an anthology of australian verse-第25节
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Your dreams are gone； and here instead
Fair science reigns alone；
And； when I come to her for bread；
She smiles and bows her stately head
And offers me a stone。
William Gay。
Primroses
They shine upon my table there；
A constellation mimic sweet；
No stars in Heaven could shine more fair；
Nor Earth has beauty more complete；
And on my table there they shine；
And speak to me of things Divine。
In Heaven at first they grew； and when
God could no fairer make them； He
Did plant them by the ways of men
For all the pure in heart to see；
That each might shine upon its stem
And be a light from Him to them。
They speak of things above my verse；
Of thoughts no earthly language knows；
That loftiest Bard could ne'er rehearse；
Nor holiest prophet e'er disclose；
Which God Himself no other way
Than by a Primrose could convey。
To M。
（With some Verses）
If in the summer of thy bright regard
For one brief season these poor Rhymes shall live
I ask no more； nor think my fate too hard
If other eyes but wintry looks should give；
Nor will I grieve though what I here have writ
O'erburdened Time should drop among the ways；
And to the unremembering dust commit
Beyond the praise and blame of other days：
The song doth pass； but I who sing； remain；
I pluck from Death's own heart a life more deep；
And as the Spring； that dies not； in her train
Doth scatter blossoms for the winds to reap；
So I； immortal； as I fare along；
Will strew my path with mortal flowers of song。
Vestigia Nulla Retrorsum
O steep and rugged Life； whose harsh ascent
Slopes blindly upward through the bitter night！
They say that on thy summit； high in light；
Sweet rest awaits the climber； travel…spent；
But I； alas； with dusty garments rent；
With fainting heart and failing limbs and sight；
Can see no glimmer of the shining height；
And vainly list； with body forward bent；
To catch athwart the gloom one wandering note
Of those glad anthems which （they say） are sung
When one emerges from the mists below：
But though； O Life； thy summit be remote
And all thy stony path with darkness hung；
Yet ever upward through the night I go。
Edward Dyson。
The Old Whim Horse
He's an old grey horse； with his head bowed sadly；
And with dim old eyes and a queer roll aft；
With the off…fore sprung and the hind screwed badly；
And he bears all over the brands of graft；
And he lifts his head from the grass to wonder
Why by night and day the whim is still；
Why the silence is； and the stampers' thunder
Sounds forth no more from the shattered mill。
In that whim he worked when the night winds bellowed
On the riven summit of Giant's Hand；
And by day when prodigal Spring had yellowed
All the wide； long sweep of enchanted land；
And he knew his shift； and the whistle's warning；
And he knew the calls of the boys below；
Through the years； unbidden； at night or morning；
He had taken his stand by the old whim bow。
But the whim stands still； and the wheeling swallow
In the silent shaft hangs her home of clay；
And the lizards flirt and the swift snakes follow
O'er the grass…grown brace in the summer day；
And the corn springs high in the cracks and corners
Of the forge； and down where the timber lies；
And the crows are perched like a band of mourners
On the broken hut on the Hermit's Rise。
All the hands have gone； for the rich reef paid out；
And the company waits till the calls come in；
But the old grey horse； like the claim； is played out；
And no market's near for his bones and skin。
So they let him live； and they left him grazing
By the creek； and oft in the evening dim
I have seen him stand on the rises； gazing
At the ruined brace and the rotting whim。
The floods rush high in the gully under；
And the lightnings lash at the shrinking trees；
Or the cattle down from the ranges blunder
As the fires drive by on the summer breeze。
Still the feeble horse at the right hour wanders
To the lonely ring； though the whistle's dumb；
And with hanging head by the bow he ponders
Where the whim boy's gone why the shifts don't come。
But there comes a night when he sees lights glowing
In the roofless huts and the ravaged mill；
When he hears again all the stampers going
Though the huts are dark and the stampers still：
When he sees the steam to the black roof clinging
As its shadows roll on the silver sands；
And he knows the voice of his driver singing；
And the knocker's clang where the braceman stands。
See the old horse take； like a creature dreaming；
On the ring once more his accustomed place；
But the moonbeams full on the ruins streaming
Show the scattered timbers and grass…grown brace。
Yet HE hears the sled in the smithy falling；
And the empty truck as it rattles back；
And the boy who stands by the anvil； calling；
And he turns and backs； and he 〃takes up slack〃。
While the old drum creaks； and the shadows shiver
As the wind sweeps by； and the hut doors close；
And the bats dip down in the shaft or quiver
In the ghostly light； round the grey horse goes；
And he feels the strain on his untouched shoulder；
Hears again the voice that was dear to him；
Sees the form he knew and his heart grows bolder
As he works his shift by the broken whim。
He hears in the sluices the water rushing
As the buckets drain and the doors fall back；
When the early dawn in the east is blushing；
He is limping still round the old； old track。
Now he pricks his ears； with a neigh replying
To a call unspoken； with eyes aglow；
And he sways and sinks in the circle； dying；
From the ring no more will the grey horse go。
In a gully green； where a dam lies gleaming；
And the bush creeps back on a worked…out claim；
And the sleepy crows in the sun sit dreaming
On the timbers grey and a charred hut frame；
Where the legs slant down； and the hare is squatting
In the high rank grass by the dried…up course；
Nigh a shattered drum and a king…post rotting
Are the bleaching bones of the old grey horse。
Dowell O'Reilly。
The Sea…Maiden
Like summer waves on sands of snow；
Soft ringlets clasp her neck and brow；
And wandering breezes kiss away
A threaded light of glimmering spray；
That drifts and floats and softly flies
In a golden mist about her eyes。
Her laugh is fresh as foam that springs
Through tumbling shells and shining things；
And where the gleaming margin dries
Is heard the music of her sighs。
Her gentle bosom ebbs and swells
With the tide of life that deeply wells
From a throbbing heart that loves to break
In the tempest of love for love's sweet sake。
O； the fragrance of earth； and the song of the sea；
And the light of the heavens； are only three
Of the thousand glories that Love can trace；
In her life； and her soul； and her beautiful face。
。 。 。 。 。
This tangled weed of poesy；
Torn from the heart of a stormy sea；
I fling upon the love divine
Of her； who fills this heart of mine。
David MacDonald Ross。
Love's Treasure House
I went to Love's old treasure house last night；
Alone； when all the world was still asleep；
And saw the miser Memory； grown gray
With years of jealous counting of his gems；
There seated。 Keen was his eye； his hand
Firm as when first his hoarding he began
Of precious things of Love； long years ago。
〃And this；〃 he said； 〃is gold from out her hair；
And this the moonlight that she wandered in；
With here a rose； enamelled by her breath；
That bloomed in glory 'tween her breasts； and here
The brimming sun…cup that she quaffed at noon；
And here the star that cheered her in the night；
In this great chest； see curiously wrought；
Are purest of Love's gems。〃 A ruby key；
Enclasped upon a golden ring； he took；
With care； from out some secret hiding…place；
And delicately touched the lock； whereat
I staggered； blinded by the light of things
More luminous than stars； and questioned thus
〃What are these treasures； miser Memory？〃
And slowly bending his gray head； he spoke：
〃These are the multitudes of kisses sweet
Love gave so gladly； and I treasure here。〃
The Sea to the Shell
The sea； my mother； is singing to me；
She is singing the old refrain；
Of passion； of love； and of mystery；
And her world…old song of pain；
Of the mirk midnight and the dazzling day；
That trail their robes o'er the wet sea…way。
The sea； my mother； is singing to me
With the white foam caught in her hair；
With the seaweed swinging its long arms free；
To grapple the blown sea air：
The sea； my mother； with billowy swell；
Is telling her tale to the wave…washed shell。
The sea；
