Past many growing townships, o’er tracks of sun-dried plain,
And rocky hills and rivers, he brought his tale of pain.
Long shadows rose to meet him; in groups they gathered round,
While trees unbent and listened in reverence o’er the ground,
Where hallowed steps had fallen, where an angel late had trod,
Whose holy feet with pity, and love, and faith were shod.
The drover heard those footsteps; he felt an icy breath,
And, turning round in greeting, beheld the face of Death,
A vision bending o’er him, and holding, gently down,
A tiny suffering infant whose life had well-nigh flown.
It raised its fragile body, and softly turned to rest
Beside him, closely nestling against his massive breast.
And, as the shadows parted, the small wan features smiled
Upon him, oh! so sweetly, and he saw it was his child.
A moment more, it left him, and thro’ the dimness fled
Back to the Angel vision, with tiny hands outspread.
The white-robed arms enfold it, and glances sweet and rare
Fall on the stricken drover, who lies in darkness there.
When morning breaks, the sunshine streams over a moving throng
Of cattle pressing onward, while breezes bear along
The sound of parrots’ chattering; and sweet toned bell-pbirds sing,
Like chimes on a Sabbath morning, their notes through the bushland ring,
And tall trees wave their branches athwart the rosy light,
Forgetting in their pleasure, the sorrow of the night.
The drover’s world is darkened, his heart is wrung with pain,
As gazing o’er the hill-side where his ash-strewn camp had lain,
He thinks of the vanished spirit and heavily droops his head,
While sadness sits in his saddle—he knows his child is dead.
He prays with fervent pleadings that his babe may stay its flight
In God’s own Heavenly Kingdom—His home of love and light.
THE HOMESTEAD.
There stands the homestead; white amid the trees
So lowly set, where stirs a faint warm breeze.
Across the sward the thronging cattle pass,
Their colours blurred, as, in one moving mass,
Loosed from the yard, the panting creatures seek
Their restful pastures by the flowing creek.
Yet sunlight lingers in the crimson leaves,
And, where it touches, softer beauty weaves.
It plays around the open entrance-door,
And casts its glowing radiance on the floor.
See on each drooping flower whose heavy head
Bows the tired stalk, the dying sunbeams shed
A faded splendour, lending deeper grace
To all those colours which their rays embrace.
All through the day the busy droning bee
Has music made by every flowering tree,
And sipped the goodness from the blossom sweet,
Which bursting full bloomed in refulgent heat.
Now where the shaded corner screens the hive,
The laden workers one by one arrive,
With merry hum and din, the tiny throng
Fill the cool garden with their evensong.
Long slanting shadows creep from out the shade,
And clouds above accumulate and fade.
In one short breath, like foam upon the sea,
When rising winds the ocean bubbles free,
They shape themselves and vanish into space,
And others quickly follow in their place.
The heated day departs, yet gentle night,
Though venturing nearer, veils her face from sight,
Patient awaiting that belovèd hour
When like a queen, she rises, full of power,
To grasp the fallen sceptre of the day,
And calm her subjects, casting care away,
While freshening dewdrops cool the fevered land,
With gentle touch as of a mother’s hand.
The great brown eagle hurries home to rest,
Amid the rugged mountains in the west:
Where yawning space asserts herself, between
The towering cliff, deep gorge and dark ravine,
Where ferns and bracken grow, and interlace
Their beauteous fronds across the rock’s stern face,
He lives a king, within a regal nest
The feathered monarch of the lonely west.
Above him sombre flocks of ibis fly,
On drooping wing, across the tinted sky,
And mar the beauty of its golden light
By their uneven lines and lengthened flight.
Upon the hillside, motionless and calm,
Like sentinels who shelter all from harm;
The stalwart trees extend their branches white
And keep their silent watches through the night.
Behold, like glistening silver, quickly glide,
Yet farther off, the river’s hurrying tide!
By sandy shores and widening banks it flows,
Till tranquil to the open sky it shows
A gleaming face, reflecting dear and true
Its answering gaze from out the deepening blue.
One spot alone defiles the sand’s white breast,
Where some foul crawling snake a track imprest,
Recording by the broken mud-stained trail,
The linked contortions of its twisting tail.
A solitary horse surmounts the steep,
Bringing its rider home to well-earned sleep.
The threatening troubles which his hand must stay,
The heavy toil, the worries of the day,
Are all forgotten, as upon the plain
He sees his homestead rise to view again.
A happy smile lights up his sunburnt face,
When on the breeze sweet voices he can trace,
Of those he loves who watch for him, and wait
To give him welcome at the open gate.
Upon the giant boulder’s flattened stone,
Which bars the stream, in ages that have gone,
Where cool soft shade the river oak tree throws,
’Twas there the black man’s spear uplifted rose,
And pierced the darting fish with matchless aim,
Then stooped his dusky arm his spoil to claim.
When summer evening too his world made bright,
And bathed the trees and flowers in crimson light,
The sunset tingeing red each leaf and bough,
And all the bush was beautiful as now,
Often he rose and wandered by the bank;
Where grew the native thistles tall and rank,
With blithesome step, and sure unfaltering tread,
He traced a winding road; about his head
The trailing creepers from the trees hung low,
And snow-white petals brushed his swarthy brow.
The hazy sun-spots danced and round him played,
While silken cobwebs shimmered through the shade.
And here and there the fragrant wattle leant
Across his path, as leisurely he went,
To where the open plains their limits kept,
Above the dense growth which the hillside swept.
Fleet would his dogs, with noisy bark, pursue
The bustard wild or startled kangaroo.
But time has changed! The black man’s race is run:
No more at even, when the dying sun
Is sinking to its rest, will he be seen
In that fair spot: the tufted rushes green
May conclaves form upon the wide expanse,
Still in the river-bend the fish may glance,
And waters chant their rhyming lullaby;
But not for him. He never will descry
The painted plumage on the parrot’s wing,
Nor listen where the woodland echoes ring,
With shouts of laughter from that peering bird
Who sits, convulsed, in attitude absurd,
Amid the leaves which crown the shrunken limb
That slanting reaches to the waters’ brim.
Advancing Time has turned another page,
And gives the land a new, a greater age.
Already too that young land, having past
Her childhood, stands to claim her place at last,
Already walks at her great Mother’s side
Among the nations in majestic pride,
While Britain glances on that comely face
Whose every feature bears her stamp of race.
She guidance gave her through her infant days,
And lit her path with all ungrudging rays.
In early years the daughter learnt full well
To whom to trust her steps when darkness fell;
While knowledge of the help and love she drew
From out her Mother’s breast woke fondness true.
Yet still the daughter wore a listless air,
Dependent, and too young for thought or care,
Till came o’er foaming seas a rude alarm,
“Foes taunt thy Mother with uplifted arm!”
The strength of her great parent she knew well
Could all unaided threats and foes repel!
But now she starts, stung by the hostile words
Of those who stand around with naked swords!
Upstirred, the ancient pride within her veins,
And courage quick, from caution snatched the reins.
She called her sons, the towns, the bushland through;
Called them to arms! Australians brave and true!
Resentment fierce, which could no longer hold
Itself in check, burned wild and uncontrolled,
That covert acts a noble queen distrest,
Or robbed fair England of her quiet rest.
Her sons obey, striplings and men full-grown
Prepare for war, and conflicts yet unknown.
With fearless mien, and flashing angry eye,
Each girds a soldier’s sword upon his thigh.
A heightened blush o’erspreads his glowing cheek,
Erect he stands, though passing young to speak,
While from his brow he sweeps the kiss of sleep,
Which lingered there in languid rapture deep,
And filled his senses, letting him forget
The duty manhood made a sacred debt.
Quickly he sends across the billows wild
This message to the Mother from her child:
“Think not that I can dwell in calm repose
While friends around thee waver, and rude foes
Goad thee to anger with coarse gibe and leer,
And flaunt before thine eyes the lifted spear.
From thee I rose: for thee I can but fall!
Thy need suffices for my battle-call.”
The tones all quickly tell the sword gleams bare
Within the youthful hand uplifted there.
Her fond smile deepens as the Mother hears
Still further comfort which the ocean bears.
Her proudest glory is her children’s love,
Who with their life-blood loyalty would prove.
When thro’ the arid desert’s sandy waste
The Royal standard presses in its haste
Around the Mother’s flag, the foeman sees
Her daughter’s banner floating in the breeze:
Those soldier-children in a southern clime
Sacred will hold that heritage sublime.
Let England’s enemies remember well
The fortunes which the elder flag befell
On battle-fields, in troubled days of old,
Nor think her ancient spirit has waxed cold.
The past, the present, and the days to come,
Will show how sons of England guard their home!