In the Days When the World Was Wide | Page 5

when the beacon was Ballarat, With a `Ship ahoy!' on the freshening breeze,?`Where bound?' and `What ship's that?' --?The emigrant train to New Mexico -- the rush to the Lachlan Side -- Ah! faint is the echo of Westward Ho!?from the days when the world was wide.
South, East, and West in advance of Time -- and, ay! in advance of Thought Those brave men rose to a height sublime -- and is it for this they fought? And is it for this damned life we praise the god-like spirit that died At Eureka Stockade in the Roaring Days?with the days when the world was wide?
We fight like women, and feel as much; the thoughts of our hearts we guard; Where scarcely the scorn of a god could touch,?the sneer of a sneak hits hard;?The treacherous tongue and cowardly pen, the weapons of curs, decide -- They faced each other and fought like men?in the days when the world was wide.
Think of it all -- of the life that is! Study your friends and foes! Study the past! And answer this: `Are these times better than those?' The life-long quarrel, the paltry spite, the sting of your poisoned pride! No matter who fell it were better to fight?as they did when the world was wide.
Boast as you will of your mateship now -- crippled and mean and sly -- The lines of suspicion on friendship's brow?were traced since the days gone by.?There was room in the long, free lines of the van?to fight for it side by side --?There was beating-room for the heart of a man?in the days when the world was wide.
. . . . .
With its dull, brown days of a-shilling-an-hour?the dreary year drags round:?Is this the result of Old England's power?
? the bourne of the Outward Bound? Is this the sequel of Westward Ho! -- of the days of Whate'er Betide? The heart of the rebel makes answer `No! We'll fight till the world grows wide!'
The world shall yet be a wider world -- for the tokens are manifest; East and North shall the wrongs be hurled that followed us South and West. The march of Freedom is North by the Dawn! Follow, whate'er betide! Sons of the Exiles, march! March on! March till the world grows wide!
Faces in the Street
They lie, the men who tell us in a loud decisive tone?That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown;?For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet?My window-sill is level with the faces in the street --
Drifting past, drifting past,?To the beat of weary feet --?While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.
And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair,?To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care; I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet?In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street --
Drifting on, drifting on,?To the scrape of restless feet;?I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.
In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky?The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by,?Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet,?Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street --
Flowing in, flowing in,?To the beat of hurried feet --?Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.
The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of eight,?Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late;?But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street --
Grinding body, grinding soul,?Yielding scarce enough to eat --?Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.
And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down?Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town,?Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street, Tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat --
Drifting round, drifting round,?To the tread of listless feet --?Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street.
And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away, And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day,?Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat,?Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street --
Ebbing out, ebbing out,?To the drag of tired feet,?While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street.
And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad pages end, For while the short `large hours' toward the longer `small hours' trend, With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat, Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street --
Sinking down, sinking down,?Battered