea!

He saith to me, this Poet saith, So many things of light, That I have found a fourfold faith, And gained a twofold sight.

He telleth me, this Poet tells, How much of God is seen Amongst the deep-mossed English dells, And miles of gleaming green.

From many a black Gethsemane, He leads my bleeding feet To where I hear the Morning Sea Round shining spaces beat!

To where I feel the wind, which brings A sound of running creeks, And blows those dark, unpleasant things, The sorrows, from my cheeks.

I'll shut mine eyes, my Poet choice, And spend the day with thee; I'll dream thou art a fountain voice Which God hath sent to me!

And far beyond these office walls My thoughts shall even stray, And watch the wilful waterfalls, Two hundred miles away.

For, if I know not of thy deeds, And darling Kentish downs, I've seen the deep, wild Dungog fells, And _hate_ the heart of towns!

Then, ho! for beaming bank and brake, Far-folded hills among, Where Williams,* like a silver snake, Draws winding lengths along!

-- * A tributary of the river Hunter, after Hunter, on which Dungog stands. --

And ho! for stormy mountain cones, Where headlong Winter leaps, What time the gloomy swamp-oak groans, And weeps and wails and weeps.

_There_, friends, are spots of sleepy green, Where one may hear afar, O'er fifteen leagues of waste, I ween, A moaning harbour bar!

(The sea that breaks, and beats and shakes The caverns, howling loud, Beyond the midnight Myall Lakes,* And half-awakened Stroud!)**

-- * A chain of lakes near Port Stephens, N.S.W. ** A town on the Karuah, which flows into Port Stephens. --

There, through the fretful autumn days, Beneath a cloudy sun, Comes rolling down rain-rutted ways, The wind, Euroclydon!

While rattles over riven rocks The thunder, harsh and dry; And blustering gum and brooding box Are threshing at the sky!

And then the gloom doth vex the sight With crude, unshapely forms Which hold throughout the yelling night A fellowship with storms!

But here are shady tufts and turns, Where sumptuous Summer lies (By reaches brave with flags and ferns) With large, luxuriant eyes.

And here, another getteth ease-- Our Spring, so rarely seen, Who shows us in the cedar trees A glimpse of golden green.

What time the flapping bats have trooped Away like ghosts to graves, And darker growths than Night are cooped In silent, hillside caves.

Ah, Dungog, dream of darling days, 'Tis better thou should'st be A far-off thing to love and praise-- A boon from Heaven to me!

For, let me say that when I look With wearied eyes on men, I think of one unchanging nook, And find my faith again.

Deniehy's Lament

Spirit of Loveliness! Heart of my heart! Flying so far from me, Heart of my heart! Above the eastern hill, I know the red leaves thrill, But thou art distant still, Heart of my heart!

Sinning, I've searched for thee, Heart of my heart! Sinning, I've dreamed of thee, Heart of my heart! I know no end nor gain; amongst the paths of pain I follow thee in vain, Heart of my heart!

Much have I lost for thee, Heart of my heart! Not counting the cost for thee, Heart of my heart! Through all this year of years thy form as mist appears, So blind am I with tears, Heart of my heart!

Mighty and mournful now, Heart of my heart! Cometh the Shadow-Face, Heart of my heart! The friends I've left for thee, their sad eyes trouble me-- I cannot bear to be, Heart of my heart!

Deniehy's Dream

Just when the western light Flickered out dim, Flushing the mountain-side, Summit and rim, A last, low, lingering gleam Fell on a yellow stream, And then there came a dream Shining to him.

Splendours miraculous Mixed with his pain All like a vision of Radiance and rain! He faced the sea, the skies, Old star-like thoughts did rise; But tears were in his eyes, Stifled in vain.

Infinite tokens of Sorrows set free Came in the dreaming wind Far from the sea! Past years about him trooped, Fair phantoms round him stooped, Sweet faces o'er him drooped Sad as could be!

"This is our brother now: Sisters, deplore Man without purpose, like Ship without shore! He tracks false fire," one said, "But weep you--he must tread Whereto he may be led-- Lost evermore."

"Look," said another, "Summit and slope Burn, in the mountain-land-- Basement and cope! Till daylight, dying dim, Faints on the world's red rim, We'll tint this Dream for him Even--with hope!"

Cui Bono?

A clamour by day and a whisper by night, And the Summer comes--with the shining noons, With the ripple of leaves, and the passionate light Of the falling suns and the rising moons.

And the ripple of leaves and the purple and red Die for the grapes and the gleam of the wheat, And then you may pause with the splendours, or tread On the yellow of Autumn with lingering feet.

You may halt with the face to a flying sea, Or stand like a gloom in the gloom of things, When the moon drops down and the desolate lea Is troubled with thunder and desolate wings.

But alas for the grey of the wintering eves, And the pondering storms and the ruin of rains; And alas for the Spring like a flame in the leaves, And the green of the woods and the gold of the lanes!

For, seeing all pathos is mixed with our past, And knowing all sadness of storm and of surge Is salt with our tears for the faith that was cast Away like a weed o'er a bottomless verge,

I am lost for these tokens, and wearied of ways Wedded with ways that are waning amain, Like those that are filled with the trouble that slays; Having drunk of their life to the lees that are pain.

And yet I would write to you! I who have turned Away with a bitter disguise in the eyes, And bitten the lips that have trembled and burned Alone for you, darling, and breaking with sighs.

Because I have touched with my fingers a dress That was Beauty's; because that the breath of thy mouth Is sweetness that lingers; because of each tress Showered down on thy shoulders; because of the drouth

That came in thy absence; because of the lights In the Passion that grew to a level with thee-- Is it well that our lives have been filled with the nights And the days which have made it a sorrow to be?

Yea, thus having tasted all love with thy lips, And having the warmth of thy hand in mine own, Is it well that we wander, like parallel ships, With the silence between us, aloof and alone?

With my face to the wall shall I sleep and forget The shadow, the sweet sense of slumber denies, If even I marvel at kindness, and fret, And start while the tears are all wet in mine eyes?

Oh, darling of mine, standing here with the Past, Trampled under our feet in the bitterest ways, Is this speech like a ghost that it keeps us aghast On the track of the thorns and in alien days?

When I know of you, love, how you break with our pain, And sob for the sorrow of sorrowful dreams, Like a stranger who stands in the wind and the rain And watches and wails by impassable streams:

Like a stranger who droops on a brink and deplores, With famishing hands and frost in the feet, For the laughter alive on the opposite shores With the fervour of fire and the wind of the wheat.

In Hyde Park

-- * [This and the next poem were written for "Prince Alfred's Wreath", published in Sydney in 1868. While in Sydney, the Prince was shot at by a fanatic and slightly injured.] --

They come from the highways of labour, From labour and leisure they come; But not to the sound of the tabor, And not to the beating of drum.

By thousands the people assemble With faces of shadow and flame, And spirits that sicken and tremble Because of their sorrow and shame!

Their voice is the voice of a nation; But lo, it is muffled and mute, For the sword of a strong tribulation Hath stricken their peace to the root.

The beautiful tokens of pity Have utterly fled from their eyes, For the demon who darkened the city Is curst in the breaking of sighs.

Their thoughts are as one; and together They band in their terrible ire, Like legions of wind in fierce weather Whose footsteps are thunder and fire.

But for ever, like springs of sweet water That sings in the grass-hidden leas As soft as the voice of a daughter, There cometh a whisper from these.

There cometh from shame and dejection, From wrath and the blackness thereof, A word at whose heart is affection With a sighing whose meaning is love.

In the land of distress and of danger, With their foreheads in sackcloth and dust, They weep for the wounds of the Stranger And mourn o'er the ashes of trust!

They weep for the Prince, and the Mother Whose years have been smitten of grief-- For the son and the lord and the brother, And the widow, the queen and the chief!

But he, having moved like a splendour Amongst them in happier days, With the grace that is manly and tender And the kindness that passes all praise,

Will think, in the sickness and shadow, Of greetings in forest and grove, And welcome in city and meadow, Nor couple this sin with their love.

For the sake of the touching devotion That sobs through the depths of their woe, This son of the kings of the ocean, As he came to them, trusting will go.

Australia Vindex

Who cometh from fields of the south With raiment of weeping and woe, And a cry of the heart in her mouth, And a step that is muffled and slow?

Her paths are the paths of the sun; Her house is a beautiful light; But she boweth her head, and is one With the daughters of dolour and night.

She is fairer than flowers of love; She is fiercer than wind-driven flame; And God from His thunders above Hath smitten the soul of her shame.

She saith to the bloody one curst With the fever of evil, she saith "My sorrow shall strangle thee first With an agony wilder than death!

"My sorrow shall hack at thy life! Thou shalt wrestle with wraiths of thy sin, And sleep on a pillow of strife With demons without and within!"

She whispers, "He came to the land A lord and a lover of me-- A son of the waves with a hand As fearless and frank as the sea.

"On the shores of the stranger he stood With the sweetness of youth on his face; Till there started a fiend from the wood, Who stabbed at the peace of the place!

"Because of the dastardly thing Thou hast done in the sight of the day, All horrors that sicken and sting Shall make thee for ever their prey.

"Because of the beautiful trust Destroyed by a devil like thee, Thy bed shall be low in the dust And my heel as a shackle shall be!

"Because" (and she mutters it deep Who curseth the coward in chains) "Thou hast stricken and murdered our sleep, Thy sleep shall be perished with pains;

"Thy sleep shall be broken and sharp And filled with fierce spasms and dreams, And shadow shall haunt thee and harp On hellish and horrible themes!

"I will set my right hand on thy neck And my foot on thy body, nor bate, Till thy name shall become as a wreck And a byword for hisses and hate!"

Ned the Larrikin

A song that is bitter with grief--a ballad as pale as the light That comes with the fall of the leaf, I sing to the shadows to-night.

The laugh on the lyrical lips is sadder than laughter of ghosts Chained back in the pits of eclipse by wailing unnameable coasts.

I gathered this wreath at the close of day that was dripping with dew; The blossom you take for a rose was plucked from the branch of a yew.

The flower you fancy is sweet has black in the place of the red; For this is a song of the street--the ballad of larrikin Ned.

He stands at the door of the sink that gapes like a fissure of death: The face of him fiery with drink, the flame of its fume in his breath.

He thrives in the sickening scenes that the devil has under his ban; A rascal not out of his teens with the voice of a vicious old man.

A blossom of blackness, indeed--of Satan a sinister fruit! Far better the centipede's seed--the spawn of the adder or newt.

Than terror of talon or fang this imp of the alleys is worse: His speech is a poisonous slang--his phrases are coloured with curse.

The prison, the shackles, and chain are nothing to him and his type: He sings in the shadow of pain, and laughs at the impotent stripe.

There under the walls of the gaols the half of his life has been passed. He was born in the bosom of bale--he will go to the gallows at last.

No angel in Paradise kneels for him at the feet of the Lord; A Nemesis follows his heels in the flame of a sinister sword.

The sins of his fathers have brought this bitterness into his days-- His life is accounted as naught; his soul is a brand for the blaze.

Did ever his countenance change? Did ever a moment supreme Illumine his face with a strange ineffably beautiful dream?

Before he was caught in the breach--in the pits of iniquity grim, Did ever the Deity reach the hand of a Father to him?

Behold, it is folly to say the evil was born in the blood; The rose that is cankered to-day was once an immaculate bud!

There might have been blossom and fruit--a harvest exceedingly fair, Instead of the venomous root, and flowers that startle and scare.

The burden--the burden is their's who, watching this garden about, Assisted the thistle and tares, and stamped the divinity out!

A growth like the larrikin Ned--a brutal unqualified clod, Is what ye are helping who'd tread on the necks of the prophets of God.

No more than a damnable weed ye water and foster, ye fools, Whose aim is to banish indeed the beautiful Christ from the schools.

The merciful, wonderful light of the seraph Religion behold These evil ones shut from the sight of the children who weep in the cold!

But verily trouble shall fall on such, and their portion shall be A harvest of hyssop and gall, and sorrow as wild as the sea.

For the rose of a radiant star is over the hills of the East, And the fathers are heartened for war-- the prophet, the Saint, and the priest.

For a spirit of Deity makes the holy heirophants strong; And a morning of majesty breaks, and blossoms in colour and song.

Yea, now, by the altars august the elders are shining supreme; And brittle and barren as dust is the spiritless secular dream.

It's life as a vapour shall end as a fog in the fall of the year; For the Lord is a Father and Friend, and the day of His coming is near.

_In Memoriam_--Nicol Drysdale Stenhouse

Shall he, on whom the fair lord, Delphicus, Turned gracious eyes and countenance of shine, Be left to lie without a wreath from us, To sleep without a flower upon his shrine?

Shall he, the son of that resplendent Muse, Who gleams, high priestess of sweet scholarship, Still slumber on, and every bard refuse To touch a harp or move a tuneful lip?

No! let us speak, though feeble be our speech, And let us sing, though faltering be our strain, And haply echoes of the song may reach And please the soul we cannot see again.