Part 25

Dear books! and each the living soul, Our hearts aver, of men unseen, Whose power to strengthen, charm, control, Surmounts all earth's green miles between.

For us at least the artists show Apart from fret of work-day jars: We know them but as friends may know, Or they are known beyond the stars.

Their mirth, their grief, their soul's desire, When twilight murmuring of streams, Or skies far touched by sunset fire, Exalt them to pure worlds of dreams;

Their love of good; their rage at wrong; Their hours when struggling thought makes way; Their hours when fancy drifts to song Lightly and glad as bird-trills may;

All these are truths. And if as true More graceless scrutiny that reads, "These fruits amid strange husking grew;" "These lilies blossomed amongst weeds;"

Here no despoiling doubts shall blow, No fret of feud, of work-day jars. We know them but as friends may know, Or they are known beyond the stars.

John Bernard O'Hara.

Happy Creek

The little creek goes winding Thro' gums of white and blue, A silver arm Around the farm It flings, a lover true; And softly, where the rushes lean, It sings (O sweet and low) A lover's song, And winds along, How happy -- lovers know!

The little creek goes singing By maidenhair and moss, Along its banks In rosy ranks The wild flowers wave and toss; And ever where the ferns dip down It sings (O sweet and low) A lover's song, And winds along, How happy -- lovers know!

The little creek takes colour, From summer skies above; Now blue, now gold, Its waters fold The clouds in closest love; But loudly when the thunders roll It sings (nor sweet, nor low) No lover's song, But sweeps along, How angry -- lovers know!

The little creek for ever Goes winding, winding down, Away, away, By night, by day, Where dark the ranges frown; But ever as it glides it sings, It sings (O sweet and low) A lover's song, And winds along, How happy -- lovers know!

A Country Village

Among the folding hills It lies, a quiet nook, Where dreaming nature fills Sweet pages of her book, While through the meadow flowers She sings in summer hours, Or weds the woodland rills Low-laughing to the brook.

The graveyard whitely gleams Across the soundless vale, So sad, so sweet, yet seems A watcher cold and pale That waits through many springs The tribute old Time brings, And knows, though life be loud, The reaper may not fail.

Here come not feet of change From year to fading year; Ringed by the rolling range No world-wide notes men hear. The wheels of time may stand Here in a lonely land, Age after age may pass Untouched of change or cheer;

As still the farmer keeps The same dull round of things; He reaps and sows and reaps, And clings, as ivy clings, To old-time trust, nor cares What science does or dares, What lever moves the world, What progress spreads its wings.

Yet here, of woman born, Are lives that know not rest, With fierce desires that scorn The quiet life as best; That see in wider ways Life's richer splendours blaze, And feel ambition's fire Burn in their ardent breast.

Yea, some that fain would know Life's purpose strange and vast, How wide is human woe, What wailing of the past Still strikes the present dumb, What phantoms go and come Of wrongs that cry aloud, "At last, O God! at last!"

Here, too, are dreams that wing Rich regions of Romance; Love waking when the Spring Begins its first wild dance, Love redder than the rose, Love paler than the snows, Love frail as corn that tilts With morning winds a lance.

For never land so lone That love could find not wings In every wind that's blown By lips of jewelled springs, For love is life's sweet pain, And when sweet life is slain It finds a radiant rest Beyond the change of things.

Beyond the shocks that jar, The chance of changing fate, Where fraud and violence are, And heedless lust and hate; Yet still where faith is clear, And honour held most dear, And hope that seeks the dawn Looks up with heart elate.

Flinders

He left his island home For leagues of sleepless foam, For stress of alien seas, Where wild winds ever blow; For England's sake he sought Fresh fields of fame, and fought A stormy world for these A hundred years ago.

And where the Austral shore Heard southward far the roar Of rising tides that came From lands of ice and snow, Beneath a gracious sky To fadeless memory He left a deathless name A hundred years ago.

Yea, left a name sublime From that wild dawn of Time, Whose light he haply saw In supreme sunrise flow, And from the shadows vast, That filled the dim dead past, A brighter glory draw, A hundred years ago.

Perchance, he saw in dreams Beside our sunlit streams In some majestic hour Old England's banners blow; Mayhap, the radiant morn Of this great nation born, August with perfect power, A hundred years ago.

We know not, -- yet for thee Far may the season be, Whose harp in shameful sleep Is soundless lying low! Far be the noteless hour That holds of fame no flower For those who dared our deep A hundred years ago.