An Anthology of Australian Verse | Page 9

Night, the wizard Night,?When the garish reign of day is o'er,?And the myriad barques of the dream-elves come?In a brightsome fleet from Slumber's shore!
O the Night for me,?When blithe and free,?Go the zephyr-hounds on their airy chase;
When the moon is high?In the dewy sky,?And the air is sweet as a bride's embrace!
O the Night, the Night, the charming Night!?From the fountain side in the myrtle shade,?All softly creep on the slumbrous air?The waking notes of the serenade;?While bright eyes shine 'mid the lattice-vines,?And white arms droop o'er the sculptured sills,?And accents fall to the knights below,?Like the babblings soft of mountain rills.
Love in their eyes,?Love in their sighs,?Love in the heave of each lily-bright bosom;
In words so clear,?Lest the listening ear?And the waiting heart may lose them.
O the silent Night, when the student dreams?Of kneeling crowds round a sage's tomb;?And the mother's eyes o'er the cradle rain?Tears for her baby's fading bloom;?O the peaceful Night, when stilled and o'er?Is the charger's tramp on the battle plain,?And the bugle's sound and the sabre's flash,?While the moon looks sad over heaps of slain;
And tears bespeak?On the iron cheek?Of the sentinel lonely pacing,
Thoughts which roll?Through his fearless soul,?Day's sterner mood replacing.
O the sacred Night, when memory comes?With an aspect mild and sweet to me,?But her tones are sad as a ballad air?In childhood heard on a nurse's knee;?And round her throng fair forms long fled,?With brows of snow and hair of gold,?And eyes with the light of summer skies,?And lips that speak of the days of old.
Wide is your flight,?O spirits of Night,?By strath, and stream, and grove,
But most in the gloom?Of the Poet's room?Ye choose, fair ones, to rove.
Richard Rowe.
Superstites Rosae
The grass is green upon her grave,?The west wind whispers low;?"The corn is changed, come forth, come forth,?Ere all the blossoms go!"
In vain. Her laughing eyes are sealed,?And cold her sunny brow;?Last year she smiled upon the flowers --?They smile above her now!
Soul Ferry
High and dry upon the shingle lies the fisher's boat to-night; From his roof-beam dankly drooping, raying phosphorescent light, Spectral in its pale-blue splendour, hangs his heap of scaly nets, And the fisher, lapt in slumber, surge and seine alike forgets.
Hark! there comes a sudden knocking, and the fisher starts from sleep, As a hollow voice and ghostly bids him once more seek the deep; Wearily across his shoulder flingeth he the ashen oar,?And upon the beach descending finds a skiff beside the shore.
'Tis not his, but he must enter -- rocking on the waters dim, Awful in their hidden presence, who are they that wait for him? Who are they that sit so silent, as he pulleth from the land -- Nothing heard save rumbling rowlock, wave soft-breaking on the sand?
Chill adown the tossing channel blows the wailing, wand'ring breeze, Lonely in the murky midnight, mutt'ring mournful memories, -- Summer lands where once it brooded, wrecks that widows' hearts have wrung -- Swift the dreary boat flies onwards, spray, like rain, around it flung.
On a pebbled strand it grateth, ghastly cliffs around it loom, Thin and melancholy voices faintly murmur through the gloom; Voices only, lipless voices, and the fisherman turns pale,?As the mother greets her children, sisters landing brothers hail.
Lightened of its unseen burden, cork-like rides the rocking bark, Fast the fisherman flies homewards o'er the billows deep and dark; THAT boat needs no mortal's mooring -- sad at heart he seeks his bed, For his life henceforth is clouded -- he hath piloted the Dead!
Sir Henry Parkes.
The Buried Chief
(November 6th, 1886)
With speechless lips and solemn tread?They brought the Lawyer-Statesman home:?They laid him with the gather'd dead,?Where rich and poor like brothers come.
How bravely did the stripling climb,?From step to step the rugged hill:?His gaze thro' that benighted time?Fix'd on the far-off beacon still.
He faced the storm that o'er him burst,?With pride to match the proudest born:?He bore unblench'd Detraction's worst, --?Paid blow for blow, and scorn for scorn.
He scaled the summit while the sun?Yet shone upon his conquer'd track:?Nor falter'd till the goal was won,?Nor struggling upward, once look'd back.
But what avails the "pride of place",?Or winged chariot rolling past??He heeds not now who wins the race,?Alike to him the first or last.
Thomas Alexander Browne (`Rolf Boldrewood').
Perdita
She is beautiful yet, with her wondrous hair?And eyes that are stormy with fitful light,?The delicate hues of brow and cheek?Are unmarred all, rose-clear and bright;?That matchless frame yet holds at bay?The crouching bloodhounds, Remorse, Decay.
There is no fear in her great dark eyes --?No hope, no love, no care,?Stately and proud she looks around?With a fierce, defiant stare;?Wild words deform her reckless speech,?Her laugh has a sadness tears never reach.
Whom should she fear on earth? Can Fate?One direr torment lend?To her few little years of glitter and gloom?With the sad old story to end?When the spectres of Loneliness, Want