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Over your buried head。
I pluck one straight as a Paynim's lance
To keep your memory green；
For the lordly sake of old Romance
And your own； sad seventeen。
John Sandes。
‘With Death's Prophetic Ear'
Lay my rifle here beside me； set my Bible on my breast；
For a moment let the warning bugles cease；
As the century is closing I am going to my rest；
Lord； lettest Thou Thy servant go in peace。
But loud through all the bugles rings a cadence in mine ear；
And on the winds my hopes of peace are strowed。
Those winds that waft the voices that already I can hear
Of the rooi…baatjes singing on the road。
Yes； the red…coats are returning； I can hear the steady tramp；
After twenty years of waiting； lulled to sleep；
Since rank and file at Potchefstroom we hemmed them in their camp；
And cut them up at Bronkerspruit like sheep。
They shelled us at Ingogo； but we galloped into range；
And we shot the British gunners where they showed。
I guessed they would return to us； I knew the chance must change
Hark！ the rooi…baatjes singing on the road！
But now from snow…swept Canada； from India's torrid plains；
From lone Australian outposts； hither led；
Obeying their commando； as they heard the bugle's strains；
The men in brown have joined the men in red。
They come to find the colours at Majuba left and lost；
They come to pay us back the debt they owed；
And I hear new voices lifted； and I see strange colours tossed；
'Mid the rooi…baatjes singing on the road。
The old； old faiths must falter； and the old； old creeds must fail
I hear it in that distant murmur low
The old； old order changes； and 'tis vain for us to rail；
The great world does not want us we must go。
And veldt； and spruit； and kopje to the stranger will belong；
No more to trek before him we shall load；
Too well； too well； I know it； for I hear it in the song
Of the rooi…baatjes singing on the road。
Inez K。 Hyland。
To a Wave
Where were you yesterday？ In Gulistan；
With roses and the frenzied nightingales？
Rather would I believe you shining ran
With peaceful floods； where the soft voice prevails
Of building doves in lordly trees set high；
Trees which enclose a home where love abides
His love and hers； a passioned ecstasy；
Your tone has caught its echo and derides
My joyless lot； as face down pressed I lie
Upon the shifting sand； and hear the reeds
Voicing a thin； dissonant threnody
Unto the cliff and wind…tormented weeds。
As with the faint half…lights of jade toward
The shore you come and show a violet hue；
I wonder if the face of my adored
Was ever held importraitured by you。
Ah； no！ if you had seen his face； still prest
Within your hold the picture dear would be；
Like that bright portrait which so moved the breast
Of fairest Gurd with soft unrest that she；
Born in ice halls； she who but raised her eyes
And scornful questioned； 〃What is love； indeed？
None ever viewed it 'neath these northern skies；〃
Seeing the face soon learned love's gentle creed；
But you hold nothing to be counted dear
Only a gift of weed and broken shells；
Yet I will gather one； so I can hear
The soft remembrance which still in it dwells：
For in the shell； though broken； ever lies
The murmur of the sea whence it was torn
So in a woman's heart there never dies
The memory of love； though love be lorn。
Bread and Wine
A cup of opal
Through which there glows
The cream of the pearl；
The heart of the rose；
And the blue of the sea
Where Australia lies；
And the amber flush
Of her sunset skies；
And the emerald tints
Of the dragon fly
Shall stain my cup
With their brilliant dye。
And into this cup
I would pour the wine
Of youth and health
And the gifts divine
Of music and song；
And the sweet content
Which must ever belong
To a life well spent。
And what bread would I break
With my wine； think you？
The bread of a love
That is pure and true。
George Essex Evans。
An Australian Symphony
Not as the songs of other lands
Her song shall be
Where dim Her purple shore…line stands
Above the sea！
As erst she stood； she stands alone；
Her inspiration is her own。
From sunlit plains to mangrove strands
Not as the songs of other lands
Her song shall be。
O Southern Singers！ Rich and sweet；
Like chimes of bells；
The cadence swings with rhythmic beat
The music swells；
But undertones； weird； mournful； strong；
Sweep like swift currents thro' the song。
In deepest chords； with passion fraught；
In softest notes of sweetest thought；
This sadness dwells。
Is this her song； so weirdly strange；
So mixed with pain；
That whereso'er her poets range
Is heard the strain？
Broods there no spell upon the air
But desolation and despair？
No voice； save Sorrow's； to intrude
Upon her mountain solitude
Or sun…kissed plain？
The silence and the sunshine creep
With soft caress
O'er billowy plain and mountain steep
And wilderness
A velvet touch； a subtle breath；
As sweet as love； as calm as death；
On earth； on air； so soft； so fine；
Till all the soul a spell divine
O'ershadoweth。
The gray gums by the lonely creek；
The star…crowned height；
The wind…swept plain； the dim blue peak；
The cold white light；
The solitude spread near and far
Around the camp…fire's tiny star；
The horse…bell's melody remote；
The curlew's melancholy note
Across the night。
These have their message； yet from these
Our songs have thrown
O'er all our Austral hills and leas
One sombre tone。
Whence doth the mournful keynote start？
From the pure depths of Nature's heart？
Or from the heart of him who sings
And deems his hand upon the strings
Is Nature's own？
Could tints be deeper； skies less dim；
More soft and fair；
Dappled with milk…white clouds that swim
In faintest air？
The soft moss sleeps upon the stone；
Green scrub…vine traceries enthrone
The dead gray trunks； and boulders red；
Roofed by the pine and carpeted
With maidenhair。
But far and near； o'er each； o'er all；
Above； below；
Hangs the great silence like a pall
Softer than snow。
Not sorrow is the spell it brings；
But thoughts of calmer； purer things；
Like the sweet touch of hands we love；
A woman's tenderness above
A fevered brow。
These purple hills； these yellow leas；
These forests lone；
These mangrove shores； these shimmering seas；
This summer zone
Shall they inspire no nobler strain
Than songs of bitterness and pain？
Strike her wild harp with firmer hand；
And send her music thro' the land；
With loftier tone！
。 。 。 。 。
Her song is silence； unto her
Its mystery clings。
Silence is the i