They stood by the door of the Inn on the Rise;
May Carney looked up in the bushranger's eyes:
`Oh! why did you come?, it was mad of you, Jack;
You know that the troopers are out on your track.'
A laugh and a shake of his obstinate head,
`I wanted a dance, and I'll chance it,' he said.

Some twenty-odd bushmen had come to the `ball',
But Jack from his youth had been known to them all,
And bushmen are soft where a woman is fair,
So the love of May Carney protected him there;
And all the short evening, it seems like romance,
She danced with a bushranger taking his chance.

`Twas midnight, the dancers stood suddenly still,
For hoofs had been heard on the side of the hill!
Ben Duggan, the drover, along the hillside
Came riding as only a bushman can ride.
...

Oh child! who to this evil world art come,
    Led by the unseen hand of Him who guards thee,
Welcome unto this dungeon-house, thy home!
    Welcome to all the woe this life awards thee!

Upon thy forehead yet the badge of sin
    Hath worn no trace; thou look'st as though from heaven,
But pain, and guilt, and misery lie within;
    Poor exile! from thy happy birth-land driven.

Thine eyes are sealed by the soft hand of sleep,
    And like unruffled waves thy slumber seems;
The time's at hand when thou must wake to weep,
    Or sleeping, walk a restless world of dreams.

How oft, as day by day life's burthen lies
    Heavier and darker on thy fainting soul,
Wilt thou towards heaven turn thy weary eyes,
    And long in bitterness to reach the goal!

She lived shut in by flowers and trees
And shade of gentle bigotries.
On this side lay the trackless sea,
On that the great world's mystery;
But all unseen and all unguessed
They could not break upon her rest.
The world's far splendours gleamed and flashed,
Afar the wild seas foamed and dashed;
But in her small, dull Paradise,
Safe housed from rapture or surprise,
Nor day nor night had power to fright
The peace of God that filled her eyes.

Among white peaks a rock, hewn altar-wise,
Marks the long frontier of our mighty lands.
Apart its dark tremendous sculpture stands,
Too steep for snow, and square against the skies.
In other shape its buttressed masses rise
When seen from north or south; but eastward set,
God carved it where two sovereignties are met,
An altar to His peace, before men's eyes.
Of old there Indian mystics, fasting, prayed;
And from its base to distant shores the streams
Take sands of gold, to be at last inlaid
Where ocean's floor in shadowed splendour gleams.
So in our nations' sundered lives be blent
Love's golden memories from one proud descent!

From distant regions Fortune sends
An odd triumvirate of friends;
Where Phoebus pays a scanty stipend,
Where never yet a codling ripen'd:
Hither the frantic goddess draws
Three sufferers in a ruin'd cause:
By faction banish'd, here unite,
A Dean,[1] a Spaniard,[2] and a Knight;[3]
Unite, but on conditions cruel;
The Dean and Spaniard find it too well,
Condemn'd to live in service hard;
On either side his honour's guard:
The Dean to guard his honour's back,
Must build a castle at Drumlack;[4]
The Spaniard, sore against his will,
Must raise a fort at Market-Hill.
And thus the pair of humble gentry
At north and south are posted sentry;
While in his lordly castle fixt,
The knight triumphant reigns betwixt:
And, what the wretches most resent,

Behold the Sun, how bright
From yonder East he springs,
As if the soul of life and light
Were breathing from his wings.

So bright the Gospel broke
Upon the souls of men;
So fresh the dreaming world awoke
In Truth's full radiance then.

Before yon Sun arose,
Stars clustered thro' the sky--
But oh how dim, how pale were those,
To His one burning eye!

So Truth lent many a ray,
    To bless the Pagan's night--
But, Lord, how weak, how cold were they
    To Thy One glorious Light!

When all night long a chap remains
On sentry-go, to chase monotony
He exercises of his brains,
That is, assuming that he's got any,
Though never nurtured in the lap
Of luxury, yet I admonish you,
I am an intellectual chap,
And think of things that would astonish you.
I often think it's comical
How Nature always does contrive
That every boy and every gal
That's born into the world alive
Is either a little Liberal,
Or else a little Conservative!
Fal lal la!

When in that house M.P.'s divide,
If they've a brain and cerebellum, too.
They're got to leave that brain outside.
And vote just as their leaders tell 'em to.
But then the prospect of a lot
Of statesmen, all in close proximity.
A-thinking for themselves, is what
No man can ...

Aw like to see a lot o' lads
All frolicsome an free,
An hear ther noisy voices,
As they run an shaat wi' glee;
But if ther's onny sooart o' lad
Aw like better nor another,
'At maks mi heart mooast truly glad,
It's th' lad 'at loves his Mother.

He may be rayther dull at schooil,
Or rayther slow at play;
He may be rough an quarrelsome, -
Mischievous in his way;
He may be allus in a scrape,
An cause noa end o' bother;
But ther's summat gooid an honest
In the lad 'at loves his Mother.

He may oft do what isn't reight,
But conscience will keep prickin;
He dreeads far mooar his mother's grief,
Nor what he'd fear a lickin.
Her trubbled face, - her tearful een,
Her sighs shoo tries to smother,
Are coals ov foir on the heead

Hark how the merry daffodils,
Fling golden music to the hills!
And how the hills send echoing down,
Through wind-swept turf and moorland brown,
The murmurs of a thousand rills
That mock the song-birds' liquid trills!
The hedge released from Winter's frown
Shews jewelled branch and willow crown;
While all the earth with pleasure trills,
And 'dances with the daffodils.'

Out, out, ye flowers!    Up and shout!
Staid Winter's passed and Spring's about
To lead your ranks in joyous rout;
To string the hawthorn's milky pearls,
And gild the grass with celandine;
To dress the catkins' tasselled curls,
To twist the tendrils of the vine.
She wakes the wind-flower from her sleep,
And lights the woods with April's moon;
The violets lift their heads to p...

        In this dense hall of green and gold,
        Mirrors and lights and steam, there sit
        Two hundred munching men;
        While several score of others flit
        Like scurrying beetles over a fen,
        With plates in fanlike spread; or fold
        Napkins, or jerk the corks from bottles,
        Ministers to greedy throttles.
        Some make noises while they eat,
        Pick their teeth or shuffle their feet,
        Wipe their noses 'neath eyes that range
        Or frown whilst waiting for their change.
        Gobble, gobble, toil and trouble.
        Soul! this life is very strange,
        And circumstances very foul
        Attend the belly's stormy howl.
    How horrible this noise! this air how thick!
    It is disgusting ...

The deepest tragedies of life are not
Put into books, or acted on the stage.
Nay, they are lived in silence, by tense hearts
In homes, among dull unperceiving kin,
And thoughtless friends, who make a whip of words
Wherewith to lash these hearts, and call it wit.

There is a tragedy lived everywhere
In Christian lands, by an increasing horde
Of women martyrs to our social laws.
Women whose hearts cry out for motherhood;
Women whose bosoms ache for little heads;
Women God meant for mothers, but whose lives
Have been restrained, restricted, and denied
Their natural channels, till at last they stand
Unmated and alone, by that sad sea
Whose slow receding tide returns no more.
Men meet great sorrows; but no man can grasp
The depth, and height, of such a gr...

ACT II. SCENE 2.


The pavilion in the Gardens. Enter FERDINAND and the KING

FERDINAND. Your tiercel’s too long at hack, Sir. He’s no eyass
But a passage-hawk that footed ere we caught him,
Dangerously free o’ the air. ‘Faith were he mine
(As mine’s the glove he binds to for his tirings)
I’d fly him with a make-hawk. He’s in yarak
Plumed to the very point. So manned so, weathered!
Give him the firmament God made him for
And what shall take the air of him?

THE KING. A young wing yet
Bold, overbold on the perch but, think you, Ferdinand,
He can endure the raw skies yonder? Cozen
Advantage out of the teeth of the hurricane?
Choose his own mate against the lammer-geier?
Ride out a night-long tempest, hold his pitch
Between the lightning and t...

Venne, non so ben donde.


It came, I know not whence, from far above,
        That clear immortal flame that still doth rise
        Within thy sacred breast, and fills the skies,
        And heals all hearts, and adds to heaven new love.
This burns me, this, and the pure light thereof;
        Not thy fair face, thy sweet untroubled eyes:
        For love that is not love for aught that dies,
        Dwells in the soul where no base passions move.
If then such loveliness upon its own
        Should graft new beauties in a mortal birth,
        The sheath bespeaks the shining blade within.
To gain our love God hath not clearer shown
        Himself elsewhere: thus heaven doth vie with earth
        To make thee worthy worship without sin.

On this wondrous sea,
Sailing silently,
Ho! pilot, ho!
Knowest thou the shore
Where no breakers roar,
Where the storm is o'er?

In the silent west
Many sails at rest,
Their anchors fast;
Thither I pilot thee, --
Land, ho! Eternity!
Ashore at last!

From every quarter we,
Who bent the trembling knee
And cowered or grovelled prostrate day and night,
Now come once more to sing
A dirge before thee, King,
Once more with earnest heart to do thee right.

Have we not hailed thee God?
Our weary feet have trod
The vasty barren sands and treacherous ice,
With many a bitter cry,
To pile thine altar high
With pallid human hearts in sacrifice.

We hated thee and came
With eyes of shifty shame,
With heavy steel above the craven breast,
Yet evermore we did
The ill thy servants bid,
For everywhere thy might was manifest.

At thy sibilant word
We were filled with distrust,
And we glared on each other,
All horribly stirred
Against sister and brother;
Our green hopes were wi...

Io canterei d' Amor sì novamente.

REPLY TO A Sonnet OF JACOPO DA LENTINO.


    Ways apt and new to sing of love I'd find,
Forcing from her hard heart full many a sigh,
And re-enkindle in her frozen mind
Desires a thousand, passionate and high;
O'er her fair face would see each swift change pass,
See her fond eyes at length where pity reigns,
As one who sorrows when too late, alas!
For his own error and another's pains;
See the fresh roses edging that fair snow
Move with her breath, that ivory descried,
Which turns to marble him who sees it near;
See all, for which in this brief life below
Myself I weary not but rather pride
That Heaven for later times has kept me here.

MACGREGOR.

So rest, for ever rest, O princely Pair!
In your high church, ’mid the still mountain air,
Where horn, and hound, and vassals never come.
Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb,
From the rich painted windows of the nave,
On aisle, and transept, and your marble grave:
Where thou, young Prince! shalt never more arise
From the fringed mattress where thy Duchess lies,
On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds,
And ride across the drawbridge with thy hounds
To hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve;
And thou, O Princess! shalt no more receive,
Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state,
The jaded hunters with their bloody freight,
Coming benighted to the castle-gate.
So sleep, for ever sleep, O marble Pair!
Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fair
On the ...

Advance, come forth from thy Tyrolean ground,
Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untamed;
Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains named!
Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound
And o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, bound;
Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn
Have roused her from her sleep: and forest-lawn,
Cliffs, woods and caves, her viewless steps resound
And babble of her pastime! On, dread Power!
With such invisible motion speed thy flight,
Through hanging clouds, from craggy height to height,
Through the green vales and through the herdsman's bower
That all the Alps may gladden in thy might,
Here, there, and in all places at one hour.