Part 17

James Lister Cuthbertson.

Australia Federata

Australia! land of lonely lake And serpent-haunted fen; Land of the torrent and the fire And forest-sundered men: Thou art not now as thou shalt be When the stern invaders come, In the hush before the hurricane, The dread before the drum.

A louder thunder shall be heard Than echoes on thy shore, When o'er the blackened basalt cliffs The foreign cannon roar -- When the stand is made in the sheoaks' shade When heroes fall for thee, And the creeks in gloomy gullies run Dark crimson to the sea:

When under honeysuckles gray, And wattles' swaying gold, The stalwart arm may strike no more, The valiant heart is cold -- When thou shalt know the agony, The fever, and the strife Of those who wrestle against odds For liberty and life:

Then is the great Dominion born, The seven sisters bound, From Sydney's greenly wooded port To lone King George's Sound -- Then shall the islands of the south, The lands of bloom and snow, Forth from their isolation come To meet the common foe.

Then, only then -- when after war Is peace with honour born, When from the bosom of the night Comes golden-sandalled morn, When laurelled victory is thine, And the day of battle done, Shall the heart of a mighty people stir, And Australia be as one.

At Cape Schanck

Down to the lighthouse pillar The rolling woodland comes, Gay with the gold of she-oaks And the green of the stunted gums, With the silver-grey of honeysuckle, With the wasted bracken red, With a tuft of softest emerald And a cloud-flecked sky o'erhead.

We climbed by ridge and boulder, Umber and yellow scarred, Out to the utmost precipice, To the point that was ocean-barred, Till we looked below on the fastness Of the breeding eagle's nest, And Cape Wollomai opened eastward And the Otway on the west.

Over the mirror of azure The purple shadows crept, League upon league of rollers Landward evermore swept, And burst upon gleaming basalt, And foamed in cranny and crack, And mounted in sheets of silver, And hurried reluctant back.

And the sea, so calm out yonder, Wherever we turned our eyes, Like the blast of an angel's trumpet Rang out to the earth and skies, Till the reefs and the rocky ramparts Throbbed to the giant fray, And the gullies and jutting headlands Were bathed in a misty spray.

Oh, sweet in the distant ranges, To the ear of inland men, Is the ripple of falling water In sassafras-haunted glen, The stir in the ripening cornfield That gently rustles and swells, The wind in the wattle sighing, The tinkle of cattle bells.

But best is the voice of ocean, That strikes to the heart and brain, That lulls with its passionate music Trouble and grief and pain, That murmurs the requiem sweetest For those who have loved and lost, And thunders a jubilant anthem To brave hearts tempest-tossed.

That takes to its boundless bosom The burden of all our care, That whispers of sorrow vanquished, Of hours that may yet be fair, That tells of a Harbour of Refuge Beyond life's stormy straits, Of an infinite peace that gladdens, Of an infinite love that waits.

Wattle and Myrtle

Gold of the tangled wilderness of wattle, Break in the lone green hollows of the hills, Flame on the iron headlands of the ocean, Gleam on the margin of the hurrying rills.

Come with thy saffron diadem and scatter Odours of Araby that haunt the air, Queen of our woodland, rival of the roses, Spring in the yellow tresses of thy hair.

Surely the old gods, dwellers on Olympus, Under thy shining loveliness have strayed, Crowned with thy clusters, magical Apollo, Pan with his reedy music may have played.

Surely within thy fastness, Aphrodite, She of the sea-ways, fallen from above, Wandered beneath thy canopy of blossom, Nothing disdainful of a mortal's love.

Aye, and Her sweet breath lingers on the wattle, Aye, and Her myrtle dominates the glade, And with a deep and perilous enchantment Melts in the heart of lover and of maid.

The Australian Sunrise

The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea, And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free, The lustrous purple blackness of the soft Australian night, Waned in the gray awakening that heralded the light; Still in the dying darkness, still in the forest dim The pearly dew of the dawning clung to each giant limb, Till the sun came up from ocean, red with the cold sea mist, And smote on the limestone ridges, and the shining tree-tops kissed; Then the fiery Scorpion vanished, the magpie's note was heard, And the wind in the she-oak wavered, and the honeysuckles stirred, The airy golden vapour rose from the river breast, The kingfisher came darting out of his crannied nest, And the bulrushes and reed-beds put off their sallow gray And burnt with cloudy crimson at dawning of the day.

John Farrell.

Australia to England

June 22nd, 1897

What of the years of Englishmen? What have they brought of growth and grace Since mud-built London by its fen Became the Briton's breeding-place? What of the Village, where our blood Was brewed by sires, half man, half brute, In vessels of wild womanhood, From blood of Saxon, Celt and Jute?

What are its gifts, this Harvest Home Of English tilth and English cost, Where fell the hamlet won by Rome And rose the city that she lost? O! terrible and grand and strange Beyond all phantasy that gleams When Hope, asleep, sees radiant Change Come to her through the halls of dreams!