An Anthology of Australian Verse Part 18

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 sh.o.r.es, these s.h.i.+mmering seas, This summer zone -- Shall they inspire no n.o.bler 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 interpreter Of deeper things.

O for sonorous voice and strong To change that silence into song, To give that melody release Which sleeps in the deep heart of peace With folded wings!

A Nocturne

Like weary sea-birds spent with flight And faltering, The slow hours beat across the night On leaden wing.

The wild bird knows where rest shall be Soe'er he roam.

Heart of my heart! apart from thee I have no home.

Afar from thee, yet not alone, Heart of my heart!

Like some soft haunting whisper blown From Heaven thou art.

I hear the magic music roll Its waves divine; The subtle fragrance of thy soul Has pa.s.sed to mine.

Nor dawn nor Heaven my heart can know Save that which lies In lights and shades that come and go In thy soft eyes.

Here in the night I dream the day, By love upborne, When thy sweet eyes shall s.h.i.+ne and say "It is the morn!"

A Pastoral

Nature feels the touch of noon; Not a rustle stirs the gra.s.s; Not a shadow flecks the sky, Save the brown hawk hovering nigh; Not a ripple dims the gla.s.s Of the wide lagoon.

Darkly, like an armed host Seen afar against the blue, Rise the hills, and yellow-grey Sleeps the plain in cove and bay, Like a s.h.i.+ning sea that dreams Round a silent coast.

From the heart of these blue hills, Like the joy that flows from peace, Creeps the river far below Fringed with willow, sinuous, slow.

Surely here there seems surcease From the care that kills.

Surely here might radiant Love Fill with happiness his cup, Where the purple lucerne-bloom Floods the air with sweet perfume, Nature's incense floating up To the G.o.ds above.

'Neath the gnarled-boughed apple trees Motionless the cattle stand; Chequered cornfield, homestead white, Sleeping in the streaming light, For deep trance is o'er the land, And the wings of peace.

Here, O Power that moves the heart, Thou art in the quiet air; Here, unvexed of code or creed, Man may breathe his bitter need; Nor with impious lips declare What Thou wert and art.

All the strong souls of the race Thro' the aeons that have run, They have cried aloud to Thee -- "Thou art that which stirs in me!"

As the flame leaps towards the sun They have sought Thy face.

But the faiths have flowered and flown, And the truth is but in part; Many a creed and many a grade For Thy purpose Thou hast made.

None can know Thee what Thou art, Fathomless! Unknown!

The Women of the West

They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill, The houses in the busy streets where life is never still, The pleasures of the city, and the friends they cherished best: For love they faced the wilderness -- the Women of the West.

The roar, and rush, and fever of the city died away, And the old-time joys and faces -- they were gone for many a day; In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock chains, O'er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains.

In the slab-built, zinc-roofed homestead of some lately taken run, In the tent beside the bankment of a railway just begun, In the huts on new selections, in the camps of man's unrest, On the frontiers of the Nation, live the Women of the West.

The red sun robs their beauty, and, in weariness and pain, The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again; And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say -- The nearest woman's face may be a hundred miles away.

The wide bush holds the secrets of their longing and desires, When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar fires, And silence, like the touch of G.o.d, sinks deep into the breast -- Perchance He hears and understands the Women of the West.

For them no trumpet sounds the call, no poet plies his arts -- They only hear the beating of their gallant, loving hearts.

But they have sung with silent lives the song all songs above -- The holiness of sacrifice, the dignity of love.

Well have we held our father's creed. No call has pa.s.sed us by.

We faced and fought the wilderness, we sent our sons to die.

And we have hearts to do and dare, and yet, o'er all the rest, The hearts that made the Nation were the Women of the West.

Mary Colborne-Veel.

`What Look hath She?'

What look hath she, What majestie, That must so high approve her?

What graces move That I so love, That I so greatly love her?

No majestie But Truth hath She; Thoughts sweet and gracious move her; That straight approve My heart to love, And all my life to love her!

Sat.u.r.day Night

Sat.u.r.day night in the crowded town; Pleasure and pain going up and down, Murmuring low on the ear there beat Echoes unceasing of voice and feet.

Withered age, with its load of care, Come in this tumult of life to share, Childhood glad in its radiance brief, Happiest-hearted or bowed with grief, Meet alike, as the stars look down Week by week on the crowded town.

~And in a kingdom of mystery, Rapt from this weariful world to see Magic sights in the yellow glare, Breathing delight in the gas-lit air, Careless of sorrow, of grief or pain, Two by two, again and again, Strephon and Chloe together move, Walking in Arcady, land of love.~

What are the meanings that burden all These murmuring voices that rise and fall?