’Mid Ocean’s merry noise, his billowy laugh!
Ah, me! a gloom falls heavy on my soul:
The birds that sang to me in youth are dead.
I think, in dreamy vigils of the night,
It may be God is angry with my land—
Too much athirst for fame, too fond of blood,
And all for earth, for shadows, and the dream,
To glean an echo from the winds of song!
Mr. Hawker’s poems were republished over and over again, with a few, but only a few, additions.
The pieces written by him as a boy, Tendrils, by Reuben, were never reprinted, nor did they deserve it. He saw that clearly enough.