Robert Richardson.
A Ballade of Wattle Blossom
There's a land that is happy and fair,
Set gem-like in halcyon seas;
The white winters visit not there,
To sadden its blossoming leas,
More bland than the Hesperides,
Or any warm isle of the West,
Where the wattle-bloom perfumes the breeze,
And the bell-bird builds her nest.
When the oak and the elm are bare,
And wild winds vex the shuddering trees;
There the clematis whitens the air,
And the husbandman laughs as he sees
The grass rippling green to his knees,
And his vineyards in emerald drest —
Where the wattle-bloom bends in the breeze,
And the bell-bird builds her nest.
What land is with this to compare?
Not the green hills of Hybla, with bees
Honey-sweet, are more radiant and rare
In colour and fragrance than these
Boon shores, where the storm-clouds cease,
And the wind and the wave are at rest —
Where the wattle-bloom waves in the breeze,
And the bell-bird builds her nest.
Envoy.
Sweetheart, let them praise as they please
Other lands, but we know which is best —
Where the wattle-bloom perfumes the breeze,
And the bell-bird builds her nest.
A Song
Above us only
The Southern stars,
And the moon o'er brimming
Her golden bars.
And a song sweet and clear
As the bell-bird's plaint,
Hums low in my ear
Like a dream-echo faint.
The kind old song —
How did it go?
With its ripple and flow,
That you used to sing, dear,
Long ago.
Hand fast in hand,
I, love, and thou;
Hand locked in hand,
And on my brow
Your perfumed lips
Breathing love and life —
The love of the maiden,
The trust of the wife.
And I'm listening still
To the ripple and flow —
How did it go? —
Of the little French song
Of that long ago.