an anthology of australian verse-第17节
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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 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 passed 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 shine and say
〃It is the morn！〃
A Pastoral
Nature feels the touch of noon；
Not a rustle stirs the grass；
Not a shadow flecks the sky；
Save the brown hawk hovering nigh；
Not a ripple dims the glass
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 shining 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 Gods 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 God； 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 passed 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！
Saturday Night
Saturday 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？
Tragedies whispered of； secrets told；
Over the baskets of bought and sold；
Joyous speech of the lately wed；
Broken lamentings that name the dead：
Endless runes of the gossip's rede；
And gathered home with the weekly need；
Kindly greetings as neighbours meet
Th
