Friendship

Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad expos'd to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nou...

Tune - "Morag."


I.

    Streams that glide in orient plains,
    Never bound by winter's chains;
        Glowing here on golden sands,
    There commix'd with foulest stains
        From tyranny's empurpled bands;
    These, their richly gleaming waves,
    I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
    Give me the stream that sweetly laves
        The banks by Castle-Gordon.

II.

    Spicy forests, ever gay,
    Shading from the burning ray,
        Hapless wretches sold to toil,
        Or the ruthless native's way,
            Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil:
    Woods that ever verdant wave,
    I leave the tyrant and the slave,
    Give me the groves that lofty brave
        The storms by Castle-Gordon....

Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in,
Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin,
With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander's camp,
How his fire is always smoky, and his boots are always damp;
And they paint it so terrific it would fill one's soul with gloom,
But you know they're fond of writing about "corpses" and "the tomb".
So, before they curse the bushland, they should let their fancy range,
And take something for their livers, and be cheerful for a change.
Now, for instance, Mr Lawson, well, of course, we almost cried
At the sorrowful description how his "little 'Arvie" died,
And we lachrymosed in silence when "His Father's mate" was slain;
Then he went and killed the father, and we had to weep again.
Ben Duggan and Jack ...

Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep,
And can't tell where to find them;
Leave them alone, and they'll come home,
And bring their tails behind them.



Little Bo-Peep fell fast asleep,
And dreamt she heard them bleating;
But when she awoke, she found it a joke,
For they were still a-fleeting.

Then up she took her little crook,
Determined for to find them;
She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed,
For they'd left all their tails behind 'em.

Sophia tempts me to her social walls,
    That 'mid the vast Metropolis arise,
    Where Splendor dazzles, and each Pleasure vies
    In soft allurement; and each Science calls
To philosophic Domes, harmonious Halls,
    And [1]storied Galleries. With duteous sighs,
    Filial and kind, and with averted eyes,
    I meet the gay temptation, as it falls
From a seducing pen. - Here - here I stay,
    Fix'd by Affection's power; nor entertain
    One latent wish, that might persuade to stray
From my ag'd Nurseling, in his life's dim wane;
    But, like the needle, by the magnet's sway,
    My constant, trembling residence maintain.

1: "And storied windows richly dight." - IL PENSEROSO.

Farre in the countrey of Arden
There wond a knight hight Cassemen,
    as bolde as Isenbras:
Fell was he and eger bent,
In battell and in Tournament,
    as was the good sir Topas.
He had as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleaped Dowsabell,
    a mayden fayre and free:
And for she was her fathers heire,
Full well she was ycond the leyre,
    of mickle curtesie.
The silke wel couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine Marchpine,
    and with the needle werke,
And she couth helpe the priest to say
His Mattens on a holyday,
    and sing a Psalme in Kirke.
She ware a frocke of frolicke greene,
Might well beseeme a mayden Queene,
    which seemly was to see.
A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the colombine,
    yw...

The drooping, weary day night pushed aside;
        On Tschatir Dagh the sullen sun and low
Paints phantom purple upon ancient snow;
        While forest ways within, the wanderers hide.
Night veils the mountains and the valleys wide;
        The thunderous brooks are dream-held, dulled, and slow;
Beneath the blackness fragrant flowers blow
        And rich leaf-music clothes each valley side.

Almost my waking eyes are dream-held too;
        With gold a meteor marks the deep-domed sky
And fountain-like the fiery sparks float by.
        Oh! Beauty of the Eastern Night, you woo
My spirit like the odalisque, who held
        Men captive till her kiss the dream dispelled!

So one in heart and thought, I trow,
That thou might'st press the strings and I might draw the bow
And both would meet in music sweet,
Thou and I, I trow.


1881.

Reach with your whiter hands to me
Some crystal of the spring;
And I about the cup shall see
Fresh lilies flourishing.

Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this
To th' glass your lips incline;
And I shall see by that one kiss
The water turn'd to wine.

Across the stony ridges,
Across the rolling plain,
Young Harry Dale, the drover,
Comes riding home again.
And well his stock-horse bears him,
And light of heart is he,
And stoutly his old pack-horse
Is trotting by his knee.

Up Queensland way with cattle
He travelled regions vast;
And many months have vanished
Since home-folk saw him last.
He hums a song of someone
He hopes to marry soon;
And hobble-chains and camp-ware
Keep jingling to the tune.

Beyond the hazy dado
Against the lower skies
And yon blue line of ranges
The homestead station lies.
And thitherward the drover
Jogs through the lazy noon,
While hobble-chains and camp-ware
Are jingling to a tune.

An hour has filled the heavens
With storm-c...

Atoms as old as stars,
Mutation on mutation,
Millions and millions of cells
Dividing yet still the same,
From air and changing earth,
From ancient Eastern rivers,
From turquoise tropic seas,
Unto myself I came.

My spirit like my flesh
Sprang from a thousand sources,
From cave-man, hunter and shepherd,
From Karnak, Cyprus, Rome;

The living thoughts in me
Spring from dead men and women,
Forgotten time out of mind
And many as bubbles of foam.

Here for a moment's space
Into the light out of darkness,
I come and they come with me
Finding words with my breath;

From the wisdom of many life-times
Seek for Beauty, she only
Fights with man against Death!"

Tune - "Robin Adair."


I.

    Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore,
        Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar;
            There would I weep my woes,
                There seek my lost repose,
                    Till grief my eyes should close,
    Ne'er to wake more.

II.

    Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare,
        All thy fond plighted vows, fleeting as air!
            To thy new lover hie,
                Laugh o'er thy perjury,
                    Then in thy bosom try
    What peace is there!

        Through rivers of veins on the nameless quest
    The tide of my life goes hurriedly sweeping,
        Till it reaches that curious wheel o' the breast,
        The human heart, which is never at rest.
    Faster, faster, it cries, and leaping,
        Plunging, dashing, speeding away,
        The wheel and the river work night and day.

        I know not wherefore, I know not whither,
    This strange tide rushes with such mad force:
        It glides on hither, it slides on thither,
    Over and over the selfsame course,
    With never an outlet and never a source;
        And it lashes itself to the heat of passion
        And whirls the heart in a mill-wheel fashion.

        I can hear in the hush of the still, still night,
    The ceaseless...

As I sate in my study, lone and still,
Thinking of Sergeant Talfourd's Bill,
And the speech by Lawyer Sugden made,
In spirit congenial, for "the Trade,"
Sudden I sunk to sleep and lo!
    Upon Fancy's reinless nightmare flitting,
I found myself, in a second or so,
At the table of Messrs. Type and Co.
    With a goodly group of diners sitting;--
All in the printing and publishing line,
Drest, I thought, extremely fine,
And sipping like lords their rosy wine;
While I in a state near inanition
    With coat that hadn't much nap to spare
(Having just gone into its second edition),
    Was the only wretch of an author there.
But think, how great was my surprise,
When I saw, in casting round my eyes,
That the dishes, sent up by Type's she-cooks,
Bore ...

(To James Russell Lowell.)


Not from the ranks of those we call
Philosopher or Admiral,--
Neither as LOCKE was, nor as BLAKE,
Is that Great Genius for whose sake
We keep this Autumn festival.

And yet in one sense, too, was he
A soldier--of humanity;
And, surely, philosophic mind
Belonged to him whose brain designed
That teeming COMIC EPOS where,
As in CERVANTES and MOLIÈRE,
Jostles the medley of Mankind.

Our ENGLISH NOVEL'S pioneer!
His was the eye that first saw clear
How, not in natures half-effaced
By cant of Fashion and of Taste,--
Not in the circles of the Great,
Faint-blooded and exanimate,--
Lay the true field of Jest and Whim,
Which we to-day reap after him.
No:--he stepped lower down and took
The pi...

Eyes aloft, over dangerous places,
The children follow the butterflies,
And, in the sweat of their upturned faces,
Slash with a net at the empty skies.

So it goes they fall amid brambles,
And sting their toes on the nettle-tops,
Till, after a thousand scratches and scrambles,
They wipe their brows and the hunting stops.

Then to quiet them comes their father
And stills the riot of pain and grief,
Saying, "Little ones, go and gather
Out of my garden a cabbage-leaf.

"You will find on it whorls and clots of
Dull grey eggs that, properly fed,
Turn, by way of the worm, to lots of
Glorious butterflies raised from the dead."

"Heaven is beautiful, Earth is ugly,"
The three-dimensioned preacher saith;
So we must not look where the snail...

Here in the teeth of this triumphant wind
That shakes the naked shadows on the ground,
Making a key-board of the earth to strike
From clattering tree and hedge a separate sound,

Bear witness for me that I loved my life,
All things that hurt me and all things that healed,
And that I swore it this day in March,
Here at the edge of this new-broken field.

You only knew me, tell them I was glad
For every hour since my hour of birth,
And that I ceased to fear, as once I feared,
The last complete reunion with the earth.

Up in th' mountain
I was a-sitting,
With the bird there
As my guest,
Blithely singing,
Blithely springing,
And building
His nest.

In the garden
I was a-standing,
And the bee there
Saw as well,
Buzzing, humming,
Going, coming,
And building
His cell.

O'er the meadow
I was a-going,
And there saw the
Butterflies,
Sipping, dancing,
Flying, glancing,
And charming
The eyes.

And then came my
Dear Hansel,
And I show'd them
With glee,
Sipping, quaffing,
And he, laughing,
Sweet kisses
Gave me.