Chapter II: Part 2

Lo! Sad-eyed Autumn walks o’er all the land,
Tenderly touching with caressing hand,
Each quivering leaflet, hung from parent stem,
Bearing a radiant dew-kissed diadem;
And tasselled ruddy gold and variant shade
Droop o’er Psyche as in Arcadian glade
She doth recline, and Autumn’s lover--Wind--
Chants solemn dirge for Summer, left behind
To music of dead leaves, with tears of rain,
While whispering, “Summer cometh yet again,
And Autumn lingereth but a little while,
With glance compassionate on flowers that smile
In winsome beauty ere their blooms decay
And change when Winter cometh cold and grey.”
See! Satin-winged sweet butterflies have flown
Like fairy sprites, to choose a graceful throne
On crimson rose or soft hydrangea blue,
Emblems of the transition we must view.
These tender spirits through the fleeting hours
Cull the sweet essence from the glorious flowers,
And the short seasons pass and may not stay--
Ephemeral pleasures, too, must pass away.
So, did not Autumn Winter meet, and Winter Spring,
Dear Summer’s charms would vanish nor hope bring
Then melancholy Autumn with her Wind may sigh,
For Spring, her smiling sister, cometh by-and-bye.

TO SLEEP.

Sweet seraph! Borne upon the wings of love,
Softly thou cometh from the realms above,
With kiss as light as air, and gentler breath,
More beauteous thou than thy pale brother Death,
Yet not so calm as he, though both bestow
A wondrous loveliness o’er cheek and brow;
He with a regal majesty so marble cold
In immobility of matchless grace doth mould
Each feature with the waxen beauty of the tomb,
While thou dost lend the blush of living bloom,
And the soft dew of Heaven doth linger there,
And lovely Peace imprints her image fair.
When eve in crimson splendour of delight
Falleth, thou Spirit of the starry night,
And they, all million-eyed in radiance shine,
Like scattered silver seeds o’er fields divine,
Thou to dear children giveth dreamless rest,
Softly embraced upon thy tender breast,
While care-worn sufferers on the tideless sea
Of blissful dreams forget their misery,
And bask in visions of the verdurous hills
Of some enchanted isle where flashing rills,
Gushing sweet music, to the green vales flow,
Where cool, slim palms their graceful shadows throw--
Angel of love, by dear Compassion led,
To fold in deep repose each weary head.
Nature’s sweet nurse, oh ever near us stay
Till, life’s dreams o’er, “the shadows flee away.”

WHAT IS MAN?

Monarch of all the animals is man, but what his goal?
Being material, yet endowed with an immortal soul,
Whence comes he? Hath he lived before? He knoweth not,
But if he be immortal, must be Heaven-begot.
To live for naught in the great cosmic plan
Would prove him lesser than his claim as man.
Alone he stands amid his empire, clothed with speech,
And attributes of reason and intelligence to reach
The heights sublime, for he alone surveys
The skies or lifts his eyes to mark the boundless ways
Of the vast galaxy of the celestial star-strewn plains,
He of the mighty animal kingdom o’er which he reigns,
He who is but the veriest echo of the Almighty sound,
A faint reflection of his Maker, but who yet is bound
By ties unbreakable, for doth he not receive
The realm of thought from Him, the air to breathe?
The glorious constellations move in their appointed place
To the deep throbbing heart-beats of the universe.
The planets, trembling arteries of the spacious whole,
With each frail mortal the molecule called soul,
And he in turn respondeth to the Almighty thought,
Each entity distinct, yet like the other wrought;
Creature of elements mysterious, half divine!
Emotional, fearful, yet vibrating to the electric line
Of the invisible, which holds him startled at the flight
And magnitude of thought soaring beyond the night
Of mundane things; then asks himself--as thousands more--
If death the end of all created beings is, wherefore
All the ennobling longings in the human mind innate
And love of nature and which all things beautiful elate,
This spark of immortality flaming with fitful gleams
Of vague remembrance of a pre-existence, seems
To shape itself into a dream which comes and goes.
And when the influence of the Almighty over spirit throws
The searching rays of the great Omnipresent power
In Whom we live, to Whom we kneel in sorrow’s hour,
Who bids the ministers of all the Heavenly Argosies
Of Faith, and Hope, and Mercy, on the ethereal spheres
Enthroned with Justice, Truth and Liberty,
To teach man that, though mortal, immortality
Is his, Oh not, for nought, the powers of death and life,
Oh not, for nought, it is the everlasting strife
’Twixt mind and matter, if we be--as some would deem--
Nought but the moving shadows of a melting dream,
Why live, why love, why breathe the unconscious prayer?
Because, deep down in the human heart, we feel God there;
And dare the shadow of his Maker,--man--profess
That he can build this empire without him to bless.

THE BLUE MOUNTAINS, NEW SOUTH WALES.

Imperial battlements, whose frowning brows
Look ever into space and watch the dawn
In roseate loveliness above the snows
Of feathery cloudlets which thy breasts adorn.

Ye regal forms! Whose jagged chasms bear
The scars of ages, scored by tempests’ rage
When cataclysms thundering rent the air--
Thou mammoth ruins of a bygone age.

And hoary Kosciusko in dim distance gleams,
So not alone in thy most awful pride
Art thou great Austral Alps, whose purling streams
Gush from the fissures in thy wounded side.

What buried secrets doth thy caverns hold
Of aeons marked by time’s unerring hand?
What mystic rites were held by warriors bold,
The dusky children of an almost vanished band?

Perchance they crept within thy strongholds grim,
Hiding, as erst cave dwellers once had done
In old Europa--fearful lest limb from limb
They should be torn by some great mastodon.

Mayhap from giddy height they gazed with awe
Upon thy ever-changing billowy cloud,
Deeming the “Eagle Rock” and “Bear” they saw
Gods to which they in adoration bowed.

Oh! lo we bend to Him who fashioned thee
From chaos at His own almighty word--
Creation’s wonderland of moving mystery,
When seas and winds alone His voice had heard.

So wildly beautiful art thou, the spirit fails
To utterly describe thy variant mood.
The mantled velvet of thy mossy, vernal vales
And magic falls, which flash in foaming flood;

Ye tree-crowned hills! With leafy branches spread,
Ye scented pines! Whose odorous breath is flung,
Wafted from “Govett’s Leap” and fen and glade,
From aerial censer by wood-spirits swung.

And when the orb of day in splendour dies,
And trailing flambent clouds thy peaks enlace,
The opalescent tints of western skies
Reveal the enchantments of thy dwelling-place.

Or when our lady of the night, so fair,
Silvers thy forests in translucent showers,
Deftly the sylvan poet thrills the air
With murmuring symphony from wind-wooed bowers.

Gorges and canyon, clefts and ravines deep,
And fairy grotts with starry flowerets set,
Where water-lilies pale on green pool sleep;
Lo! Nature’s masterpiece, her grand magnificat.

Ye massive pillars! Which have viewed the spray
Far, far away upon the impulsive tide
For countless years--ye too must pass away.
For at His fiat who shall then abide?

And He who changeth not, He who hath made
All things of earth we love to change and die,
Hath made thee beautiful, that ’neath thy shade
Vain man may muse upon his immortality.

THE POET LAUREATE.

ALFRED AUSTIN.

The lyre is mute, the strings unstrung,
The muse hath left the song unsung;
He weareth on his poet’s brow
A fairer wreath than men bestow
Or fame may give.
As leaves are scattered o’er the mould,
Unheeded by the world so cold,
Yet, traced indelibly on stone,
Their shapes remain through ages flown,
So sweet words live.

His pleasure was a healthy mind,
Teaching man’s duty to mankind;
No thought of glory or of gain
Centred within that brilliant brain
But love to men.
Oh, life! Oh, death! Thou hast no sting!
Swiftly upon thy glorious wing,
Trembling, within the golden maze,
He passed to pour his sweetest lays
Beyond our ken.

His ivory casket lies at rest
In that dear island of the west;
His song hath ceased, his rest is won,
And peace is his at set of sun,
For he hath led
Some weary mortals to the spheres
Of fancy, far from pensive tears,
Where, in imagination’s bliss,
They hung upon a poet’s kiss.
Oh, happy dead!

And Britain mourns him not alone,
And not because of sculptured stone,
Or tributes great, or elegy,
Will her laureate remembered be,
But in her heart.
Though rugged be the path to fame,
Yet history hath writ his name
A star of magnitude that shines;
For fame, whose lustre few entwines,
Hath crowned his art.

MOUNT TAMBOURINE, QUEENSLAND.

How shall I paint in words thine image fair,
Set in a background of red-winged light,
Glinting through portieres of soft foliage there,
Gold-flecked ere fading into deepening night?
List to the music of cascades which pour
Their liquid silver tribute down the steep
To moss-clad boulders, where it bubbles o’er,
And fronded ferns in verdurous beauty peep.
Breathless--I wait near thy pellucid stream
To view some woodland nymph with flashing feet
And brow, flower-bound for this alluring dream--
A witching Flora in this cool retreat.
Pensive I grow until the bell-bird’s note--
Organ-like, pealing in its grand solemnity--
Brings haunting memories, as the deep tones float,
Of vanished hours--lost chords of melody.
Crowned in magnificence is thy majestic head,
Queenly thy royal robe of purple grace,
With tender nuances o’er dewy verdure spread,
Where the Pacific’s jasper waves embrace.
Whether in winnowed raiment of the crystal dawn,
Or golden mantle of the sun’s rich ore,
Or jewelled scarf star studded round thee worn,
Thy smiles or tears but charm me more and more.
Farewell, thy stately beauty! Stay--a thought
Hath touched the deep recesses of my soul--
Thou standest, thou Colossus, tempest-wrought,
A Beacon on Time’s sea to mark a shoal!

DREAMS.

I dream of thee when morn is nigh
And Eos, incense laden,
Through rosy portals of the sky,
Chaseth the white mist maiden.

I dream when falls the tender night,
And walks the pale queen moon,
And peeping stars with eyes so bright
Whisper “She cometh soon.”

I watch them in the fragrant gloom
Hanging so pure and high,
For they are woven in my dream,
And gleam all silently.

Beloved! As a budding rose
With petals just unfolding,
My passion would thy heart unclose
A flower of love’s own moulding.

And oft in slumber wrapped profound
I see thy lashes wet,
And know thy thoughts with mine are bound,
And thou dost not forget.

My dreams I cherish, and thou must
By this, my only token,
Know that my love, till I am dust,
Shall e’er remain unbroken.

And when that “Light that never was”
On earth or sky or sea
Shall break o’er me, ’twill be because
God led me up through thee.

AUSTRALIA TO THE EMPIRE MOTHER.

Peace to thee, Mother of Empires: Austral, thy younger child
Far removed from thy steadfast hand across the ocean wild,
Sees not thy mighty cities, nor the pleasurance of thy mead,
Nor the glory of thy landscapes where tender flocklets feed.
Nor the ancient feudal castles flanked with turrets and with moats,
The fane of great Westminster, nor hath heard Big Ben’s deep notes.
Thy palaces and heirlooms with proud earls and ladies fair,
Of noble blood and long descent, and costly jewels rare.
Thy wondrous wealth and poverty with streets one shining blaze,
Where tiny children clad in rags are driven within the maze
Or labyrinth of alleys, just to sell God’s gift--the flowers,
With little bodies blue with cold to pass the mid-night hours.
Oh, Britain! Thy great heart doth swell with passionate regret
That thou hast so many mouths to fill; then thou must not forget
That far away ’neath Southern Cross thy child doth bless thy name,
For she hath written in her heart the story of thy fame.
Thy battles fought, thy hopes for peace on that expectant day
When the crimson tides of human blood for aye shall fade away.
And see! Thy royal daughter waits to plead with Britain’s race,
To send her vessels filled with kin, to choose a dwelling-place
Beneath the soft and balmy skies where giant forests gleam,
And the yellow ribboned wattle grows beside the silver stream;
Where golden sands of islets float beyond the purple rim
Of sapphire seas, and lofty palms wave languourously and slim
Where the vine and fig tree flourish within the rich, red soil,
And poverty is never known save to those who will not toil.
Oh, not with tones of other climes thy daughter Austral sings;
Not as the birds of other lands their note’s wild echo rings,
The cadence of the bell-bird’s call, the curlew’s haunting cry,
The green and scarlet plumage gay which sweep across the sky,
The ’possum and the mopoke, and the soft-eyed kangaroo,
Nature in all her curious shapes, with flowers of gorgeous hue.
In solitary splendour Austral waits within her walls
Of rocky sea-girt armoury and for population calls;
Her empty Northern Territory hath smiling emerald plains,
Her pasture land is waiting for the men who have the brains.
Oh! Mother of ours, thy children in thine island of the west
Will find a home through Britain’s shore in where their hearts may rest.
We know the name of Austral shines upon thy royal crown
And that with thine own glorious seal her deeds are written down;
And that Austral’s heart is loyal and is ever beating true,
And the women of her nation are not dreamers, but they do.
And their ever-marching army with intelligence will prove
That Australia is advancing in her work of peace and love.
Oh! Empire Mother, whom we love, we know thy greatest need
Is to teach thy sons to follow--where a little child may lead--

YOUTH AND AGE.

Though lovely youth seems far apart to lie
It treadeth ever on the heels of age;
A few delicious years of transient joy
Then turns the fly-leaf of life’s solemn page.

Some duties stern blent with the lessons meet
From nature’s wondrous garden of delight;
Fair meadows, where the gold-eyed marguerite
’Opes to the sun and prays, as we, at night.

Then comes a page of slowly dawning thought,
The alley-ways where wrong in painted guise
Rose-coloured, glows in filmy beauty wrought,
“’Tis then that calm reflection makes us wise.”

Again a leaf, and then life’s real intent,
Forceful with all its earnestness and pain,
Presents itself--but useless to lament
Past idle hours--Oh! waste them not again.

Youth and old age, twin destinies which sway
The human leaves; youth feeleth not the blast
But age though withered knoweth well that May
Must pass December’s threshold at the last.

We turn the leaf of this the longer page
By some as yet unfinished--let it stand
A volume of our hearts, while hoping age
Will lead us gently to the shadow land.

And when at length our page is nearly closed
With all our faults and virtues there impressed,
Let age, its mortal garment--quit composed
By the sweet thought: “Who made us knowest best.”

IMAGINATION.

Swifter than light imagination springs
Unfettered by its tenement of clay;
One moment here, the next on joyous wings
Poised o’er the stars which pave the “Milky Way.”

Oh boundless space! Oh mighty concaved dome!
Graven with tessallated groups of stars;
Imagination hears God’s vibrant loom
As the frail spirit soars beyond its bars.

There jewelled in the blue empyreal height
Gleam glittering Sirius, Deneb and Altair;
Lo, clustering gems of scintillating light,
The brilliant retinue of Crucis fair.

Lost in infinitude, it views with awe
The majesty of rolling spheres around,
Where golden argosies are speeding o’er
The vast celestial seas without a bound.

It is enough! We may not lift the veil
Which shrouds the altar of the Eternal Throne;
The thought doth the imagination quail
As meek it kneels before the Gate alone.

Alone a space, within that vastitude--
Beyond all mundane things of time and sense,
And change and swift vicissitude,
To worship Him for his beneficence--

Imagination’s bounds are limitless,
No star of eve trembling above the sea
Hath wider path, or sheddeth sweeter bliss,
For it, of all God’s gifts, to man is free.

AN AUSTRALIAN REVERIE.

I stood in the Temple of Silence
Where in crimson splendour shone,
The rich light through stained windows
O’er a matchless crystal throne.
And a vista of stately pillars
Stretched far ’neath a dome of gold,
And sculptured recumbent figures
Of mortals of kingly mould.
Yet with all its surpassing beauty
I could feel the icy breath
Of the wings of some brooding phantom
In this gilded house of death.
Here no sound ever broke the stillness,
Here solitude ever abode,
I stayed till the moonbeams quivered,
Then left Silence alone with God.

I stood in the Palace of Pleasure,
The revels were wild and gay,
And mocking laughter rose and fell
As the swift hours sped away.
The lights waxed dim, and the flowers
Drooped dead in the gorgeous bowls,
And the painted faces anon grew sad,
And mirthless their empty souls.
The long night waned, and the dancers,
Their beauty all faded and worn,
Looked pallid, and listless, and weary,
In the rays of the glorious morn.
Ever seeking ephemeral pleasure,
Which leads to the path of pain,
And down to the Valley of Never,
Whence none may return again.

I stood in life’s Garden of Beauty,
And, lo! in a floral shrine
Of roses and lilies entwining
Lay a chalice of dew divine.
And a throng of mortals stood waiting
For the Angel of Love to pour
This holy dew of libation,
Which falleth for evermore.
And children were weaving garlands
As they walked o’er the verdant sward
With the flowers of Truth and Perfection
In sunlight which ever poured.
And here, in this new earthly Eden,
With its gleaming wings of white,
Was Peace, for all men were Brothers--
I awoke from my dream: “’Twas night!”

THE VOICE OF SONG.

Come, oh song, and charm my sadness,
For I fain would weep,
With melodious notes of gladness
Wooing balmy sleep.
While the troops of stars are smiling
Calm my fevered brow,
All my soul with sound beguiling,
Charm, oh! charm me now.
Golden daylight hath its laughter,
Moonlight hath its tears;
Songs are dreams which follow after
Thought along the years.
Waves of joy, and waves of sorrow,
Placid, turbulent,
Darkest days have bright to-morrows,
Each a message sent.
Love and life on wings are flying,
Dreams of yesterday,
Like the precious hours, are lying
Far from us to-day.
Sing, then, sing your sweetest number
Softer than a sigh,
That it bring me dreamless slumber
For my weary eye.
And thy song shall be for dreamers
Tender, soft, and low,
And the tune that Boreas murmurs,
Which none others know.
Waft, oh voice of song, thy measure
O’er the air of even,
Till the soul, consumed with pleasure,
Wakes to thoughts of Heaven.

ALIENATION.

What gulf so deep, what arid desert plain,
Or dreary vastitude of ocean main,
So deep as the divide of hearts once stirred
To sweet response, which only winds had heard?
The dead who live but love us now no more,
Gone are the echoes of the tones of yore;
The faces of our sighs and tears and dreams
Are cold as gleaming ice on frozen streams.
The days that were may ne’er return again,
Though each perchance has felt the aching pain;
Yet pride forbade thy wounded heart to let
Me plead; but, oh! thou never can’st forget.
’Tis destiny’s decree, and ’twere not meet
That when I see thy cold eyes I should greet
Thee more--thy burning heart ’neath snow
Can never flame again with tender glow.

And yet how strange that it should thus befall,
Since love is dead, that fain we would recall
Each note that trembled on the golden lyre,
Ere it lay silent on the funeral pyre.
So be it: Destiny for all sad mortals leaves
Some little grains of comfort from life’s sheaves;
So, though my love be lost to me for aye,
The flowers of memory ne’er will fade away.

AT NIGHT.

When sinks the sun a globe of gold
Across the ocean’s breast,
And night doth all the world enfold,
My spirit will not rest.

And forth it speeds without a sound,
For nought can bind my will.
The moonbeams cast a halo round,
And everything is still.

Once more I tread the flowery field
As in the days of yore,
My beating heart doth almost yield
When near the garden door.

There stand the stately old elm trees
Which once my childhood knew,
The tulips bend unto the breeze,
The fountain plashes, too.

I hear the silvery laughter float
From out the cool, dim hall,
I hear my brothers’ merry shout
As they each other call.

I stand within the ancient room
I see the books so rare,
And smell the olden rich perfume
Of roses clustering there.

And I become a child again,
And listen to the prayer
My father breathes, like a refrain,
Which all our beings stir.

And from the stairs, so black with age
The mullioned windows view,
Through which once gazed some vanished sage
The while he pensive grew.

Its leaden panes with vitreous eyes
Look over o’er the sea,
Which there in rolling grandeur lies,
God’s moving mystery.

And as I through each chamber tread
With footsteps light as air,
I feel that sorrow’s years have fled
And left me young and fair.

And then the old clock in the tower,
With solemn voice and deep,
Booms out the ne’er returning hour,
And wakes me from my sleep.

Lo! from all sadness springs a joy
The world may never give,
And in these realms of memory
My soul at night doth live.

THE WATTLE.

A maze of gorgeous golden bloom
The yellow wattle gleams,
A glorious wealth of sweet perfume,
It dwells beside the streams.

And deep in bush and forest glade
On verdurous velvet lawn,
Or avenues of waving shade,
This empress--Austral born.

With leaves of frosted silver chased,
Their myriad tiny heads
By trembling drops of dew enlaced
A glittering radiance sheds.

And Auster’s beauteous witching flower
Hath e’er a jealous hue,
For Helios breathed his passion there,
And flamed it through and through.

The dawn with heavy scent is sweet,
The petals shower their gold
In soft abandon at its feet
New glory to unfold.

’Tis seen in Afric’s torrid clime,
Yet, though it bloometh there,
Its spirit dreameth of the time
It drank of Austral’s air.

Dear national flower, an emblem thou
Of what our children need;
To train with love their hands to do
Each day some golden deed.

AUSTRAL’S SONG.

Lo! from her long sleep of ages
Austral now awakes;
Hear the glorious strains ye sages,
Her glad morning breaks.
Borne afar across the water
Trembling to the sky,
List! For Britain’s royal daughter
Chants her song of joy.

’Mid terrestrial constellations
May her statesmen shine;
Weld, O Lord, her vast foundations
With the link divine.
Righteousness be her attendant,
Majesty her throne,
Liberty her shield resplendent,
Equity her crown.

Guard her army and her navy,
Citadel and fleet,
Vanquish all her foes, we pray thee,
Lord, if it be meet.
May she ever be sustained
In her darkest hour;
Grant that peace be e’er maintained
By Thy grace and power.

Hark! the grand refrain is swelling,
Thrilling every ear;
Lord of hosts, within Thy dwelling
Holy Spirit, hear.
Though earth’s empires all must crumble,
Suns and systems wane,
In magnificence, yet humble,
Long may Austral reign.

I KNOW NOT.

I know not if my future years will be
With sorrow crowned,
Or if in solitude unknown to thee
I may be bound.

I know not, if, as down life’s stream I float
With look divine,
Some other hand will guide my fragile boat
Better than mine.

I know not, when right out of sight of port,
High on the crest,
Of raging billows which I vainly fought
I shall find rest.

I know not if dear spirit friends of yore
Will hear my voice,
And when they meet me safe upon yon shore
They will rejoice.

But this I know that He, my Lord, will stand
With glance of love
And hand stretched out to lead me o’er the strand
To Heaven above.

MOBILITE.

I sought the fragrance of the roses’ breath,
Bending beneath their burden of sweet dew;
How could I reconcile the thought of death
With blooms, which in such matchless beauty grew?

I sought the lily, pure as a pale bride,
So stately with its waxen petals wet,
Green-stemmed and slender, and it gently sighed
“Yet a few days and all my sun is set.”

I sought the woods wherein the whispering wind
Chanted a lullaby into my listening ear,
And faintly came an echoing voice behind,
“E’en as the leaves I change and disappear.”

I sought old ocean with its ceaseless moan,
Flinging white clinging arms of spumy spray
To grasp the shore, then in a solemn tone
It made reply, “I too must pass away.”

I sought the stars which in their orbits sway,
And just as day obscures their brilliant light,
The star of faith, though doubt may cloud the way,
Illumes with fervent glow the mists of night.

Oh! earth. Oh! heaven. Oh! death, which is but life.
That still small voice within doth ever say,
Here for a season set amid the strife,
Live thou thy best--for all must pass away.

Passing away where crowns and sceptred right,
Kings, lowly, meekly lay before the Throne,
And saints with creeds, and sinners, in the light
Of God’s great dawn, will worship Him alone.

MUSIC.

Let the sound of sweet music my spirit fill,
Come like the fall of a sparkling rill
Which murmureth ever a golden hymn
Of enchanting melody, or the dim
Low symphony, soft as the zephyrs make,
When they ruffle the face of the silver lake.
Then pouring beauty, and grace, and light
In voluptuous sounds of majestic might;
Nearer the beat of the mystic wings,
Sweet strains which only an angel sings,
While stars as the dew seems to fall around,
Then melt again at the heavenly sound.

Breathing, ravishing, tender notes,
A billow of chords which for ever floats
O’er shimmering seas of exalted bliss,
Touching the waves with a soft caress,
Sighing through forests where pale moon flowers
Glimmer and thirst for thy limpid showers,
Or pulsing and thrilling the heart and brain,
Oh! loosen the clouds of thy golden rain,
And steep my soul in its precious dower
Till it panteth overwhelmed ’neath thy magic power.

THE CITY OF THE “VIOLET CROWN.”

Stately upon Egea stands
The city of the “Violet Crown,”
Where gods and men in fancy met
And oratory attained renown;
Where sculptured beauty art disclosed
In all its matchless symmetry,
Brilliant as first when Phœbus glowed
Upon its dazzling purity.

There for all time the Prophylæ,
The glorious Acropolis,
And Nike Apteron doth speak
Of Marathon and Salamis.
Still looks the Areopagos o’er
Where Socrates was once arraigned,
His sentence heard--the hemlock drank,
And died, but his great words remained.

Here was the lap of literature
With elegance and wisdom blent,
With the majestic Parthenon
Its overwhelming monument.
In spirit once again we hear
The voices borne upon the wind,
High in the Temple of great Zeus,
On Mount Olympus far behind.

Oh! gods and heroes, ye no more
In solemn conclave since have met,
Thy gods were myths, but thy great deeds
Burneth within our memory yet.
And Corinth, Athens’ sister, lies
Straight, straight along the sacred road
Where gray Hymettus proudly swells
’Mid purple plain by heroes trode.

Lo! Arcady and Argoli
Unfold before our ravished sight,
And still the magic influence grows
And time moves backward in its flight.
There lies the ancient Argive plain
Where chiefs in angry council met,
When Paris took the Spartan frail,
The insult they did n’er forget.

Then fled in haste with her to Troy,
And Nemesis the pair pursued,
For calling all their braves to arms
Greece vengeance vowed to Priam’s brood.
And n’er will a magician weave
Their tales of prowess and of skill
As Homer--none so deft as he
Could thus the imagination thrill.

Lo! Delphi, where in darkness sat
The sacred priestess, while in wrath
’Mid clouds of incense serpent wound
The Oracle would issue forth.
Oh! Athena, the “violet crowned,”
Thy crystal founts and cypress groves,
Where Daphne and Minerva walked,
Leave but memory of their loves.

AURELLE.

I would frame a lyric sweet
To ma belle Aurelle;
Tresses rippling to her feet,
Laughing lips as well.
She hath hands as lilies pure,
Head of beauty’s mould,
Eyes like great brown pools so clear,
Sparkling depths enfold.
On a grassy knoll she stands,
Clasping wattle bloom--
Golden flower of Austral’s lands,
With its rich perfume.
Roses grace her cheeks so fair,
And she knoweth well
That she doth my heart ensnare--
Ma belle Aurelle.
And she singeth like a bird
At heaven’s gate,
When its swelling notes are stirred
By its mate.
And I know that Cupid’s dart--
Sharp, yet slender--
Some fine day will pierce her heart,
Oh, so tender.
But this stately maid of mine
Loveth none as me:
For her summers are but nine--
Aurelle mine, you see!

THE TALE OF THE GREAT WHITE PLAINS.

Day by day and night by night,
Till the great white plains in sight--
Speeds the “Terra Nova” on;
Britain’s laurels must be won,
So they press to reach their goal:
Point they to the Southern Pole.
What a tale thou dost unfold,
Far surpassing deeds of old.
Shades of Spartan heroes these
Mightier see in southern seas,
Mountain pillars gleaming white
In the lone Antarctic night.
Dazzling peaks, all tempest riven;
Shrouded ghosts, which gaze at heaven:
There, majestic, grand and free,
Towering o’er that frigid sea,
Terror, Erebus, look down
From their smouldering fiery throne.
Sunken eyes and cheeks so pale,
Still the stout hearts do not quail,
Though they pay a heavy toll
Yet, at length, they reach the Pole.
Lo! The Union Jack unfurled,
Britain’s finger leads the world.
Glory gained, they may not stay,
There is danger in delay.
Back o’er that wide trackless plain,
Mighty Scott with all his train
Passed, while death the white steed rode
Side by side the way they trode,
Through the blizzard’s freezing blast.
Will he claim his prey at last?
Buoyed with thoughts of northern skies
Oft’ their drooping spirits rise.
Where fond loved ones’ hopes and fears
Mingle with their prayers and tears--
So they struggle weakly on,
Strength and courage almost gone.
On, until with grief they find
Evans they must leave behind.
Ah! The other hut in view,
Will they see the blizzard through?
Yes! The camp at last they reach
Cold exhaustion numbing speech,
And brave Oates! Oh! Gallant heart,
Nobly doth he take his part
In this awful tragedy
Of the icy polar sea.
Facing death ’mid ice and snow
See the loyal comrade go;
Knowing nought his life could save
Sought he thus a lonely grave.
Silently we draw the veil
And his mournful end bewail.

Months elapse--what is their fate?
Wilson, Bowers, alas! Too late:
With their chief at length they find
In their sleeping bags enshrined,
Fresh as when their parting breath
Froze within the embrace of death.
Saintly looking in their sleep,
Only angels o’er them weep;
There in royal robes of snow
Lie our glorious heroes now.

And the message Scott would send:
“Guard our loved ones to the end.”
Britain’s, Austral’s hearts will be
With their dead in that white sea,
And their children, not in vain,
Oft will read the tale again,
And immortal memory shelve
Nineteen hundred years and twelve.
Not unmarked the way they trod,
For it led them up to God.
Lo! A cairn above them stands
Raised by gentle, loving hands
And a cross upon the spot
In that grand Antarctic grott,
While for aye they will remain
Martyrs of the Great White Plain.

AN AUSTRALIAN HYMN.

God of earth’s nations, Thee we sing--
Loud may Australia’s Anthem ring;
Look down in mercy from Thy throne
And with great empires make her one.

Lord, not supreme alone in health,
Or might, is she a Commonwealth,
But by the grace which Thou hast given
To spread her seed beneath the Heaven.

Grant that her sons, her citadel,
May ever hold impregnable;
Swift to defend and slow to hate--
The enemy within her gate.

Fair waves her pennon on the breeze,
Long may she reign in southern seas;
Oh, may Thy power and glory wait
Upon her mighty ship of state.

Oh, may her empire builders be
Faithful to base her dynasty
On Truth, with Liberty for shield,
And Battle-axe of Justice wield.

Yea, Thine the glory, Lord, may she
Fulfil her glorious destiny;
And Austral’s Anthem ever pour
Thy praise till time shall be no more.

GOD’S GIFT.

The pure pale blossoms of God’s gift, the flowers,
Breathe immortality.
They tell us of sweet, heavenly, dreamless hours
All through eternity.
They tell us of dear Mother Earth who press’d
So soft and deep
Their tiny seeds within her tender breast
As children sleep.
They tell us, these white souls of flowers, sent
To beautify
Our minds, of human souls, an emblem meant,
Which never die.
And when our bodies, like dear flowers, must
At length decay,
The seeds we sow will bloom, when we from dust
Have passed away.
Then let our lives be pure as these pale blooms
With fragrance blent,
That deeds, like flowers, shall be upon our tombs
A monument.

BECAUSE OF THEE.

Because of thee, the earth is fair to see,
The dawn more radiant for it breathes of thee,
It gloweth deeper in the eastern skies
As dawneth love within thy beauteous eyes.

Because of thee, my heart a song doth sing,
Its cadence in mine ear doth ever ring
So dulcet sweet, and though thou art not near
I feel, and know in spirit, thou can’st hear.

Because of thee, weak words may not convey
The holy calm which comes at close of day;
When sunsets flame like seas of beaten gold
Ere night her spangled draperies hath unrolled.

Because of thee, upon the balmy air,
Pæans from every plumaged worshipper
Thrill all my soul, dear love, and seem to me
Each liquid note a message sent from thee.

Because of thee, the flowers more odorous still,
With subtle fragrance, waken at my will
Sweet memories of the perfume-laden dew
Of the old garden, redolent of you.

Because of thee, this longing heart of mine
Hath none but thee to dwell within its shrine,
Its sacred taper thou, a glorious light,
My lode-star like a splendid vision bright.

Because of thee, the stars seem all enwrought
With beauty which enriches every thought;
The moon, a golden chariot in which we
May circle space for all eternity.

Because of thee, as o’er life’s mighty deep,
We glide together, soft shall be thy sleep;
His hand will guide our barque to yonder shore
To live, Oh, love--true life for evermore.

THE LEGEND OF OSYTH’S WOOD.

[TO W. RICHER.]

How well I remember the tranquil hours
We spent in the haunted wood;
How fair was the glade and the primrose flowers
Where the ruined abbey stood,
For there, near the lake where water springs--
It gushed in a crystal stream--
From the mouth of a dragon with carven wings
And eyes of a fearful gleam.
And there was the grotto, with walls inlet
With shells from the shining sands,
And the floor with mosaic scenes was set,
All relics from Eastern lands.
We played, and we idly wondered who
In the centuries past and gone
Had chiselled the antique shape so true
Of this monster in sculptured stone.
And the legend weird of this ancient pile
We many a time had heard,
And oft in the dusk we would list, the while
The leaves by the wind were stirred.
For ages and ages ago ’twas said
A prince of the Saxon blood
With the Lady Osyth one day was wed
By a priest of the holy rood.
He bade adieu at the altar there,
But alas, for the vows they made,
A rival prince took his bride so fair
By force to the forest shade.
She was rescued, assuming the sacred veil,
And a nun she had scarce been made,
When up to the abbey, in coat of mail,
Rode the prince with a gleaming blade.
And with sword held high he espied the face
Of his wife in a window near,
A moment more, in his fast embrace
Swooned the lady in deadly fear.
And fast on his palfrey they rode away
These twain through the woodland deep,
And saw not the rival till brought to bay
Near the “Fatal Lover’s Leap.”
And the enemy’s knights came and bore them on
And round to the moonlit lake
And jeered: “So perish each wicked one
Who is false to the vows they make.”
The prince they bound to his steed and led
The lady whose every limb
Trembled, while faltering prayers she said
And her glorious eyes grew dim.
Then they bade her stand by the dragon’s side
When with swift and sudden blow
The rapier fell, and her life’s red tide
Welled o’er to the stream below.
And the legend runs that the headless form
Of the maiden quickly bent
And lifted her head beneath her arm
While a shriek the wild echoes rent.
And the prince enraged, when he knew her fate,
Unbuckled his heavy mail,
And, stabbing himself as his steed he sate,
He died with a mournful wail.
And the story goes that the lady’s shade
Still walks, and her voice is heard,
When the moon is old in the haunted glade--
Like the cry of a wounded bird--
And the headless image in marble chased
Of this saint in the chancel old
Still stands, though time hath its lines effaced
And despoiled it of beauty’s mould.
And oft as I think of the woodland fair
And the legend, I fain would be
Once more near the dragon which standeth where
St. Osyth lived, just by the sea.

MOUNT GAMBIER, SOUTH AUSTRALIA.

In lone magnificence and stately pride,
Majestic in thy ruin and decay,
Thou, whose unfathomed crater yawned wide
When Pluto’s furies in thy depths held sway;
And forked lightning on black clouds astride,
And igneous rocks, their glowing masses hurled
While streams of lava in a ceaseless tide
Flowed o’er thy base upon a darkened world.
What hast thou felt in cycles long untold?
What hast thou heard within thine eyrie there,
That scalding tears of rage hath down thee rolled
Scarring thine image and thy bosom bare?
What hath the glorious sun-god looked upon,
Searching thy heart with brilliant-zoned light?
What hath the silver-veiled Fingari, lone
Viewed from her vantage in the solemn night?
Thou must have breathed when regal Pompeii, placed
On proud Italia’s olive-mantled shore
Was by Vesuvius’ wrath engulfed and rased,
And eighteen centuries was covered o’er.
If thou but had a tongue, mayhap thou would
Tell us when fair Lemuria disappeared,
Or how the dusky tribes, with rites of blood,
In bora rings their writhing victims speared.
Thou antique dial: scarce thou feeleth, though
Thy faint spasmodic tremblings still are felt,
And o’er thy sunken cranium waters flow,
The rocky amphitheatre thy belt.
Now, foliage green adorns thy noble form--
Lo! Mansions fair are nestling there serene
Around thy neck, and in the gathering gloom
At eve we picture what thou once hath been.
And Oh! Thou mighty Gambier, not in vain
Thou teacheth like a sad and silent sage
The wisdom and the pleasure we may gain
While pondering on thy splendour and thine age.

Prose Fragments

SCENTS AND THE PAST.

A STRONG CONNECTING LINK.

It sometimes happens that some uncommon perfume will carry us back to the days of our girlhood, when our mothers would devoutly disclose to the light of day all sorts of odd things, such as old letters smelling of musk, or ribbons and pieces of old lace yellow with age, cast off baby clothes, which once on a time, covered our tiny persons, little pinafores or caps and booties, perhaps toys which once belonged to a sister or brother, long since gone on the other side.

Again, such a perfume may remind us of a time when the whole family were gathered around the festive board, laughing, bright with repartee, the room redolent of fragrance from the tastefully arranged flowers, long since forgotten. Somehow a scent brings back a flood of memories; the scene; the very arch glance of a pair of eyes, or the grave sweet look of a face, as though it were yesterday.

Some perfumes become a precious memory lying dormant, which one can conjure up at will. Others are suddenly resurrected.

Lavender! What luxury to lie between sheets odorous of lavender. And the old-fashioned potpourri of late years, having a revival of favour, chiefly consisting of orris roots, violets and rose leaves--with sweet thoughts centred and clinging around them. The roses!

Goddess of beauty, at thy magic breath
My spirit turneth from the gate of death,
And in thy deep red heart would find repose.
And dreams of Arcady--thou queenly rose!

And, talking of roses, what a lot of them are now being worn on the hats. Never in the history or vagaries of fashion have flowers held such pride of place as at present. And, although they are artificial, they revive thoughts of perfume. Some of the models make us think of Watteau shepherdesses as the right sort of beauties to wear them; but some of our Queensland girls have faces pretty and artistic enough to grace anything with advantage.

I heard a very pretty compliment paid to Queensland women as a whole the other day by an English gentleman. He remarked (I hope my readers will not become too vain after hearing this) that they are the neatest and nicest dressed girls he had seen anywhere, and were an example--with the exception of some over-dressed ones--to many English women. But to return to our own “moutons.”

How the smell of very old furniture will make one’s memory retrace its steps. The past stands out sadly or joyously, and sometimes it is so subtle and suggestive as to convey one back to a confused memory, like a thread of a pre-existence, which most of us have experienced. It is very vague and uncertain. Yet there it is.

Yes! scents are strong connecting links between the past and present, and we have a sense of gratitude, for it gives us something very pleasant to think about--and sometimes has the charm of making our existence free from feelings of ennui.

MALTA.

JUST A GLIMPSE.

It had been a very rough passage through the Bay of Biscay, and it was an immense relief to run into calm water, so, hugging the coast of southern Spain, we could distinctly see the shore, with trees standing out in bold relief against the sky. So (I shall never as long as I live forget the beauty of the scene) we approached the great, brown rock of Gibraltar, with its hundred eyes of hate, bristling with guns, and with the now fashionable watering place of Algiers on our left, we passed through the great “Pillars of Hercules,” the extremities of Europe and Africa almost meeting into the Mediterranean. The passage appears much narrower than it really is, sea distance being deceptive. We steamed along in the pinken glow of dawn, the change being very pleasant, and the air gradually becoming warmer, until within a few miles of Malta (which island, as you know, is off the southern coast of Sicily), when it suddenly became quite hot. And, how shall I describe the impression, under perfect weather conditions? The white rock, so imposing and important politically, as well as commercially. A jewelled island, set in a sapphire sea. A green vista of terraces of white houses, with green shutters and awnings of scarlet and white, flapping in the breeze. Pedestrians we could see in the distance with the ubiquitous umbrellas and hats, green lined to keep off the glare of the sun. Presently we anchored, and, hey presto! we were almost immediately surrounded by vendors of all sorts of things in the shape of coral earrings, bracelets, and brooches, good and bad Florida water, perfumes, real Maltese lace and bad imitation. We inspected their wares, and amid a babel of French and Italian (we being in a hurry), we purchased some good lace and eau de Cologne.

Then, we decided we would go ashore, which three of us did, and we passed the casinos and shipping offices, and wended our way up those famous streets of stairs described by Lord Byron, and we no longer wondered, when we thought of his poor deformed foot, how difficult he must have found the ascent. Each house rose imperially above its neighbour up those flights, and, peeping from some of the doors, were dark-eyed Madonna-looking Spanish beauties, their classic heads draped gracefully with mantillas. But the dominating smell, which spoilt it all, was that of garlic. It assailed our nostrils; it seemed to be everywhere, and we were told that, in some form or another, it was found at every meal. At last we gained the top, after much stifled laughter, and made for the barracks and the fort, after which we visited the armoury, and imagined we had known the brave knights themselves, after the kind information tendered by our guide in mixed Anglo-Saxon, French and Italian.

We then went to the Cathedral of St. John, saw the Alexandrian Gate, and the places set apart for worshippers of different sects, after which we joined in a service in the central portion. Later on towards sunset, we hired a fiacre with a Pegasus-like winged steed attached, and the way that sorry horse flew along was marvellous. No whip was needed, and to say he was as thin as a herring would be a libel on the herring. Anyhow, we arrived safely at Valetta, the Government residence, and visited the famous orange gardens. We returned to the ship, dined on board, and then in the evening went toiling up again to the Royal Opera House. The scene was very brilliant. An Italian Company was performing, and the artistes were loaded with floral tributes. The next day we were off again, and steamed to Cape Malea--but “that’s another story.”

SMYRNA.

It was a glorious morning when we arrived off Malea, and we steamed near enough to distinguish the plateau on the rock where the celebrated old hermit--who isolated himself in that lonely spot for so many years--had always, on the approach of a vessel, advanced waving a flag.

The promontory passed, we were out of the Mediterranean, and we slowly passed the maze of islands--the Cyclades--past Milo and Delos, famed in song and story, Andros and Nicaria, and soon were making our way into the Ægean Sea towards the volcanic island of Chios or Cos. This island is off the Gulf of Smyrna, and has frequently been devastated by seismic agencies.

It was a thrilling experience passing through the Gulf, and there, in the light of evening, lay that ancient city--one of the seven Churches of Asia--with its background of everlasting hills, beneath a turquoise sky, carrying one’s mind back down the centuries, when St. Paul himself preached there, and delivered the message to the churches.

Smyrna is the key of Asia Minor, and Anatolia is as large as France.

After our luggage had been inspected, we, after some altercation with the drivers of various vehicles, were driven to our hotel, and, after divesting ourselves of our travelling attire, we descended to the table-d’-hôte, where dinner was served à la Russe. We noted the many little dishes filled, one for each guest, with black and green olives, and fresh beady-looking black caviare, the roe of the sturgeon, indigenous to the Black Sea.

It was a truly cosmopolitan company which sat down to dine--so many nationalities being represented--for Smyrna to-day is a very large and important city of the near east.

The caravans leave here for the desert with all sorts of merchandise, and they bring ivory, spices, and precious stones in return. The culture of silk is carried on to an enormous extent, and the figs are of an immense size. We watched, the day after our arrival, the loading of the camels for the desert. Some looked well, others as though they would not reach the end of the journey. Smyrna is the rendezvous of every eastern merchant. The Armenians being good linguists, they conduct the bulk of the business for the Turks, and are tutors in wealthy households.

The Angora goats and the Asiatic sheep--with tremendous tails, weighing ten and fifteen pounds--flourish here in great numbers. We drove to the Church of St. John some miles away. The scenery was truly magnificent, and we felt that Turkey possessed the garden of the gods. We passed pretty villas, buried in a wealth of magnolia trees, but the cypress trees predominate, and the mulberry is very plentiful. We visited the church, but were very much disappointed, the pictures being very tawdry and common.

We also visited the ruins at Ephesus, to which we went by a slow train. Frequent earthquakes have laid everything in magnificent ruin--remains of ampitheatres, temples, aqueducts, are all levelled to the ground. Most of the houses are built of wood which give in seismic shocks, but the facades are of marble.

The Hamals are wonderfully strong, short but active men, and carry immense loads upon their backs, the veins in their legs looking like ropes. These are all Armenians and are trained from infancy.

We visited the Bazaar and the Turkish quarter, but were glad to escape the dust and the quaint species of humanity.

* * * * *

It may not be uninteresting reading now that the papers are filled with news of the war between the allies and Turkey, if I recall one of the pleasantest and most exciting days I ever spent during my sojourn in the Ottoman Empire. I would first of all remark, that Turkey occupies the most beautiful portion of Europe. The soil, being so volcanic, produces a wealth of luxurious fruits, especially grapes and figs; but the Turkish Government, as well as the Turks themselves, being naturally indolent, never think of cultivating the soil as they might. Therefore, there is more poverty among them, through their laxity, than wealth.

The part of Turkey in which I happened to have recently arrived was the lovely island of Lesbos, the birthplace of Sappho, and with very mixed feelings have I stood on the very spot on the road to Polyknito, where that impulsive maid so long ago threw herself from that Leucadian steep into the blue waters beneath. Of recent years, a young lady I knew, threw herself from the same spot and perished--a victim of unrequited love.

Well, two or three Greek girl friends and myself made up our minds to have a real good day’s outing, so, packing our luncheon baskets, we were off before sunrise, as, living some distance from the town of Mitylene, we had a long walk in front of us. We started in high spirits, and were nearing the town when I heard what, to my unsophisticated ears, was a most peculiar awe-inspiring sound. I found it was produced by the Hozahs at sunrise, calling from the minarets of the mosques, the faithful to prayer. And Turks they may be, but, they shame us by their devotions, which all the jeers in the world would never prevent.

We toiled along up the hill towards the Konah, the kiosk, being near by the Governor’s residence, and at the top we stood admiring the sunrise over the hills of Anatolia, in Asia Minor; and the view right along to the heights of Smyrna in the distance was superb. Every inch of this part of eastern Europe is teeming with historical interest. We walked along past the Turkish graveyard, the tombs of which are all surmounted with turbans beautifully sculptured, giving in the dusk a most weird appearance, as though human beings stood there on guard.

At length we arrived at the Loutra, as it is called. The thermal water is conducted underground from the hot springs. We entered a small garden enclosed by a wall; then we were ushered into a room containing dozens of small cupboard-like compartments, scrupulously clean. Our entrance fee was five piasters, or tenpence in English money. We were each supplied with clean towels. Then I, at least, went timorously towards the apartment where the first portion of our ablutions were to be carried out. An attendant came forward to receive us. The first apartment was very warm, and we remained there until the perspiration began to trickle down on to our towels which we secured round our waists. Then came the ordeal.